Sex, Drugs & Spotify: I don’t desire decency, I want to be blown away

I would imagine that this is not that profound a thought, but if I know anything to be true, it is that good sex is like good music is like good drugs. And nothing else comes close.

I understand things as synonyms, metaphors and romantically drawn out comparisons with too many words and specifications and very few commas like how people from California speak and think and live. Train of consciousness, I guess. 

They tell you to write about what you know. 

I understand some things about being first-generation, the heartbreak after a parent is deported, the physical toll from your first love leaving. I’m more than proficiently versed in knee surgeries and have six years of piano in my brain somewhere. I can adequately write HTML and I’m still learning how to be a big sister. I just signed up for a drumming class. 

Though, nothing in the world is better understood in whatever part of my brain understands these things as is sex, drugs and Spotify. 

As a kid, I used to read a lot and then I started writing a lot and then I stopped reading and then I stopped writing. And then I found myself in hatchback cars and at smoke-stained elementary school parks listening to music better than everyone else. 

There is less backseat promiscuity, less makeshift bongs. They’ve upgraded to singles with back entrances, and I’m still pretty broke so an extra apple can be handy but there’s definitely more drugs. The music has remained. 

Many years of mine have been spent trying to find the right words to describe the (for lack of a better word) drug that is music. There are no words, only a lot of likes and a little too much context. 

They also tell you to be specific in journalism class and that you can’t use words like “many years” when talking about a Fact, but if there’s anything I don’t know, it’s time. My memory is not marked like calendar days but maybe if there was one of those songs playing, I can relive it again. 

“the afterglow” EP by blackbear was playing when I fell for my friend in middle school. “Body Party” by Ciara brings me back to smoking in bushes and sneaking into unsupervised trailer homes. “1st Position” by Kehlani (and actually all of “Cloud 19”) gave my little queer self some grounding in the Bay Area. 

“Come Through and Chill” by Miguel is foggy windows at Heritage Oaks Park with the lacrosse player I guess I lost my virginity to. Whenever Carti’s self-titled plays, I’m immediately transported back to riding shotgun in beemers with boys with DUIs. “Amphetamine” by Smino is when I decided this is all I care about. 

My greatest memories are pretty orange prescription bottles filled to the brim with soft neck kisses. They are lies coated in intimacy, nicotine rips fueled by bated breaths. My life is tracked by over a hundred playlists (since I was graciously gifted Spotify Premium one Christmas) and the list in my Notes app that I assume we all have. Mine also has their astrological signs. 

Now, I never said I was an expert on anything — I don’t believe in those — but I have accumulated enough encounters and experiences that have provided me with some stories to share. 

Whether it’s rolling at a concert or sharing cigarettes after sex, life for me, and maybe some of you, is driven by moments where everything seemingly bad feels seemingly good. 

I began at this publication as a staffer with high hopes to write for the Arts & Entertainment section and then proceeded to not write once. I found my way to News, became section editor for our two entirely online semesters and learned more about this University than I wished. And then I left.

During my hiatus, I picked up a music industry minor and refocused my efforts toward MASH Magazine, a business of fashion journal established at USC by two amazing people who took me on to run editorial. You should read our stuff. 

Despite every intention of not returning to the fourth floor newsroom, I was offered the chance to edit A&E for just two months last Fall and fell back into the late nights and nonstop Slack notifications. I still wasn’t writing a lot. 

Last semester as associate managing editor, I made a lot of what you might consider to be mistakes. I spent my days high and found a smoke shop that didn’t card if I smiled at the guy behind the counter. I had a lot of sex with people that mattered too much (read: didn’t matter at all). I crossed lines that have been blurred in my head for quite some time and realized my past traumas still weren’t healed. 

But I don’t consider these mistakes anymore. 

Writing what you know feels self-important but that’s because it is, I guess. 

Admittedly, it required great restraint to not type out an alarming amount of concessions and apologize profusely for the ego of this column. I have no time to fill in the gaps — you either get it or you don’t.

I’ve come to learn that when your brain runs a mile a minute and you approach everything as a critiquing editor — even before you have a right to — you tend to gravitate not towards slower pacing or refined works, but to spaces where the chaos doesn’t feel like a bad thing anymore.

I don’t desire decency. I want to be blown away.

They tell you to write about what you know. I’m writing again. You should listen to “Floyd” by Kelis on “Food.” 

Ana Mata is a senior writing about everything related to promiscuity and playlists. She is also the managing editor of the Daily Trojan.