I don’t want to worry anyone, but I spontaneously started singing a Phil Collins song today.
And that probably means I’m dying.
Look, I don’t think there’s anything inherently toxic about Phil Collins. Anyone raised in the 80s has a few lyrics shelved in their prefrontal cortex that are bound to dislodge at odd times.
And I don’t have any problem with spontaneous singing. I sing when I’m happy, bored, angry…I don’t need a plan to sing. I just do it.
But washing dishes in the dark (kids in bed, too lazy to turn on a light, because ew, why would I want to see all that yuck if my only job is to scrape and shove in the dishwasher?) means an almost meditative zen state of flow.
And having Phil Collins arise at just that moment probably means I have a cold coming on. Or spinal meningitis. Or the flu. Or a brain tumor.
Just saying. Brain tumors aren’t funny. And neither is having Phil Collins stuck in my head.
And then falling out of my mouth.
(“Against All Odds”; thanks for asking. And I mean that sarcastically. Because I had eight bars of verse looping for a long time, until I considered blogging this catastrophe. I realized I had to push further into the song to ascertain the title. And now the chorus is looping. Incessantly. Against my will. Probably a tumor.)