By Jessica Bailey
Columnist

On a day some said the world might end, columnist Jessica Bailey takes a look at the role music has in our originality and mortality.

It’s fucking Friday and I want to bitch some more because that’s what we’d all do anyway if it were actually the end of the world. We’re doing the same shit we’ve done for the last few centuries, just now with more autotune. We’re simple creatures, really. All we really want to do is sleep, fuck, shit, and bitch. Oh yeah, and love each other, which as far as I can tell, is what happens when you find someone who wants to do all of the above with you in the same ways you do it.

You know what I would do at the end of the world? Everything I’m already fucking doing because it’s the end of the world every single day of your miserable little amazing life. It’s not news that you’re going to die, even that you could still theoretically die today, and that’s both the scariest and most awesome part about being alive. Music is there to help us deal with the fact that life is short, and emotions are complicated, and there’s no single right or wrong way to do this thing. It’s there to help build scaffolding for our memories and to help us realize yes, someone else out there has felt the way you are feeling right now and you are not alone in the world as long as this song/artist/band/mutual heartfeel exists.

You know that annoying song that came on when so-and-so put his or her slobbery little teenage lips on you for the first time and your heart made a little burp and you called it love because we have no idea how to actually gauge these things scientifically?  Or how about the first piece of music you ever heard that made you realize life is a really fucking long process, and that someday you will die. Even though that’s a very complex emotion to process in just under four minutes, it’s probably going to be OK. That song was “Across the Universe” for me, and I still feel the same way about it now. My little child mind was blown and I almost shat in my Simba underpants, thinking, “Fuck, does everybody already know about this? WHY IS EVERYONE KEEPING ALL THE COOL SHIT FROM ME, DAMMIT?” Except with less profanity. But the sentiment was the same. Or how ‘bout the song that somehow opened the door to feminism and made you realize that one day you too will become a liberal college student cliché writing bitchy columns about art and music, mayuuun, because that’s what everyone has always done and you’re just picking up where they left off? Ah, maybe that last one’s just me then.

So while I could use today to tell you what to listen to, what albums were the BEST OF ALL TIME, according to some poor twenty-something journalist with completely subjective opinions much like my own, I think if it were really the end of the fucking world, you should listen to whatever it is that had significance for you in your little finite lifetime. Dust off that mixtape mix CD, bust out that iTunes playlist, or that record player if you’re either older than the target demographic of this column or are the target demographic of this column (stupid fucking hipsters who are apparently too cool for CDs), and hold on to whatever memories you have now attached to the music, whatever it is, whenever it was made, and whether or not anybody else in the world likes it, because it’s your fucking life. Enjoy it, already.