Not Everything Needs a Fucking Soundtrack

Alright, buckle the fuck up because I’ve got a rant hotter than the devil’s left nipple on a summer day in hell!

Musical anhedonia. The fact that we even have a name for it isn’t bullshit. What’s bullshit is how these melody-addicted morons treat it like a fucking disease that needs curing, like calling autism or introversion a ‘tragedy’ instead of a different way of experiencing the same fucking world. Apparently, if you don’t feel euphoric listening to some sweaty dipshit moaning into a microphone or a bunch of overpaid string-pluckers making noises in unison, you’re broken. Defective. In need of a cure. A cure! These self-important melody-huffing assclowns genuinely believe that because their neurons throw a fucking parade every time a song plays, anyone who doesn’t feel the same must be suffering.

Imagine this: I love cooking. I love the process, the patience, the technique. I don’t need some grand finale to justify the experience I love the doing of it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a chef, nor does cooking have any real significance in my career or expertise. But some people? They just shovel food into their slobbering mouths with all the grace of a starved raccoon digging through a dumpster. They don’t give a shit how it was made, what techniques were used, what flavors were balanced; they just want the calories so they can waddle through another miserable day. And that’s fine. I don’t run around diagnosing them with culinary anhedonia, as if they’re missing out on some essential human experience. I don’t sit them down and say, “Oh no, buddy, we gotta get you into a kitchen ASAP. We need to cure you so you can enjoy cooking as much as I do!” Because that would be fucking insane.

Yet that’s exactly what these music-worshipping morons do.

“Oh, you don’t like music? You poor thing. Have you tried listening to THIS song? Or THIS genre? Maybe you just haven’t heard the right song!”

Bitch, that’s the same energy as those socially maladjusted otaku insisting that if you just watched the RIGHT anime, you’d totally become a weeb like them.

No. That’s not how this works.

And don’t even get me started on the existential level of annoyance when these clowns insist on background music in every goddamn space imaginable. Restaurants, stores, waiting rooms, even fucking public bathrooms, all of them must have music blaring. I can’t even take a shit in peace without some corporate radio station blasting whatever soulless pop song is currently making some record label a few million bucks. And they call me the weird one for not enjoying this sonic assault?

I cook in complete silence because I love the process. The sizzle of butter, the rhythmic chop of a knife, the scent blooming as garlic hits the pan, that’s the music I enjoy. So it’s not like I don’t like HEARING things, I just don’t see any level of satisfaction in… mindlessly subjecting myself to whatever generic, overproduced, auto-tuned dumpster fire the masses have decided is a must-listen experience. I don’t need a fucking corporate-curated playlist to convince me that a moment is meaningful. I don’t need some breathy, tortured-soul singer-songwriter wailing about their heartbreak to give my life depth. And I sure as hell don’t need some 4/4 beat commanding me to ‘vibe’ so that I don’t get labeled a psychopath. But apparently, this is sacrilegious to these audio junkies. They need their background noise, their constant, never-ending distraction from the terrifying void of their own thoughts. They can’t fathom why someone would prefer silence. And then they have the fucking gall to act like they’re intellectually superior because they “understand” music. As if their dumbass brain wiring is some mark of enlightenment, and those of us who don’t get all tingly over a good bass drop are evolutionary rejects.

And of course, because I must be normal deep down, everyone always asks me who my favorite singer is or what my favorite genre of music is. Never once has anyone asked me to name one song I actually liked. Nope. That concept is too foreign for their tiny melody-addicted brains to comprehend. Because for me, it’s always a one-off. It’s not about artists or genres, it’s about a song that, for some reason, clicks in the moment, usually because of how it sounds and what the lyrics are saying. But explaining this to these rhythm-possessed lunatics is like trying to explain colors to a chihuahua. They don’t get that music anhedonia is a spectrum. It’s not that I hate all music; it’s that I don’t give a fuck about 99.9% of it. Basically, the ones Lysol doesn’t kill are my jam.

I even tried breaking it down for one of these melody-worshiping cocksuckers. I asked them what music they absolutely cannot stand, something that sounds like pure noise to them. And they ranted, of course. Maybe it was country, or death metal, or whatever genre their pretentious ass deemed unworthy of their golden ears. And then I hit them with, Yeah, I feel that way about almost every fucking song ever made. And you’d think I told them I strangle puppies for sport. The blank stare, the uncomfortable shifting, the how-can-this-be disbelief. They still didn’t get it. Because to them, music is universal. It’s holy. It’s the fucking air they breathe. And if I don’t feel the same? Something must be wrong with me.

And speaking of things I don’t get, dancing. Oh. My. Fucking. God. If music is a cult, dancing is its fucking exorcism ritual. These people hear a beat, and suddenly, they must flail their limbs like malfunctioning animatronics at Chuck E. Cheese. And if you don’t join in? If you dare to stand still and not start convulsing like you’ve been possessed by the spirit of Offbeat McShufflestein? You’re a buzzkill. You’re no fun. Because apparently, the only valid way to enjoy music is to physically react to it like a deranged, caffeinated toddler. The whole thing is just one big, sweaty clown show, and I refuse to be part of their circus.

And that brings me to the real kicker: these same people who treat music like a holy experience, the ones who start spasming uncontrollably at the first hint of a beat, are the same ones who lose their shit when a song makes them cry like it’s some profound, transcendent moment instead of just their dumbass neurons throwing a pity party.

Oh, you cry over a song? Congratulations, you emotional fucking wreck. That’s not some divine gift; it’s just how your stupid brain is wired. Some of us get that same feeling from a well-crafted meal, or a perfectly executed deadlift, or an elegantly written piece of code. We don’t sit around diagnosing you with hyperactive audio-dependence disorder just because your mood is dictated by vibrations in the air.

I don’t judge these fuckers because, at the end of the day, it seems to be a safe passion like being a flat-earther. Dumb as hell, sure, but not something that inherently hurts anyone. (I do judge religious people and covidiots, though, because at least their brand of stupidity has real-world consequences.) But what grinds my gears is that they’re not content with just enjoying their little sound-orgasms in peace, they feel the need to shove their fucking taste in music down my throat like the cum their mom swallowed instead of giving them a fuckin sibling. And whether that level of force-feeding is debatable or not, I’m not fucking having it.

So fuck off with your missionary-tier insistence that we must be missing something. We’re not. We’re just not hopped up on the same noise-drug that you are. If your pleasure button gets smashed every time some jackass strums a guitar, good for you. Just don’t act like those of us who don’t share your addiction are defective. Some of us enjoy the silence. Some of us prefer actually experiencing a moment instead of needing a fucking soundtrack to make it feel worthwhile.

Now go put your headphones on and leave us the fuck alone.