Tracy Chapman or a Box of Dick Shaped Candy?  I’ll Take the Dicks 10/10 Times

I have never been a hateful person.  

Of course we all know most people are just farts bubbles waiting to pop and spray their shit particles in our faces. They are just a bunch of tards jamming dick shaped candy in our ears while laughing at us.  That’s being an adult, and it is what it is.  Yet, in my heart of hearts, I believe in the basic good of people.  I grew up in a loving household. I had amazing friends that laughed at my jokes. I had people who picked me up when I fell and lifted me higher when I had successes.

That being said, I am firm believer that some people are put on this earth to create things designed to make a person suffer.  Whether they know it or not, some people are born to be hated.  For me there only a few things I truly hate.  Spiders, people who don’t use their blinkers, styrofoam, opening single serving tylenol packages, sporks, that one guy who stands outside my local 7-11 and makes me uncomfortable, and Tracy Fucking Chapman. 

Tracy “Fast Car” Chapman has been the bane of my existence since I was doo dooing in my diapers.  My mom, whom I love very much, was going through a soulful stage and we had just bought our first home speaker set by Sony.  It had a revolutionary seven CD disk changer, but that didn’t matter.  There was only one album that spun at our house.  Tracy Fucking Chapman.

Box of DickImagine a tiny farmhouse in the middle of the countryside.  A living room, a kitchen, two bedrooms, and a loft.  No neighbors, no noise complaints, and a mother who just can’t get enough of that sultry singer songwriter talking about getting away in a fast car.  Really, a fast car?  That got a Grammy.  Christ.

Anyways…Saturday morning soundtrack? Tracy Fucking Chapman.  Our car didn’t have a CD player, but you better believe my super fan of a mother had the cassette as well.  Mom’s grading papers?  T-Chap.  Cooking dinner tonight?  Better start off the evening with “Talkin’ bout a revolution”.  

While Tracy was grabbing Grammys for best Rock Song (no shot this is rock music), I was giving her one reason to hang up that guitar: My sanity.

Eventually, the CD went bad or my mom actually tired of the same twelve songs everyday.  All was quiet and all was beautiful.  Then my mom found this one:

Some kids grew up on Kiss and other had The Who.  Some got great American Storytellers like Neil Young or Bob Seger.  Joplin? Nah, Tracy Fucking Chapman and Katie Lang.

That’s how Tracy Chapman’s, Self-Titled, critically acclaimed debut album became the unfortunate soundtrack of my childhood.  Mom, be on the lookout for a package.


Your Son

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