I think... I had some unfinished interest in Radiohead last year. I mean, I haven't had time to check it out until Rachel and Brody covered Creep last night in Guilty Pleasure and now it's my jam. I think, for a moment, I loved it because I love Rachel and Brody together, and I have loved every single of their duets. Even with the fact that Brody is a man whore. Nope. I don't care. They looked purrfect together and IDGAF. For me, there's no Lea Michele and Dean Geyer. Just Rachel and Brody.
So because I'm terribly mellow and hungry, I began to sip the lyrics and it kinda... Hit me. I'm creep, I'm a weirdo, I wish I was special, You're so very special, I want you to notice when I'm not around. I'm not saying that I'm degrading myself but to you, I'm lowest. I don't want to feel sorry for myself, moreover pity that I've put myself in such stupid position, but I think it's necessary. To feel sorry and low. At some point, I've seen myself as a conquerer, an on-top-of-the-world kid, ready to rule the world and all sort of things. I've been in conditions that you may never been in (and vice versa for that matter) and I believe it made me the person I am today. To have faith in being stupid and putting myself in stupid positions made me the person I am today. In changes I want to make and changed I've made. The song is just the hard slap in my face, followed with the fact that you don't care and I should too. The only thing keeping me is the promise I made you, and I'm sure you've promised me things in the past that you haven't pay... So, I guess I'm letting the promise go? I don't know. I'm still all weird about the situation. I guess I'm going to let it go.
Anyway... Yeah. I'm still pretty much head over heels with that unreachable guy. Emphasising on unreachable. Every day, he became more perfect than he already is and it hurts, man. It hurts. You being yourself is already irresistible and now, with every page unfolding and all, you've become much more impossible than you're already are. Impossible not to love (more).
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