My Villain Arc

I really don’t give a shit about your guitar tone

It sounds like a motel ice machine at midnight: pure, lonely

Go be a poet you fruity asshole

But my level of irritation isn’t appropriate to the situation either

No one deserves to be called a fruity asshole

For being enthusiastic about their guitar tone

I thought about why I’m like this…

The last time purchased a guitar I barely tested it first

It just looked like something Lucinda Williams would play

Which is also how I picked out my first instrument:

The french horn

It looked sick and I liked to put it on my head like a hat

Shiny tubes curling into thoughts

Half my body weight in the case

I’d lug it a mile to school on band day, like Jesus

Becoming a weirdly ripped 9 year old 

But I learned fast: brass is not for me

I like instruments you can play with your fingers,
Not ones that taste like kissing a battery

Disgusted by the smell of felt and old metal
I couldn’t really control my air flow

Which pissed off the band teacher

He yanked the horn away, violent and fast

Like a music stand snapping shut on my skin
The spit valve popped open like the horn had opinions too

I remember an ocean wave of saliva soaking his pants

And the satisfaction of watching him get flustered because 

It was totally his fault 

Thinking back on this, it’s super weird for a middle aged man

To get so angry at 9 year old for ruining his arrangement of 

“The Magical Mr. Mistofeles”

But he banished me to the instrument closet 

Which is where I began my villain arc