I hit my turn signal with one finger and shifted out into traffic. My headlights flashed on the tail of a slow-moving car as I passed. I moved to the outside lane and settled into my heated perch for an uneventful morning commute.
My thumb brushed the button on the steering wheel to scroll through radio presets. I landed, accidentally, on a local top-40 station. The volume was set for NPR, and suddenly the interior of my truck was filled with the grating sound of Nicki Minaj. The relentless bass shattered my early-morning zen. I hammered the volume button down to a low hum.
. . . But I didn’t turn it off.
Fuck who you want, and fuck who you like! That’s our life, there’s no end in sight!
I momentarily envisioned wearing Nicki Minaj as a hockey mask. However contrived, there was at least a three day period where I was smitten with her plumped and puckered Harajuku-Whore thing. Her singing voice was a deal-breaker, but I wasn’t interested in how she paid her bills. I changed the station after another minute of droning, insipid noise. I suddenly knew what it must feel like to be a fifty year-old club owner making a courtesy check of his establishment.
The song had half the intended effect: it put a dancing image of Nicki Minaj in my head. She had invaded my private space like a pushy pink sex doll. It didn’t mean I was going to buy her album. I certainly wouldn’t buy a concert ticket in the vain hope of fucking her backstage. Last I checked, she wasn’t into white guys over twelve . . .
I ejected the thought and turned the music off.
How had I arrived at this point? I wasn’t angry. I didn’t feel compelled to rail against the music industry, or the decline of Western Civilization. I wasn’t even particularlly motivated to choke-fuck Nicki Minaj until her spit ran down my wrists.
It was a brief, rude interruption into my life and gone as easily as I could push a button.