I’m single right now, and I’m never single. I don’t know how
to be single. For years my life revolved around a girl. Three girls,
Emma, Mary and Haley, in that order, with no more than a one
month gap between each. Emma sucked. We broke up. Mary had
her own shit to figure out. We broke up. And Haley? Haley was
perfect. But my heart wasn’t in it anymore, and she deserved
only the best. We broke up.
Then the devil downstairs called. It had been three weeks
since me and Haley ended it — just long enough for my moral
compass to approve of reinstalling Tinder. Lots of cute couples
looking for a third for a threesome — too advanced for me. I
hook up with the third girl that swipes right on me. Deep down,
I didn’t want to. I didn’t think I didn’t want to at the time, of
course. I’m kind of a shy guy, so sometimes I need a shot to give
me a bit of a confidence boost. I needed three shots of Fireball.
That’s how I knew. It was okay. She holds my hand afterward and
it scares me. I don’t text her the next morning, or the next one.
On day three I unmatch her. Not enough — I uninstall Tinder
too. Three weeks later I would dig up her number at 3 a.m.
“hey, u up?”
I delete the message before sending and delete her number
too.
That was the third time I ever slept with someone outside of a
committed relationship, with someone I barely knew. The third
time was not a charm. Thinking about it makes me shiver, so I
swear off girls for a while.
A few days later I go to a co-op party. I was going out with my
friends, and I wanted nothing more than for it to be a wholesome,
comforting night. I wanted to make unforgettable memories
with the people I care about. No silly flirting, no seeking sex, no
going for girls.
I wake up in the morning with minimal memory of the night.
Three condoms line my pockets. How crazy a night was I planning
on having? Looks to me like I didn’t do anything, though.
Then I notice my arm wrapped around someone. It’s my best
friend. Oh — almost forgot — I confessed my feelings to her last
night. Sometime in the night, our faces side by side, enough
moonlight filtered through the window for me to see the outlines
of her face. I told her, a small part of me really likes you, but I
could forget about it. Should I?
“Maybe for now.”
Those words echo in my head and I turn my back to her. I try
to remember and make certain I really did that and it wasn’t just
a dream. It was definitely not a dream. I slip out of my head, slip
out of her bed, slip out of her house. I slip into my house, slip into
my bed, slip into my head. We
don’t talk about it. For three
days I adore her. I recount the
whole situation over the phone
to a close friend from back
home.
“You don’t actually like her,”
she says. “You just don’t know
how to be single.” I already
knew that.
A switch flips and I cringe
at my confession, and I’m
intensely
grateful
that
we
could just be friends. I was
just confused, I think. She
Snapchats me about a boy she
likes and I breathe a sigh of
relief. I would not pay for the
mistake of a hasty confession. I
swear to forget about it not for
now, but forever. Let this be a
lesson, I think. Stop it with the
girls, stop it with the feelings,
stop seeking out what I know I
don’t want and don’t need and
can’t conceivably contain in
my complicated, consternated
cranium.
I got drunk thrice the next
week. First on Tuesday, while
shooting the shit with a couple pals. Then on Thursday, alone.
The third time was at my party on Friday.
It was a party for my people at The Daily. We probably broke
a fire code, with 20-something writers crammed in my tiny
apartment. I fell in love with three different girls that night. I
had a type: Books writers. Only natural — I write for music, but I
just feel a connection with the books writers, like I really know
them. Girl one was the life of the party, but I forgot about her as
soon as girl two walked in. Girl two was cute, so cute I felt pulled
to her like gravity, but I forgot about her as soon as girl three
walked in. Girl three didn’t write for books, but she was smart.
She engaged me in a half hour of meaningful conversation. I only
remember three minutes of it.
Within three hours, the party emptied all three 12-packs
of Twisted Tea and three bottles: one Capriccio sangria, one
Barefoot rose and a handle of Costco vodka. I asked everyone
to Venmo me three dollars. Twenty people said “Going” on
Facebook — that would cover it. Thirty people came. I wake up
to 10 Venmos and a slew of forgotten drunk selfies with two girls
on Books I barely knew. I don’t really know anyone on Books,
though. Wonder why I took pictures with them.
I remember a smart girl, though. I think we only talked for
like, three minutes, but she was smart, and smarts are attractive.
What was her name? Her face?
The smart girl Venmo’d me. Three dollars and a “Thank you!”
in the description. That’s right — Jasmine.
Maybe I didn’t remember what we talked about, but something
told me that she Venmo’d me for a reason. And so I was compelled
to Venmo her back. One cent? That’s too cheap. Two cents? That
should be saved for giving someone your “two cents.” Three
cents? Three cents would do it.
Three cents to Jasmine. Venmo asked, What is this payment
for?
“hey, what’s up :~)”
She gave me a like but didn’t reply. I don’t know what I was
expecting by sliding into her Venmo anyway. I don’t know
what I wanted. I didn’t want anything, actually. Did I not learn
anything from the three girlfriends? Oh, right — almost forgot
about those. Wonder what they’re up to.
Emma is perpetually boring and drab, Instagram peppered
with mediocre photos of her and her friends. Looks like she’s
finally gotten a new boyfriend, though. We broke up three years
ago, but the pain of our shitty soul-sucking relationship still
stings like it was just yesterday. Poor boy doesn’t know what he’s
gotten himself into. I silently pray for him.
Mary went through a breakup recently too, if her Twitter is
any sign. I don’t know why she went and got another boyfriend
right after dumping me anyway. From what I’ve heard, that guy
was who you get when you try to describe Dylan Yono in three
seconds. If he was anything like me, she should’ve known he
was no good for her. She doesn’t look like she’s gotten her shit
together — I thought that was the point of our breakup in the
first place — but she’s clearly trying, now. I won’t speak to her,
but I bear no ill will towards her. I wish her well.
Haley’s taking a break from social media in the wake of our
breakup. The only clue that she still hasn’t taken it very well is
her Spotify. She made three playlists about me: “y so sad,” “i wish
this was a movie” and “it’s time to sleep.” My photo graces the
cover of the third one. Shot from behind, I sit hunched over a
canvas with brush in hand, painting on a picnic blanket in her
backyard. My heart aches. I want her to be happy. I don’t regret
breaking up with her, but I miss knowing who to love.
Only one thing is constant in my life, and it is getting the Jerk
Pork Lunch Special at Jamaican Jerk Pit at 3 p.m. every Monday
afternoon. Today a friend joins me. Alice had her third and final
date with a frat boy at the ripe hour of 11 p.m. the night before, a
disaster in all ways, so her story went. At the end of the night, he
started acting weird, called off the sex, went to sleep, turned his
back to her the whole night. She’s confused, horribly, horribly
confused and all she wants is clarity, to know what went wrong.
“What would make you act like that?” She asks me with sincere
curiosity.
“Nothing. I would never act that way.” My mind wanders to
the girl I hooked up with.
After lunch we part ways at the Diag. We talk shit about boys
and how they’re all trouble.
“You’re not a bad guy, though,” Alice tells me. I wonder if
that’s really true.
I spend the evening “studying” in a quiet corner at the library.
No work gets done. I am lost in my head again. Me and Haley
broke up so I could focus on myself. It’s been over a month now
and I just replaced a thousand thoughts about her with a hundred
thoughts about thirty different girls. If you do the math, you’ll
find that my thought-burden tripled. I wish I could be free from
this curse of three.
A moment of clarity does not lift the curse, but for a moment I
feel at ease. The last three weeks were not a loveless disaster. My
club had a day of bonding where we went to a newsroom concert,
studied together and watched a collection of short films at the
theater. I made a new friend, and we enjoyed bubble tea together.
A close friend and I had a slumber party, gossiping all night long.
Another friend saw a musical with me. My cousin texted me to
tell me she missed me. An acquaintance at an event meeting
stopped me on the way out to tell me she thought I was really
funny. Someone DMed me a meme that reminded them of me.
My parents read my latest article for the paper, and told me they
were proud. These three weeks were full of love. I just wasn’t
looking. I feel on the verge of something that could put myself
at peace.
The library closes and I scurry over to the dorms to spend some
time with a close friend. We relax in her room, listening to Frank
Ocean’s “Pink + White,” talking about this and that and this and
that. She says her love life has been uneventful lately, but she’s
okay with that, and she’s been able to focus on deepening her
relationships with her friends. I hug her and tell her I’m proud
of her for that. We get a bit emotional about all the friend-love
we’ve been feeling. There’s something fulfilling about it.
It hits me. The curse isn’t the crushing weight of 3,000 thirsty
thoughts. The curse is the emptiness in my heart when I forget
about what truly makes me happy. I remember the co-op party
and how I just wanted to make memories with the people I care
about. I recall the sense of relief when the friend I confessed
to liking a different boy. I realize my apathy toward the hook-
up girl, toward Jasmine, toward Haley, the apathy that made me
realize I didn’t want to be in love anymore. I decide then and
there to embrace those feelings from the moment of clarity in my
cozy corner at the library. They would become more than just a
moment. The friends that I love would become my lifestyle.
My sophomore summer is only three weeks away now. I’ll be
here, in Ann Arbor, and some close friends of mine will be staying
too. I think about summer festivals and concerts, upcoming
movies, restaurants I haven’t tried, the double-hammock in my
closet, video games, all the things I want to go and see and watch
and do with friends that are dear to me. Love for them wells in
my heart. I fall in love in a different way.
All is well now. Maybe romance will find me in my third year.
COURTESY OF DYLAN YONO
Loveless 3: A short story
DYLAN YONO
Daily Arts Writer
B-SIDE LEAD: SHORT FICTION
ATLANTIC RECORDS
If you want to see how
dramatically
times
have
changed, look no further than
the overnight rise and gradual
fall of 3OH!3. In the summer of
2008, a season dominated by
Michael Phelps’s breakout at
the Beijing Olympics and other
timeless late 2000s pop songs
like Katy Perry’s “I Kissed
a Girl” and Coldplay’s “Viva
la Vida,” Colorado duo Sean
Foreman and Nathaniel Motte
released their triple-platinum
hit “DONTTRUSTME.”
With
its
glitchy
synths,
sun-soaked casual misogyny
and
iconically
odd
lyrics
(“Tell your boyfriend / If he
says he’s got beef / That I’m
a vegetarian / And I ain’t
fucking scared of him”), the
song
found
massive
chart-
topping success. It was heard
everywhere that year — playing
on the radio, at bar mitzvah
parties, at summer camp and
on that Tap Tap Revenge game
everyone was obsessed with.
Their
champagne-coated,
frat-boy brand capitalized on
the dirty lust that spurred
the uncontrollable hormones
of
American
adolescents,
simulating an experience that
was at turns angry, horny and
silly. As evidenced by the song’s
over-the-top
music
video,
the two frontmen also played
with and reinforced tropes of
masculinity, sifting through a
series of costumes that included
cheetah-printed
speedos,
wrestling singlets, cavemen loin
cloths and white button-down
shirts with loosened black ties
and sunglasses (which they
wore indoors, of course).
3OH!3
was
the
perfect
encapsulation of an era defined
by popped collars, Warped Tour,
“Jersey Shore” and questionable
hairstyles. Listening to them
was like eating birthday cake
hungover
for
breakfast
—
sweetly spontaneous in the
moment, but really disgusting
in retrospect. Whether the
douchebag personas Foreman
and
Motte
embodied
in
“DONTTRUSTME”
and
the
rest of their discography was
real
or
performative,
their
short-lived legacy represented
an important turning point in
American pop music.
As obnoxious and politically
incorrect as they were (and
still are, 12 years since their
debut), 3OH!3 resembled an
intoxicating care-free, DGAF
attitude that is rarely seen in
today’s pop music landscape —
although one could argue The
Chainsmokers have taken their
place. They contain a capsule
of pre-2010s nostalgia that,
when unearthed in 2019, reeks
of male fragility and Axe Body
Spray but also comes with the
promise of unabashed joy and
confetti cannons.
Revisiting their breakthrough
record WANT, which features
“DONTTRUSTME” and their
beguiling Katy Perry collab
“STARSTRUKK,”
I
found
myself transported back to
middle school, recalling images
of glowstick necklaces, striped
hats, colored braces, sweaty
foreheads, iPod Touches and
my lithe 4’11’’ body going a
little too hard on the dance
floor at a school formal. It was
an equally amazing and terrible
sensation to re-immerse myself
in Foreman and Motte’s flashy
fantasy world, where parties
are
never-ending,
alcohol
is flowing, cocaine is being
insufflated and girls are sex
objects,
qualities
that
are
horrible both in concept and
reality.
For all their hilarious, cringe-
worthy attempts at charming
women while also being creepy
and possessive toward them in
their music, there’s something
absurdly fascinating about the
combination of Foreman and
Motte’s predatory lyrics and
their catchy, easily digestible
sound. Other WANT tracks like
“HOLLERTILYOUPASSOUT”
find both 3OH!3 frontmen doing
their best Lil Jon impressions,
yelling with feverish aggression
about
their
hometown
of
Boulder and bragging about a
sexual transaction (the entire
chorus is just the line: “Hey
yeah, shake-shake your ass
now”). The insidious, male-
gazey
“PHOTOFINNISH”
— yes, they even misspelled
“finish” — contains so, so
many problematic lines that it
makes Michael Bay look like a
novice. 3OH!3’s more refined
but amateurish follow-up to
WANT, 2010’s Streets of Gold,
also carries a few hedonistic,
grimy bops like the Ke$ha-
featuring
“My
First
Kiss”
and
the
appendage-centric
“Touchin On My.”
And
yet,
I
find
myself
gravitating toward their songs,
not because I agree with their
lyrical approach, but because
of how easily they manage
to sneak in their unseemly
desires within their intriguing
blend of emo, electro, rave
and rap. Unlike most artists,
who learn to evolve and grow
with every record they make,
3OH!3
have
pretty
much
stayed
committed
to
their
dude-bro sensibility since they
arrived in the mainstream.
It might not have benefitted
Foreman and Motte in the
long run — their most recent
efforts, 2013’s OMENS and
2016’s NIGHT SPORTS sound
like god-awful, overproduced
parodies of their earlier work
— but they possess a strangely
unique ability in toeing the line
between satire and sincerity,
subverting
the
“sex,
drugs
and rock ‘n’ roll” element
of fame and celebrity while
simultaneously embracing it.
In the end, 3OH!3’s songs are
light, harmless and cheesy fun
that, even in today’s socially
conscious climate, shouldn’t be
taken too seriously.
There’s a reason why most
people have a guilty pleasure.
Sometimes, we just need a
quick and easy relief from the
constraints of everyday life: a
trashy song, a bad movie, a low-
tier TV show that’s palpable
enough to consume and keep
our
tiny
attention
spans
entertained, if only for a few
fleeting minutes. For me, that
guilty pleasure is 3OH!3. Their
music may not be the most
intellectually
or
creatively
stimulating, but they sure can
make a hit that sticks like grits.
My long history with 3OH!3
SAM ROSENBERG
Daily Arts Writer
B-SIDE: MUSIC
Sometimes, we just need a quick and easy relief from the
constraints of everyday life
b-side
Thursday, April 11, 2019 — 5B
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com