Click Here for an Explanation of the Rating

Music – 2

I like his singing at the high points, he’s pretty passionate and clearly cares. I also like the opening of the song. However there’s something about the music I don’t love, probably it’s relationship to the story. It’s a little too sincere for the lyrics. And the way he layers the instruments for the high parts is too messy for me.

Poetry – 2

The song is very literal, he nails the descriptions of this character and the setting, which is why it’s getting a two, but other than that quality wouldn’t make a good poem.

Change – 3

I mean, first and foremost, this is a long song, which almost always guarantees that it is going to change at some point, and to some degree. This song has a high / low pattern, where he varies between the two. But I also think the song has an overall build, where the highs get more and more intense with each time. I think this song is a pretty good example of the category, and the only reason I don’t give it a four is because of other songs in his discography that change far more drastically (but in my mind, maybe less successfully than this one).

Insight – 4

I think with this song he managed to capture a type of person that I personally can’t think of any other songs being about. So, it is unique in premise, and accurate in execution. It’s also a compelling character study. I also love that the song is in the second person.

“And if you can’t understand why your world is so dead /
Why you’ve got to keep in style and feed your head /
Well, you’re 21 and still your mother makes your bed /
And that’s too long”

I think that’s one of his best lyrics. I’d definitely put it on a top… well, top 30 list. But don’t hold me to that number. He has a lot of lyrics I like.

Good – 3

I like this song a lot. However, when I write these reviews, I listen to the song a whole bunch of times, and some of them hold up better on a loop than others. This one definitely wore me out a little, which wouldn’t happen if it was a four. I’d recommend it to someone who wants to get to know his music better, but not a first time listener.

Story

He hands me the letter, I open it and recognize your handwriting immediately. The meticulous, borderline compulsive writing that looks closer to something typed rather than something drawn.

“Yes it’s definitely from him, I mean,” I flip to the last page, “that’s definitely his signature.”

He asks me to read the letter.

“Jess –

If you’re reading this it’s confession time I guess. I’m sure you’re probably wondering what happened. I’ll tell you, and I’ll also say that I’m sorry this is the last time that we’ll speak. I’ve definitely enjoyed getting to know you, at least in some ways, and to some degree. 

On Monday I walked into your pitch black apartment, the keys worked just as you said. Steve immediately came running over excited to greet me. I let him smell me, told him I’m there to take him for a walk. I got him on his leash. Did everything as you wanted. 

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that your neighborhood is a lot worse than mine. The street was littered with garbage, some guy was yelling at me from the window as we were walking, and of course it was all curse words and slurs. There was a pool of what I was hoping wasn’t blood right at the end of the block. I don’t know how you live here. And to be honest I pray that I hope I don’t end up in some similar depressing shit hole one day. Overall the walk was uneventful, if a little depressing. 

Do you remember the morning after the day we met? It was nice out. From what I can remember, which is very little, the weather was gorgeous. Not a cloud in the sky, and I was so unbelievably hungover. I was laying on a bench, feet propped up on the arm rest, eyes closed, and the world was spinning. You had come over, and were sitting on the ground next to me. At that point we were still practically strangers.

‘You don’t need to sit with me, you know. I’ll be totally fine. I’m just violently hungover,’ I was trying to get rid of you. Mostly out of guilt. 

You sat with your back to me, looking out over the park. Maybe you were smoking. I don’t remember that part so well. I remember I didn’t want to throw up in front of you. 

‘I don’t mind. I don’t want you out here all alone.’ Why did you care? 

‘You really shouldn’t bother.’ Then we sat in silence. Mine, out of the necessity for self-composure, and yours out of camaraderie. 

‘Anyway I’m hungover too. It’s nice sitting out here.’ 

‘You’re being empathetic, but I promise you I don’t deserve it. I’m not a good person. In fact, I promise I’m a bad person.’ You laughed at that, and I didn’t. If I could have opened my eyes without vomiting I would have looked into yours so you knew I meant it. 

Steve and I got back into the apartment without anything terrible happening to us, thank God. Alright fine, on that point I’m only joking, I’m sure you would have rolled your eyes at that statement and laughed, under different circumstances. From what I remember you gave him that idiotic name because nothing in the world seemed funnier to you than a dog with a human name. I rebutted ‘what about a person with a dog’s name?’. You didn’t laugh anywhere near as hard at that. Which seemed ironic to me. 

I walked around your apartment, turning the lights on. Looking at the art on the walls. The books on your shelves. The disarray you left the place in. ‘Sorry if it’s a little messy, but I really appreciate you doing this,’ you told me, before handing me the keys to the apartment. I guess it’s not always like this, you seem to bring it to a decent enough state for the various parties you throw.

Do you remember the time it was just the two of us? You invited me over to pregame a party that we were going to together, we were meeting your boyfriend there as he was coming from work. You pulled out some shot glasses, made me drink a round with you. I dared us to have another. Then another. I know that you have a much lower tolerance than me. ‘Could I get a tour of the house?’ I asked. ‘House’ is a funny word. Your whole apartment is, in its entirety, the size of my living room. 

You led me to your bedroom, making some joke about how small it is. I followed you in, closing the door behind us. You quickly turned around and looked at me, and made some joke about keeping Steve out, and opened the door again. Told me we should probably get going. I wish you had given it some time, I could tell how nervous you got right away. 

I walk into your bedroom now, and it’s unchanged. Some of your clothes are lying on the floor, your bed isn’t made. The room smells like you. I walk into your closet, which is in complete disarray and wonder how you can live like this. How he can love you. I run my hand along the clothes that are hanging up, stopping at a dress that feels the nicest to the touch. I pulled it out to find that it was pretty revealing. Perfect. 

Do you remember when you invited me out to have a drink? You told me it would be our little secret. We went to an empty bar a couple blocks from my house, and the two of us sat at a table in the back. You were worried we were going to get caught, so you kept nervously checking the front door. I wasn’t worried. In fact, a part of me hoped he would walk in. I only watched your face. Your eyes. Your lips. I can’t say you’re particularly attractive, especially not recently. But in those days, you had some of the same qualities as a very nervous cute little animal, like a mouse, or a squirrel. We’d play a game, never explicitly of course. Maybe you didn’t even know we were playing, but I loved it. I’d set you up so that no matter what you said in response, you implied that you wanted me. You’d be silent. Trapped. You’d look down at the floor, avoiding making eye contact. And you’d quickly change topics. I’d smile. We’d do this over and over again. 

You said you had to go down to the bathroom, which was downstairs, secluded. I waited a while after you left, until I knew you wouldn’t see me follow you. I was standing there, waiting for you, when you opened the bathroom door. We made eye contact, and you looked down again, not saying anything. As you walked past me, in the narrow hallway, your body brushing against mine, I reached my hand up and grabbed your hair, quickly pulling your neck to my mouth. But I didn’t touch it, only breathed on it for the briefest of seconds, letting you go almost immediately. You scurried up the stairs. We never acknowledged it. We just sat at the table and kept talking, and I kept looking at your lips. You asked what I was looking at, and I didn’t answer. I just looked up into your eyes. You held my gaze as long as you could. I looked back down at your lips. Does this all sound familiar, Jess?

You should know I picked up your pillow and pressed my face into it, breathing in. Deep. Slow. I pictured the way you looked at me when I closed the bedroom door behind us. When I pulled your hair. I took the pillow case off the pillow, pushed my face back in, breathing in deeply. I pressed myself into it as hard as I could, nearly suffocating myself. I did these breaths for as long as I could, and only stopped when I felt like I might pass out. That’s why all of your pillowcases are on the floor. 

I called Steve into the room, he shuffled in slowly, I guess exhausted from the walk. Check out the picture I attached.”

I look at the polaroid that was behind the letter.

“I bought the camera, the film, the wig. Everything. To give you this image. what do you think?” 

The image is of Steve, he’s sitting on my bedroom floor, and he’s wearing one of my dresses and a wig that looks somewhat like my hair. He’s looking up at the camera with a somewhat apprehensive look in his eyes. 

“Do you like it? It wasn’t that hard to get that dress or wig on him. Other things were…”

And at this, I can’t take it anymore. The photo of Steve brings tears to my eyes. I impulsively start crumpling and ripping at your letter. At the polaroid. I can’t breathe. I can only see red. Only hear my heart pounding in my chest. In my ears. As soon as I start doing this the officer grabs hold of my wrists, pleading with me to please not destroy evidence. I shake his hands off, throw the letter on the ground, and without saying anything, turn around and storm out of the police precinct.