Behold: A ‘Down Bad’ Playlist for Valentine’s Day

Photo-Illustration: by The Cut; Photos: Getty Images

There is nothing like going berzerk over a hot and undeserving rando to remind you that you’re alive. Flinging yourself aboard the wretched ship of desire, delirious, as someone who does not care and did not ask for this must confront the fervor of your desperation. I beseech you, you croak, parched with longing. A mere morsel of your attention. They cannot get rid of you. You are a stowaway, a barnacle suctioned to their side. This phenomenon is called being “down bad” — or, as I prefer, “Chris Kraus–ing it.” You could also refer to it as “SZA syndrome.” And though culturally it’s treated with suspicion, the reality is that you’ll never achieve greater innovation or brilliance than when in this deluded state.

Surrender is control: By yielding to another person’s awe-inspiring sexiness, you reseed your own barren emotional landscape with tangled, obsessive fantasies. You map plot, narrative, drama onto what was a depressingly blank page. Truthfully, you know that a relative stranger is not worthy of all this — you hear the sigh from your friends as you pull up their Instagram. But it’s not really about them. It’s about your talent for invention. The idea of your love-object’s unimpeachable worthiness is your imagination’s magnum opus. Personally, I could use this. At this point in my boring, ascetic life, being “down bad” sounds really great.

Usually, I am the no-nonsense friend yelling stand up girl!, the pantsuit president of Know Your Worth nation. But I’m increasingly convinced of the dividends to insanity. I envy my love-addled friends who describe their Tuesdays like “I sliced mozzarella with a kind of Kierkegaardian despair.” Right now, I’m not voyaging through the tempestuous waters of longing. I am landlocked, buried under paperwork, at the not-even-situationship ward. I am going on pleasant dates with reasonable, if slightly avoidant people juggling their professional and interpersonal lives — as am I, which is fine except there is nothing less erotic than scheduling. I already work a nine-to-five. What I didn’t realize about “being on the same page” in an era of tedious commitment-phobia is that you’re often waiting, and waiting, for the other person to decide what page they’re on, even if that decision is just about rolling up to the dive bar for drinks. So scrupulous. So passive! The French would have a conniption. So to hell with reciprocity — I think we could all use a little emotional terrorism, as a treat.

It all starts with the decision to commit to unabashed wanting, in spite of concern from your older married friends who simply sigh and say “I’m so glad I’m not part of your generation.” Secretly though, they’re living vicariously through you. Inspired? Here’s a playlist for you to listen to this Valentine’s Day to get into the “down bad” spirit.