Sarabeth Murray

Welcome to cynical sessions. A column in which I, an incompetent, pessimistic low-life, rant my frustrations about society and beyond to the world (or to the three people who actually read this—hi mom?).

Each week I plan on taking a well-known pop song, limited to those whose lyrics are a creation of literary ingenious (so many to choose from!), and picking it apart to my heart’s content. The process will include overanalysing and scrutinising lyrics to the utmost degree, and utterly falsely assigning them meaning. I will use them to make radical comments on society, which I will furiously and passionately elaborate upon.

Essentially, this is a useless discussion between me, myself and I, for the sole purpose of being able to type angrily. There is nothing more satisfying than that click your keyboard makes when you smash on the letters with emotion and rage (I haven’t yet experienced the thrill of this, but I’ve seen it in movies and it sure looks impressive).

I cannot promise fluid writing, sensical ideas, or vocabulary that is overwhelmingly accepted as part of the Oxford dictionary (although I will try to stay away from too many homemade words). I cannot promise logical arguments, structure that allows for any rational individual to follow my rants, or views that are within the realm of realism and sanity.

Things to remember are that I am un-researched, uninformed, and incredibly sarcastic, so please take everything that I say with a grain of salt (actually, I’m going to be egotistical here and amend that to a shard of glass — I wouldn’t mind drawing a little blood with these columns). My goal is simply to challenge anything you thought you knew, to incite skepticism, and, ultimately, to establish myself as St Andrews’ resident insane asylum candidate. Feel free to follow along at your own will; I will do my best to make it worth your time.

Featured Image: The Northern Echo