I worked with a guy with whom I occasionally had conversations about music. His tastes were eclectic like mine, and we had several favorite artists in common. One day, he asked me if I’d heard of a particular band. I told him no, he did a fist pump, said something about finally finding someone I’d never heard, and told me they were good and he thought I’d like them.
That’s enough of an endorsement for me. I’ll listen to anything once, so I went home and looked ’em up and gave it a go.
I wanted to like them, for no other reason than to be able to have something to discuss with him the next day. But… meh. He posted links to more of their music on my Facebook wall, and I made half-assed comments, trying in vain to avoid just typing out “meh” in response to each one.
Wait, what was the point of this story? Oh. Here it is:
It’s impossible to force yourself to like something. Such as a band.
You look so good. Honestly, you do. You are so ubiquitous, appearing on every brunch menu in the history of [non-vegan] brunch menus. You are versatile. And cheap. You are everywhere, and I try so hard to enjoy you…
I ordered you awhile back. You came fried on what sounded like the Most Delicious Breakfast Sandwich Ever. You sat, all pretty and egg-like atop spinach and bacon and swiss on an English muffin. You were placed before me, and I was excited: this! this would be it! The meal that made Julie love eggs. It was a historical moment.
So why’d you have to go and ruin it with your texture? Why did you have to feel that way in my mouth? Why, eggs, WHY? My delight crumbled, and all sandwich-induced happiness was summarily snuffed out with one single bite.
I’ve not given up on you, but is this a lost cause? Am I wasting time and money in this thus far fruitless quest?
I suppose that remains to be seen.