I really have to do something about this CD shelf.
Every time I bring a date back to my place, we get to that awkward tour of my room, where inevitably her eyes are drawn to this ridiculous IKEA monstrosity that holds every single CD I've ever purchased since 1990. It's like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey, but instead of emitting high-pitched shrieks to catapult species to the next evolutionary stage, it houses dustbin classics of yore.
Now, look; maybe you've been a super cool kid since 1990, but I can tell you with complete confidence that I was not. And now that you're in my room, I have the CDs to prove it.
Of course, your eyes breeze right past the Hot Chip and Catherine Wheel CDs and my extensive Ryan Adams and Bjork collections. Nope, instead you zero right in on the most embarrassing stuff.
"Wow! You sure do have a lot of Barenaked Ladies albums."
I'm usually pretty good about keeping things organized and orderly in my life. I have no problem throwing away all kinds of old stuff, but the idea of throwing away or selling an old CD just seems to be sacrilege. Sure, I haven't listened to the sweet dulcet tones of "If I Had A Million Dollars" in about ten years. But, that's beside the point! What if I randomly decide I need to hear that song?! There was a time in my life where I wore khaki cargo shorts and had blonde highlights and thought that song was amazing. I feel that in throwing away the CD, I'd be throwing away a little part of my musical biography, as awkward of a chapter as it may have been.
So yeah, you're basically face-to-face with my dark, lame musical past.
I suppose in the meantime, I could pretend my entire CD wall is an art project. I could title it, "Ode To A Dying Musical Format" and then maybe I'd impress you.
In the meantime, though, my CD collection isn't quite doing the trick.