Happy birthday tooo meee! I’m turning 19 on Friday, which means I’m another year closer to being all fat, wrinked and dead. Ain’t it a reason to celebrate?
No, honestly. I used to hate birthdays, because they reminded me of my perishing youth. Not that I love it that much. I’d rather be middle-aged, if that means having life experience and all the confidence that comes with it, a stable job, and the right to say “you’ll grow up and see.” Nevertheless, I’ve always felt irrationally sorry for every year that passed.
I really admire people who do awesome stuff just because. Those who write novels for pleasure, or make hilarious YouTube videos, or spend entire days drawing pictures they’re not planning to sell. Or those who build sand sculptures, for the joy of kids and lazy tourists. Thank God for those guys!
When I broke up with my ex, I hit Bond Streetand got myself the most expensive shoes I’ve ever had. You think that’s crazy? At least I’m not like that girl who, after splitting up with a lover, crashed her car into a bridge. Just for the kicks, apparently.
It’s mid-June. What are you looking forward to? The answer should be obvious. Let’s shout it out loud in our best James Franco voices: summer holidayzzz! Planning to go around the world in 80 days, but ending up like The Inbetweeners. Wanting to sleep until noon, but being woken up at 6 by the sun shining right in your face. Forgetting the bikini body bullshitand becoming an amateur ice-cream tester. Looking out for the next song of the summer and hoping it’s better than Call Me Maybe.
I can’t sing, full stop. Whenever I try, flowers wilt, rivers dry out and angels in heaven stick clouds in their ears. I could make a fortune as a busker if people paid me to remain silent. And so on and so forth.
And I’m pretty sure I was born without a singing voice precisely because it had been given to Fiona Apple.
With a name that sounds like Adele‘s, and a hairstyle that brings Kurt Cobain to mind, this Sussex-born, self-taught at open-mic nights 22-year old musician can’t escape comparisons. It doesn’t help that he sings, indeed, like a lovechild of the two: darker than pop but not quite rock; technically lovesongs, yet more despairing than romantic.
Let’s get filthy. Let’s get graphic. Here’s the tracklist you’ve been waiting for (or not): six totally random songs about making love fucking, listed from oldest to newest. Are you ready? Sexual intercourse began in nineteen sixty-three…
I wanted to make a post featuring my favourite songs about sex. However, while I was researching it, happened something that changed my plans. (No, not an STD – you really can’t get one from Google.) A Polish Facebook page gained 133K followers (which is really much for Poland) in just 4 days , completely dominating my news feed, and therefore also my mind. Its name translates as ” Songs that everyone knows, but no one remembers what they’re called.”