One of my favourite songs from this year is Icona Pop’s ‘I Love It (I Don’t Care). It has a catchy beat even if the protagonist of the song (did I really say that) seems more than a little crazy. I mean, who crashes their car into a bridge and not only let it burn but loves it? My vote is on a person with an undiagnosed mental disorder or high on drugs. The break up couldn’t have been that bad.
At any rate, here is my Literary Interpretation of the song. It is really short but I hope you like it!
The images of them together played over and over again as if her mind was a projector and her glassy, tear filled eyes were the screen. She took what should’ve been deep, steadying breaths but Sam got more riled up. She stared blankly ahead as she relived walking in on her fiancé screwing the girl who was supposed to be her best friend. She just couldn’t get past his scrawny ass and Rebekkah’s shrieks for him to go ‘harder’, ‘faster’ and ‘deeper’. The whole episode left her with a taste in her mouth bitterer than the whiskey she chugged from the bottle.
Sam already tried everything to stop the anger that unfurled in the pit of her stomach. She’d carefully and methodologically packed all the things he kept at her house and burned them on the front lawn. She’d listed the three-carat diamond engagement ring on Amazon for a single cent. Then, she’d called up Rebekkah’s husband and told him everything before emailing him the photo she’d managed to take for confirmation.
But when everything was said and done, her response to her life going up in smoke seemed too sanitized. She’d dealt with it with passive aggression… just as she’d dealt with everything else in her life. She took another swig of the whiskey. There were some things in life that ought to be dealt with using aggression with no passivity obscuring the process. She stepped out of her car, high heels against the pavement and walked a bit unsteadily to the entrance of her ex’s workplace. Sam held the Johnny Walker in one hand and her father’s Glock in the other. She cocked her head and looked at the bottle as if she were seeing it for the first time.
“Damn,” she whispered then giggled under her breath. She hadn’t realized she had had that much. She continued her unsteady gait through the door. Alcohol always messed with her coordination. She hoped it didn’t screw with her aim. She shrugged away her concern. All she needed was one shot. She had sixteen. And one of those bullets had the bastard’s name on it.
© Rilzy Adams, 2013