Mixtape Quotes

Asleep by the Smiths Vapour Trail by Ride Scarborough Fair by Simon & Garfunkel A Whiter Shade of Pale by Procol Harum Dear Prudence by the Beatles Gypsy by Suzanne Vega Nights in White Satin by the Moody Blues Daydream by Smashing Pumpkins Dusk by Genesis (before Phil Collins was even in the band!) MLK by U2 Blackbird by the Beatles Landslide by Fleetwood Mac Asleep by the Smiths (again!) -Charlie's mixtape

Tonight, I feel like my whole body is made out of memories. I'm a mix-tape, a cassette that's been rewound so many times you can hear the fingerprints smudged on the tape.

A to the G to the U to STD I’m D boy because I’m from D I’m the crazy guy, the lunatic on beat Sending listeners to Hong Kong with my rap my tongue technology

Black is beautiful. Black isn’t power. Knowledge is power. You can be black as a crow or white as snow but if you don’t know and you ain’t got no dough, you can’t go and that’s for sho’.

This pain to remain the same outweigh the pain to change... When you get tired enough is when you begin to want to sacrifice everything inside of you—the fear just leaves

You won’t remember, they say, when someone drifts away. One minute you are talking about life’s greatest adventures and listening to mixtapes on Monday afternoons, and the next their presence is replaced with silence: a fragile nonexistence with nothing else to lose. But I will always remember our drift. It took up all this space, like a planet with many moons. It was the year you forgot my birthday.

Naturally, this country can't stand truth.

It was a complete rejection of genre norms in Korea’s idol industry, where every frame of every video was perfectly produced for public consumption. BTS members were not just idols. They were rappers who released mixtapes and YouTubers who gave tutorials on music production and dance.

Schools teach kids the greatest love story of all literature is the one where a 19-year-old guy and his 13-year-old girlfriend rack up a body count and then kill themselves together. Then when kids learn the lesson, everyone blames pop music.

You probably feel like you’re falling apart, but in truth, this is you falling together, sweetheart. Sometimes, part of the healing journey involves falling apart. That doesn’t make you weak; it makes you strong.

When love met pain, beauty could be created.

I’d learned quickly that motherhood meant saying no to yourself so you could later say yes to your child.

No matter how stupid, how pointless, how painful my current situation was, as I listened to Mixtape every week I couldn't deny the love I still felt for that reckless, audacious fool who was still me, if only in my mind.

The mixtapes we made for ourselves were musical mirrors. The sadness, anger, or frustration you might be feeling at a given time could be encapsulated in the song selection. You made mixtapes that corresponded to emotional states, and they'd be avaliable to pop into the deck when each feeling needed reinforcing or soothing. The mixtape was your friend, your psychiatrist, and your solace.

The oddest thing about life was how something could show up out of nowhere and change everything in a split second of time.

Mixtapes were the love language of my youth. If you got one from me, that shit was as serious as a marriage proposal.

Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey Simmer down, simmer down They say we're too young now to amount to anything else But look around We work too damn hard for this just to give it up now If you don't swim, you'll drown But don't move, honey You look so perfect standing there In my American Apparel underwear And I know now, that I'm so down Your lipstick stain is a work of art I got your name tattooed in an arrow heart And I know now, that I'm so down (hey!) Hey, hey! Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey Let's get out, let's get out 'Cause this deadbeat town's only here just to keep us down While I was out, I found myself alone just thinking If I showed up with a plane ticket And a shiny diamond ring with your name on it Would you wanna run away too? 'Cause all I really want is you You look so perfect standing there In my American Apparel underwear And I know now, that I'm so down I made a mixtape straight out of '94 I've got your ripped skinny jeans lying on the floor And I know now, that I'm so down Hey, hey! Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey You look so perfect standing there In my American Apparel underwear And I know now, that I'm so down Your lipstick stain is a work of art I got your name tattooed in an arrow heart And I know now, that I'm so down Hey, hey! Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey Hey, hey, hey, hey You look so perfect standing there In my American Apparel underwear And I know now, that I'm so down (hey) Your lipstick stain is a work of art (hey, hey) I got your name tattooed in an arrow heart (hey, hey) And I know now, that I'm so down (hey, hey) Hey

Even in the most liberal of countries and cultures, it is not easy for a pre-debut trainee to publicly voice his complaints about the label’s CEO. And Korea is a country where idol groups cannot be launched without significant capital, time, and planning know-how. In spite of this, Bang Si-Hyuk had the members write their own blog posts and publicly share their thoughts and feelings as trainees alongside their mixtapes and journal entries.

Everyone breaks sometimes. It’s a part of life. Sometimes we have to fall apart before we can fall back together.

Then there is no way we are poor. We have clothes on our backs, a roof over our head, a car to drive, and each other’s love. No one can be poor if they have love.

The worst feeling in the world was coming to the realization that your idols were merely human themselves.

Healing doesn’t walk a linear line; it takes the messy route. I believe that healing comes during both the dark days and the bright ones. It’s not all rainbows. Sometimes healing means slicing open the scars that made you hurt so much before and examining them to fully understand yourself. Why did the cut hurt you in the past? How did it change you into who you are today? What can we learn from the pain of your yesterdays to better your tomorrows?

But all he had up Robert's perfect sleeve was two rubbishy songs that were more gimmick than the white-hot fire of real music, the sort of music people would play over and over in their bedrooms at night, the sort that scrambled up your senses so wonderfully that you laughed and cried into your pillow at the same time, the sort of music that felt like you'd always known it even though you'd never heard it before, the songs you'd put on a mixtape and press into someone else's hand saying, This, this says how I feel better than I ever could.

A different time. The era of synth pop and mixtapes, hair gel and new wave. Of Prince and paramilitaries, Madonna and moving statues. Magdalene laundries, the Eighth Amendment, bodies as battlegrounds—pig slit and gaping. Different but the same. Absolution for the guilty but not for us.

As soon as teenage girls start to profess love for something, everyone else becomes totally dismissive of it. Teenage girls are open season for the cruelest bullying that our society can dream up. Everyone's vicious to them. They're vicious to each other. Hell, they're even vicious to themselves. It's terrible. So if teenage girls have something that they love, isn't that a good thing? Isn't it better for them to find some words they believe in, words like the 'fire-proof and fearless' lyrics that Jacqui wrote? Isn't it better for them to put those words on their arm in a tattoo than for them to cut gashes in that same skin? Shouldn't we be grateful when teenage girls love our work? Shouldn't that be a fucking honor? It's used as the cheapest, easiest test of crap, isn't it? If teenage girls love a movie, a book, a band, then it's immediately classified as mediocre shit. Well, I'm not going to stand for that. Someone needs to treat them like they're precious, and if nobody else is ready to step up, I guess it's up to us to put them on the path to recognizing that about themselves.

You don’t have to stay where things are familiar all the time. Sometimes the best way to move forward is to leave some things behind.

They only want me when I'm broken.

I'm in no rush. I'm in the opposite of a rush.

Fuck nobility. Fuck music. Only love. Only sky.

breaking her heart. I wondered if kids knew that when parents had to break their hearts, ours shattered more.

Sometimes it was easier to tell the truth to strangers

When did they give themselves to the darkness and pretend that they were praising God?

It was then that I realized that everyone had struggles that they tried their best to keep to themselves.

Ask me to be yours, and I’ll be yours. If you let me stay, I’ll stay forever.

I was down on the floor in a pile of DVDs and mixtapes, faced with 135 pounds (or was it 145?) of angry mom. She pressed hard on my chest with her foot,

I chose to stay awake, this time lulled by the sounds of a very special mixtape made for me by a very special boy who just might have my heart.

I chose to stay awake, this time lulled by the sounds of a very special mixtape made for me by a very special boy who just might have my heart.

The music was loud but mellow. It was a mix-tape of ballads but by heavy metal artists. All the songs said the same thing: it’s okay to take a three-minute break from fighting and fucking and drinking; love your girlfriend and be sad; unclench your fist and hold someone until it’s time to rock again.

I got hard in the fuckin’ barber chair and refused to stand up when the guy finished cutting my hair. I didn’t know what to do so I just kept telling him to take a little off the top until I was basically bald.

No matter how stupid, how pointless, how painful my current situation was, as I listened to Mixtape every week I couldn’t deny the love I still felt for that reckless, audacious fool who was still me, if only in my mind.

Maybe there was still hope for my brain to regain some sense of normalcy instead of replaying the skipping mixtape in my head. Maybe if I could get all of my memories back, then maybe, just maybe, I could feel like myself again.

Maybe there was still hope for my brain to regain some sense of normalcy instead of replaying the skipping mixtape in my head. Maybe if I could get all of my memories back, then maybe, just maybe, I could feel like myself again.

Designed to be heard precisely in the order laid down, it [Anthology of American Folk Music compiled by Harry Smith] anticipated the sort of musical collage that would become perhaps the most widely practiced American art form: the personal mixtape of favorite songs.

Unfortunately, we lived in a world where going deep wasn’t very common anymore. People lived on the surface level, showcasing the happy highlights of themselves. It sometimes took years to discover someone’s shadows, and most people didn’t stick around me long enough to go that deep.

It was as if our voices were meant to sing together.

For the first time in a while, my heart felt full.

I can personally testify that roughly 90% of my adult life has been spent on Google trying to figure out how to do stuff.

Sometimes family isn’t what we were born into—it’s what we choose,

You should never have to beg for anyone to love you.

Asking for help doesn’t make you a failure.

I made you a mix tape That I worried you’d hate But you called me at three a.m. With it playing Softly saying Song number three Is about you and me and I’ve felt the same way for a while

Instead, he picked up his bass guitar, and, in what seemed like an odd coincidence, he began to play a solo version of “One of These Days” while staring up at the stars projected on the dome over our heads. Then I noticed a practice set list taped to the floor in front of him, and saw that several of the songs listed there were tracks I knew from my father’s old mixtapes.

When I wasn't internally grumbling about my physical state, I found my mind playing and replaying scraps of songs and jingles in an eternal, nonsensical loop, as if there were a mix-tape radio station in my head. Up against the silence, my brain answered back with fragmented lines from tunes I'd heard over the course of my life - bits from songs I loved and clear renditions of jingles from commercials that almost drove me mad.

The value of the tape was also the crafting of a mixtape. I am from an era when we learned not to waste songs. If you are creating a cassette that you must listen to all the way through, and you are crafting it with your own hands and your own ideas, then it is on you not to waste sounds and to structure a tape with feeling. No skippable songs meant that I wouldn’t have to take my thick gloves off during the chill of a Midwest winter to hit fast-forward on a Walkman, hoping that I would stop a song just in time. No skippable songs meant that when the older, cooler kids on my bus ride to school asked what I was listening to in my headphones, armed with an onslaught of jokes if my shit wasn’t on point, I could hand my headphones over, give them a brief listen of something that would pass quality control, and keep myself safe from humiliation for another day.

It was bullshit. They didn’t know me. How dare they throw their judgments from behind their keyboards as if they were saints. How dare they diminish the most important relationship in my life down to rumors and lies. How dare they hurt me without having a damn clue about how damaging words could be. If humans knew how damaging words could be to someone’s mental health and stability, then maybe they would’ve chosen them differently. Then again, maybe they liked the outcome. Maybe some sick fucks enjoyed hurting others in a way to make themselves feel better about their own shitty lives.

All I can do is scream it at him. "Because I'm fucking in love with you, you idiot!" As soon as the word leave my mouth, I swear you could hear a pin drop in the room. My heart is hammering in my chest while my chest rises and falls faster with how hard I'm breathing; and now that those words are finally out there, my stomach twists that tight I nearly wince.

There isn't a better feeling in the world—not an orgasm, not a first kiss, not even that glorious soaring sensation you get when those first few notes of a new song pierce your chest and fill your whole body with absolute bliss—than acknowledgment that your mix tape was not only received and played but enjoyed. It's a dance of sorts, balancing songs you think the listener will love while trying to say everything that otherwise dries up in your throat before you can get out the words.

Sometimes we'd sit on that bench for hours, talking about nothing much and blowing smoke rings into the air, and we'd see them teetering past, stumble-drunk after closing time with their brown paper bags and late night vinegar running down their arms and the lack of kindness everywhere. And the girls, panda-eyed and lonely, hitching their bravado to their short skirts, were telling themselves that this was living. We said we would never be them. But there was one boy who had kind eyes. His hair was the colour of the sand and his smile promised everything. I told you he wasn't like the rest, but you didn't want to hear it.

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The feeling of getting an email! As if the ghost of a passenger pigeon had flown into your home and delivered it directly into your head, so swooping and unexpected and feathered was the feeling. How suddenly full you felt of white vapor. How you set your fingers on the keyboard to write back, and your fingers disappeared almost up to the first knuckle in those clattering beige keys—so much more satisfying than the shallow keys that came later, or the touchscreens that came even after that. The story of any courtship is one of ephemera, dead vehicles, outdated technology. Name cards, canoes, pagers. The roller rink, telegrams, mixtapes. Radio dedications. The drive-in. Hotmail dot com.

do not expect me to mend your cuts while i lie here bleeding out. i've been your crying shoulder long enough! when is it my turn to shed a tear? i've heard all about your life a couple of times, can't i simply tell you about my day without you interrupting? i am more than just a bed for the night, you know? more than a number on your phone. more than a shoulder to lean on and cry on. more than a sweater to keep you warm. there is blood inside my veins. a beating heart behind its cage. a soul hidden beneath bones. i am more than a tissue to be thrown out. you cannot recycle me! though i do breakdown quite easily. your words don't die when they jump off your tongue. no, no, no. they live forever inside of my mind. i haven't forgotten the secrets you whispered to me in the dead of night. do you remember mine? or did i just swallow them down when you neglected to ask? did i cover up my scars, not for coldness, but for the obviousness that their stories were unwanted? can you remember how i looked that night? i remember everything about you.

sometimes i feel like my words and thoughts and breaths are so repetitive. like i am not an individual living life, but rather a moment in time stuck on repeat. like i am standing in the same place i have always been, just saying the same words and thinking the same thoughts and breathing the same air over and over and over again.

It was an early form of self-soothing. I listed myself to sleep. I ticked off items on my fingers on the school bus. As a teen, I made mixtape after mixtape, agonizing over order and annotating their playlists in the finest tipped pens.

Then again, maybe they liked the outcome. Maybe some sick fucks enjoyed hurting others in a way to make themselves feel better about their own shitty lives.

I understood that. But for me, when God felt far away, that normally meant I was straying myself.

Emery as a Kardashian fan, but I guess people had a way of surprising you sometimes.

in his arms, I felt comfort; in his arms, I felt safe.

Mixtapes were the love language of my youth.

If humans knew how damaging words could be to someone’s mental health and stability, then maybe they would’ve chosen them differently.

Some people’s reminiscence is triggered by taste, some people’s by sight or smell. Mine is triggered by sound, playing like an unfinished mixtape waiting to be sent.

A slice of cake a day keeps the grumpy away.

Every person in this world has a mixtape of sorts, a collection of tracks that defines their lives. Each memory is a song, and they all come together to create a masterpiece.

You knew this nigga was beating her ass, huh?” “Not my house, not my business.” Mama shrugged.

I’m for certain there’s nothing hotter than a man with hungry eyes standing in the middle of a bookstore.

What are you doing here?” I asked and he pulled a dozen of Roses from his back and held them out for me. Taking in his hands, his nails were perfectly clean, and manicured. Tattoos lined his knuckles, hands and wrist. He was tatted up.

She moved like music, and her smile could make any grown man crave her attention.

I’m not what I do. I’m not what I have. I’m not what people say about me. I am the beloved of God. It’s who I am. No one can take it from me. I don’t have to worry. I don’t have to hurry. I can trust my friend Jesus. And share his love with the world.

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Sometimes family isn't what we were born into—it's what we choose.

I unveiled the cassette ostentorium: 'Take this, all of you, and rock. This is the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you, and for all who rock, so that rock may be worshiped and glorified.

I think some people are just born sadder than others.

We were out for drinks with composer Stephen Sondheim after a new review of his work and he coyly asked us for our impressions. We, young composers, were all too eager to proffer our criticisms and critiques, full of self-confidence and hubris. The legendary composer looked defeated and deflated. He took a moment to gather his thoughts and said simply, “when a friend asks you for your impression of a new work, you have one role and one role only. To offer unabashed praise and support. I was not looking for a review, I needed affirmation. I need to know that I’m vital and that I have intrinsic value as an artist and as a human being. I don’t care if you actually loved it, your obligation to me, as my friend, is to SAY you loved it.

Eu era do tipo que ficava quieto no meu canto, baixava a cabeça para brincadeiras de mal gosto e respondia “sim senhor” para meu pai. Mas você fez com que tudo aquilo mudasse. Que eu me levantasse para lutar por mim, por você, por nós, por todos que amam alguém e não podem falar em voz alta por medo.

Ficamos de mãos dadas, tomando sorvete e só havia eu e você no mundo. Eu olhava para seus olhos de lua cheia e estava tudo bem. Sentia como se tudo pudesse ser feito e não houvesse obstáculo grande o bastante que juntos não pudéssemos transpor. E era verdade. E sorrimos juntos, e choramos juntos e rimos juntos mais vezes que posso me lembrar.

O que havia de errado naquilo tudo se eu me sentia bem? Deus iria me amar de acordo com o comprimento do meu cabelo? Com a cor de minhas roupas, com o que eu usava nos pés, com o que ouvia e assistia?

Not once did she ask why I wasn’t able to perform. Not once did she question if I was okay. Not once did I think that we were destined for happily ever after.

Every person in this world has a mixtape of sorts, a collection of tracks that defines their lives. Each memory is a song, and they all come together to create a masterpiece. So, tell me about your story. What lyrics, what melodies, live on your mixtape?

but I was disappointed nonetheless, because he’d made me a mixtape—an actual burned CD with the artists and song titles printed neatly on a sheet of accompanying notebook paper. That is the kind of thing that signifies the possibility of true love. I’ve been accused often over the years of not being romantic, but here is where it all oozes out: a list of songs felt by you and presented to me, rendering me flushed and swooning and poring over song lyrics to determine their hidden meaning.

The hardest truth to learn in life was that not everyone loved the same way you did. I’d given my sister everything in the past, and all she’d given me was a dropped call.

I’m pretty sure I know who I am, kid.” “You have no clue who you are,” Reese argued back at me, and fuck, if that wasn’t an emotionally damaging statement, I didn’t know what was.

You’re much quieter today,” she said. “I’m a quiet person. I’m not myself when I drink.” “Then why do you drink?” “Because I’m not myself when I drink.

And with her love, I was rich. With her love, I’d never lose hope in tomorrow

Sometimes family isn’t what we were born into—it’s what we choose

So much of your beauty comes from those broken pieces. In those cracks is where you shine

The hardest truth to learn in life was that not everyone loved the same way you did.

Funny how when you took your depression and created art, it could help someone else who was struggling with their own demons.

Healing doesn’t walk a linear line; it takes the messy route. I believe that healing comes during both the dark days and the bright ones. It’s not all rainbows. Sometimes healing means slicing open the scars that made you hurt so much before and examining them to fully understand yourself. Why did the cut hurt you in the past?

True success comes from within. And that success is defined by being able to wake up and have gratitude. That’s the goal. Now, that’s not saying that everything is perfect when you are happy. That’s not what happiness is. Happiness, gratitude, is the ability to wake up and say, yes, some things in my life are hard right now, but I still get to feel good about one or two things. You get to choose joy, even when times are tough. That’s where we are going to get you.

In that moment, I knew the truth about family. There wasn’t one cookie-cutter way to create love bonds. Families came in all shapes, forms, and sizes. Some were tied together by blood, and others by heartbeats. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter how you came together; it only mattered that you stayed together. That you looked out for one another and loved in an unconditional way.