Yes, yes, it hit me in my bubble bath just minutes ago that I must also praise the Justin Timberlake song in my head. No rest until I get it out in the open.
Wait-what? Justin Timberlake? Yes. Don’t be shocked. He puts together little nuggets of pop perfection, not unlike Michael Jackson back when he was a cute black man (“Thriller!” “PYT!” “Bad!” you know you liked those songs, too), as opposed to whatever he does these days as a frightening white woman.
Yes. Justin Timberlake. The song that was in my head as I soaked in my fragrant bubble bath was “Love Stoned/I Think She Knows Interlude.” I think that is the coolest phrase, ever so perfect, “Love Stoned.” Short, sweet, daydreamy, lost in something fantastic. Say it. You know you want to. Text it to someone. “Love Stoned.” Download it and shake your derriere around in the living room with the blinds closed. I won’t tell.
Those flashing lights come from everywhere
The way they hit her I just stop and stare
I’m love stoned from everywhere and she knows
I think that she knows
~~Justin Timberlake
you are so, go gay.
here i am writing about punk and you start in with timberlake?
i hereby declare you just as uncool as i am.
so there!