A blogger for The New Yorker posted something last year that made me sadder and sadder each time I saw someone retweeting it approvingly. It was supposedly about the tyranny of choice and how on-demand music services have made it harder to fall in love with music by making it too easy to listen to anything you feel like. But the piece was really about how much fun the writer used to have spending hours in record shops that are now closed, hunting for LPs he could take home and slowly fall in love with, and how much he misses the experience.
In other words, it was soaked in nostalgia. If the writer were 80, I’d give him a pass, but I’m pretty sure he’s younger than me, so fuck him. I mean that."
Tim Quirk, Head of Global Content Programming at Google Play
"i can’t do this anymore," she said. "you’re just too immature. i think we should see other people"
“i-i know you are but what am i?” i said, tears welling up in my eyes. she was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
she sighed. “see?”
i wanted to tell her to stay, tell her that i could change. instead what came out was “your mom sees”
she got up and left