Warning: I totally swear in this!
It has been exactly one week since I first listened to Ariana Grande’s “Thank U, Next,” and I must admit I am not only artistically inspired, but extremely humbled.
Over the weekend, my friends and I discovered ourselves entirely composed of sweet surrender to what Grande described as an undeniable “smash.”
We laid on our bellies in a wobbly circle, listened to the song pour sweetly from a low-battery iPhone and said, in dramatic unity, “Oh my gosh, this is the best damn thing.”
This week fades and we still shove Skullcandy earbuds into our ears and are immediately enchanted by Grande’s message. In the gold-plated and messianic manner similar to jamming to Beyonce’s “Formation” or SZA’s “Doves in the Wind,” young women are exceedingly subjected to a term that can only be crowned as Girl Power.
Grande’s lyrics are unapologetically fueled by the graces of self-love and vulnerability as she offers gratitude to her former lovers. As opposed to exhibiting vexation against devastated romances, she glows brilliantly in the realm of heartache.
As opposed to the traditional diss track, she recognizes her ex’s for each offering her a setting to blossom and to further develop as a higher and uniquely stunning power-after all, God is a woman.
In reference to my opening statement, this song honestly has me wanting to hand-deliver thank-you cards to each of my un-concluded hookups and romantic messes. My heart genuinely goes out to all of them, because they were each really top-notch troopers when it came to dealing with my ridiculous infatuations and ambitions.
They are the brave souls who received alcohol-tainted “let’s hang out!” messages at 3:30 a.m. and never questioned the cleanliness of my bedroom, which typically appears as though it hosted a Woodstock reunion and a Forever 21 vomited all over the floor.
They struggled to respond to questions such as, “do you hate me or are you just awkward?” and “why does your entire frat have to be a bunch of bitches and hate student newspapers?”
One of them didn’t complain when I accidentally spilled sparkling water on their Ralph Lauren zip sweater (I tried licking it clean in a really bizarre attempt at being hot in the club) and one of them had me crying my gold glitter off in a party house bathtub after a tailgate.
But despite the number of bar bathroom tears, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream binges and shitty pieces of poetry they inspire out of me, I am immensely thankful.
To conclude, here are some more direct thank-you messages to the gentlemen who have made me the shimmering, thunderous goddess I am today.
And, as Grande said, “God forbid something happens, least this (article) is a smash.”
Thank You to Every Single Dude that Celebrated my Free Spiritedness (in Even the Slightest Way)
All of my life, I have inspired to glisten like one of those carefree, manic pixie dream girls in over-romanticized Sundance films. I’m referring to the type that unintentionally enchants men by never wearing bras and twirling around in sunflowers with unbrushed hair.
Their religious practices include dancing barefoot in the rain, wishing off of dandelions and daydreaming about deceased, psychedelic rock stars.
I once totally caught feelings for a guy because he said I was a free-spirited “hippie type” with phenomenal dance moves and unapologetic fashion tastes. Such statements obviously made him too good to be true, but I was overwhelmingly buoyant by someone being attracted to qualities I often forget I possess.
In brief periods, I fall recklessly for young men able to enjoy my incautiousness and passion for liberation. For a fleeting second, I feel as though they want to join me in an unconfirmed existence, full of dancing on tables, disco music and midnight strolls through the woods.
Some of their names end up in the savage Burn Book at my friend’s house, and others are simply placed into a mental abyss.
But I am thankful that they made me fall in love with myself a little more harder.
Thank You to the One that Taught Me that I Don’t Owe Anything to Anyone
I have to admit, out of every dude I’ve ever been with-in any sense-this one was probably the spookiest. He invited me on a single date during the springtime which I agreed to in a fairly nonchalant manner.
He was an aspiring DJ studying political science and the practice of disguising himself as a feminist, but not actually contributing to the feminist community or legitimately respecting certain feminist concepts.
He had me sit with him under a gazebo and told me lovely stories about the Miami club scene and his passion for music. But he managed the ambiance by suddenly interrogating me with questions like, “why would you bother showing up to a date if you don’t want to sleep with me?”, “are you at least going to make out with me?” and my personal favorite, “did you really show up to this without shaving your legs a little better?”
He demanded I retire from my days of skinny dipping in National Parks and wearing crop tops to apartment parties prior to me agreeing to a second date.
In response to my necessary rejection, he said: “girls like you create fuck boys.”
With my circular sunglasses straightened, my lack of modesty radiating off of me and my party-girl days shining ahead of me, I knew I really didn’t care what I created from decisions essential and important to me.
Thank You to the Guy that Helped Me Channel My Inner Asshole
I think I was most attracted to this guy because of how unsimilar we were. I typically flash as a jolly, naive optimist with a heart destined to follow its sunniest of bliss. On the other side of the spectrum, he was more cynical than a Woody Allen film and criticized my helpless fate in cosmic alignments and shooting-star wishes for world peace.
As I reevaluate the situation, usually to cringe at my foolishness and childish behavior, I find myself actually thankful for the gravity he established in my life.
Lately, I am also a bit more cynical and hard-hearted than expected. I do not apologize as much and often find my humor to be more cold and unforgiving against the world.
Although I am still a creature with starry eyes and abundant trust in the universe, I sometimes notice my toes scrapping reality’s floor as I loosen my grip on the clouds.
Overall, I simply find myself having less fucks to give.
And maybe now that you’re irrelevant, I can find my next reality check.