In our desperate bid to purge our home of all things we’d rather not pack for the move, untitledhusband discovered a crate full of old cassette tapes in our garage. Nestled in between the Martika tape that he had cracked over his brother’s head and the Bell Biv Devoe (Oh NOOOO!) tape that made a most excellent ice scraper at one time was this curious specimen — a mix tape I had Frankensteined together during my freshman year of college. I can tell it was my freshman year, because any year past that would NOT have included anything by Meatloaf.Was my taste in music ever this unevolved? I’d like to think I came out of the womb channeling Ryan Adams or Wilco. I’d also like to to think that if Peabo Bryson had any plums, he would’ve lifted himself up off of track 12 to kick the shit out of track 13. Not to be outdone, Diana Ross would’ve used one of her false eyelashes as a machete, holding all the others hostage until they could sing Please Mr. Postman in perfect falsetto. That’s right, bitches. Ms. Ross don’t play. And she certainly doesn’t take up residence with the likes of REO Speedwagon.I don’t remember any one incident that inspired this creation. I just recall that guys were never that interested in me — not in high school, and not in college. They always liked my friends, blind mutherfux that they were. This was proof enough for me that yes, I would be single forever, and that all guys WERE assholes. Cause if a guy really is an asshole, there’s nothing like spending an entire Saturday afternoon creating a musical homage in his honor, and then listening to it every day for six months.