Elvis Costello and I must have been soulmates in a past life.

It’s a rainy, cold Sunday morning and I loaded all 1232 MP3s loaded up in Winamp, with the shuffle set high. Surfing randomly, waiting for my clothes to dry and pondering making the tuna pasta salad I have to bring to the Mother’s Day BBQ.

Then Wilco’s cover of Big Star’s Thirteen came up on the playlist. That song still stings. It’s how the former-outlaw got his nickname. So you can see why it hurts a little.

Then by some random act of magic, Elvis’ God Give Me Strength came on, followed right up with the girl-singing version from Grace of My Heart.

So, really, it’s not my fault I’m suddenly a little melancholy and sad. The rainy coldness doesn’t help. The Sunday morningness of it doesn’t help. The Mother’s Day doesn’t help. Today, probably, nothing will help.

Sunday’s are always the cruelest day. I don’t call them Black Sunday for nothing. But Sunday’s are especially black since the former-outlaw decided that I was no longer worthy, that I wasn’t for him. See, he used to call me later in the morning, every Sunday. Even though we had talked the night before, he’d still call. He just wanted to hear my voice, wonder what I was doing. It was so nice, made the Sunday’s not so black.

This is why Elvis and I were soulmates in a past life. He gets it. He’s got the flare for melodramtic, just like I do, he took my last chance at happiness. . . and sometimes he finds exactly the perfect words to express what’s going on in a crazy, broken heart, i can’t hold onto him/ god give me strength/ when the phone doesn’t ring/ and i’m lost in imagining, just like i do.