Tuesday, 15 July 2008

Down down, you bring me down.

My iPod isn't just your ordinary iPod. I reckon it's got some sort of situation-sensor or mood-manager. Seriously, Steve Jobs got carried away with this baby. My iPod knows me. Whenever I shuffle songs it knows exactly what to play. If I need a lift on a Monday-morning journey to work, it'll offer up Stevie Wonder, Prince and the B52s. When I'm feeling a bit introspective, it'll concede with Rufus Wainwright and Jeff Buckley. If I'm on a long drive and fancy singing loudly to some classics, it comes up with the goods every time thanks to a Beatles/Beach Boys/The Band combo (why, by the way, is all my best music under B?). My iPod is a girl's best friend. But never more so than this week. 

This week I got my kick-ass back. That sentence sounds very strong and empowered, so let me ruin that illusion by telling you that this happened while I was buying Tampax. It's the last purchase of that kind I'll be making in a while (my ovaries are being shut down for a bit so that bitch oestrogen can't do any more damage) which is, of course, an excellent reason to feel kick-ass again. Excuse the 'that bitch oestrogen' comment, by the way. In my twisted, overworked mind, oestrogen has recently taken on the form of a Batman villain. And what a bitch she is, all huge tits and long legs and glossy hair and glowing skin, with a superhuman reproductive capacity. (In the film, however, my outfit will be far superior. And Batman will be played by Dave Grohl.)

Anyway, back to the iPod. At the pinnacle of its shuffling brilliance, it chose a moment shortly after the Last Tampax episode to select what is now my don't-fuck-with-me anthem: I Am The Resurrection. Of course I've always loved it – it's a classic; who hasn't? – but while singing along in the bathroom (and dancing like Bez, for some reason) it took on a new significance, and I suddenly had something (or someone, if you stick with the oestrogen-as-Batman-villainess analogy) to aim those venomous lyrics at. 'You're a no-one nowhere washed up baby who'd look better dead.' 'I couldn't stand another second in your company.' How very satisfying. (Hang on a minute! Long legs, huge tits, glossy hair, superhuman reproductivity... shit! The Oestrogen Villainess is Angelina Jolie, isn't she? Holy hormones, Batman! Well there's another blinding reason to hate oestrogen, then.)

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