Two or so years ago I delusionally signed up for OkCupid, uploaded the one photo in which I did not look like a turtle from an oncology ward, scoured my matches for Caucasian girls between the ages of 22-25 who liked Animal Collective, and messaged them with the intention of jumping into an aurally heightened relationship immediately after some indiscretionary coitus. I was rebounding hard, slowly going soft. I didn’t like Animal Collective, but somehow had it in my mind that I would like a girl who did: precociously artsy, preciously depressed, and pretentiously insane. The lie I told myself of who would make me happy was the masochistic prophecy of who could make me miserable. “Cool, I like Animal Collective too,” the douche in me wrote. Not one of them wrote back. My favorite track off The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour (1967), is George Harrison’s “Blue Jay Way,” a dead end road in the LA hills. He’d play a part, then play it backwards, then learn to play the backwards version, record it, then play that backwards, so that the orientation was forward again. Its dissonance eerily familiar. One cannot go backwards in time, only melody. John famously claimed he was the walrus through implicated tusks, churning away at the meta. I sign up for Match dot cum, the co-op of lonelies, my credit card number longer than my patience for the questionnaire. I end up surrounded by sweaty kids getting epileptic to four bros on stage, Δ⁹-THC’s trail ribboning in the air, trying to be somebody, a person who someone else would write back to. All the world’s a stage, covered in Miller lite. Someone smiles, my mask shows nothing.