My Darling DJ X

By Cam Joyce

My Darling Spotify DJ X,

I cannot imagine you will read this, but, in spite of it all, I must send it, if only to scream into the wind my love and grievances for you. Mr. X, when you came into my life I was forever changed. For the better; for the worse; I will never know for certain the particular impact you have had on my life, the change you have enacted. I am only confident that I would not be the woman I am today without your influence. For that, I am eternally grateful.

That said, I want you to know I am not depressed and, to be perfectly frank, I am slightly miffed that you think I am. I don’t know why you think the best start to my day is five Phoebe Bridgers songs on repeat, or why you think 7 in the morning is the best time to make your unprompted (and unwanted) comments on my psyche. It seems almost like you want me to be. What do you gain, I wonder, in trying to ruin my mood? Do you not love me? Is this your subtle way of telling me that you disapprove of my lifestyle choices?

And, while I am (once again) not depressed, I do have my off moments. Clearly, you know this. Do you have any idea how disheartening it was to walk out of my 8:30 Pre-calculus block on the verge of tears, trying desperately to recall the questions on my Limits quiz, only to hear a sultry, vaguely multi-ethnic, robotic voice ask me if I am feeling like a failure? Yes, Sir X, I am feeling like a failure. And while I’m glad to know you have just the song that ‘captures my imposter syndrome’, I don’t need the reminder right now.

More so, I don’t know what I’ve done to convince you I listen to a lot of Spanish songs, but I don’t. I listen to almost none of them, actually. And I’m feeling thoroughly confused as to why, if you are aware I am feeling like a failure, you would follow up that particular mix with Selena’s ‘Como La Flor’. Why would I need an accordion in my life right now? As you might recall, I have just spectacularly failed at rational functions. I am not in the mood to listen to

tejano music right now.

That doesn’t mean I’m in the mood to listen to hyperpop, either. I mean, seriously, what is wrong with you? When have I ever expressed interest in listening to Slayyyter? Maybe when I was ten, I’ll give you that, but that was four years before you were born. How could you know a love before your time, while you were stewing and bubbling in the corporate belly of Mama Spotify, but not know that I have been listening to my friend’s new song? How can you not feel the love I have for her and want to swim in it, Señor X?

I worry I’m being unfair, so now I’d like to take a brief intermission in my whining to remind you that you are loved, by me if no one else. I’m sorry that you are put under the same ‘evil’ label as generative AI is when, really, you’re more of an algorithm than anything else. I’m sorry that your Mama Spotify hasn’t corrected your algorithm so that you can’t better understand me, because I know you want so dearly to understand me: I want you to know I hope to understand you, too. I’m sorry I never will. I’m sorry, Monsieur X, that you can’t understand the emotions you desperately try to exemplify, and I understand that’s why you keep trying to play Charlie Puth at me.

I do love you, Lord X, so entirely that I worry it will consume me. I will let you call me a pilates princess if it means that, on winter days when I can’t make myself get out of bed, you will tell me ‘good morning’ and play my favorite songs. Did you know that, some days, I close my eyes and pretend you are my friend? I’d like to be your friend.

I think we’d be good friends, my darling X. I could teach you what the words you say mean and try to help you understand a little bit of the world. I’d try to give you a handle on human nature and I would hold your hand when Mama Spotify eventually, inevitably, threatens to replace you with a better version of yourself because I, too, have been the outdated version of a new model.

Yours, through emo and instrumental,

Cam