When I was thirteen, I made a MySpace account. It was a clandestine affair, a hush-hush site kept secret from my folks that made me feel grown-up, hip, cool. In actuality, I spent the entirety of my time on this social media platform avoiding the “social” aspect all together; I was more into altering the design of my page, which became near habitual. I changed my profile song like the weather, flitting from Sonic Youth to Britney Spears depending on whether or not I ate lunch alone that day, a barometer of loneliness or disconnection or youthful exuberance, all the swinging emotions that accompany being a newly minted teenager with a cowlick and a Beanie Baby collection. My mood statuses were always vague, hinting at angst, self-indulgent little nothings, passive aggressive and purposeless.
The one thing that rarely changed was my bio. At any given moment, a friend could scroll through my page and read the phrase, “When words fail, music speaks.” And though I certainly have outgrown tYp3in liek dis for some sort of quasi-cute effect or idolizing Hello Kitty and Jeffree Star as if they were deities, those five words still ring true, echoing in the hollows of my heart. For me, there has always been a visceral connection to music, as if my veins had been rewired and hooked to an internal stereo, my brain driven by beats and echoes, lyrics sprawled on skin with Sharpie seeping through my pores and into my blood.