Sometimes I feel like I just don't belong. See, I straddle this dual existence, a dichotomy if you will, where I'm all clean and prep on the outside but soul-shredding head-banger in my core. I'm short and Jewish and I smile a lot, but if you psychoanalyzed me based on my music preferences alone, you'd probably pin me as a middle-aged, manic-depressive man. I'm not really sure how to reconcile these dual characters: Who am I? More urgently, what is wrong with me? I have answers to neither, and thus I find myself entrenched in this existential identity crisis with no clear path to rectify it.
I've tried to establish on scientific grounds why this is. I'm not angry -- I don't think. I mean, I'm passive-aggressive like the rest of us and feel a renewed vigor by flipping someone off. That makes me honest, not angry. Still, there is a disconnect. So why can't I just enjoy Jack Johnson like everyone else?
There are distressing consequences of being an unsuspecting metalhead like myself. For one, I scare off members of the opposite sex. I've witnessed some horrified expressions on boys' faces when I rattle off band names, reducing them to stumbling responses like "I like Jason Mraz." I had assumed all guys liked my kind of music until a friend called me on it. I poked fun at him for attending a Shins concert last spring, when he defensively replied, "I'm sorry, Michelle only likes music that'll KICK YOUR ASS AND SEND YOU HOME CRYING." Zing.
Also, I don't fit in anywhere. I'm too jagged for the polished Penn crowd and too refined for the edgy. Every time I go to a rock concert I look around me and feel out of place. I'm no less of a fan, but I do feel funny thrusting my exquisitely-manicured pinky-and-index-finger salute into the air. I can't find other people here like me and that makes me sad. I'm searching for my Byronic hero in a land of boy scouts.
Perhaps I'm suppressing something lodged deep in my subconscious. Who needs this writing trash when maybe what I really want is to streak my hair and be a guitar-wielding rocker chick. After all, my likelihood of finding a job in either field when I graduate is about equal.
Tomorrow I'm going to see Audioslave rock the shit out of Camden. It might not solve my crisis, but I'm hoping that after the show I'll hear a consoling voice in my head that will guide me toward enlightenment. Once my ears stop ringing.
