The Game of Mixed Feelings
The Cassette Crane Booth
The Mixtape Claw. A glass claw machine filled with floating cassette tapes — some cracked, some glowing, some tangled in ribbon.
Blu — nostalgic punk mode, checkered suspenders, fingerless gloves, eyeliner smudged with memory — offers you a single token. She doesn’t explain what you’ll win. Just nods and steps back, arms crossed. The claw shimmers like it’s made of memory itself. The buttons are worn smooth from second chances.
More tapes wind back into the light each night…
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songs 2 survive junior year
Side A: Loud ones, front to back — loud enough to drown out the hallway.
Side B: The volume was a wall you built because nobody else would build one for you. What was it keeping out? Name one thing.
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for the drive home — don’t skip track 4
Side A: The one you rewound at every stop sign until the tape ran thin.
Side B: Track 4 said the thing you couldn’t. Write the sentence you were letting it say for you.
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THE SUMMER EVERYTHING CHANGED
Side A: Windows down. Every song on it still smells like sunscreen and gasoline.
Side B: You already knew, even then — you just didn’t have the words yet. Write down what you knew.
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for dad. never sent.
Side A: Every song a sentence that starts with “I just wish you’d—” and trails off.
Side B: It was never about the music. Finish one of the sentences. He doesn’t have to read it. You do.
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her side of the car
Side A: The songs she always turned up. You kept her presets for a year.
Side B: What are you still keeping tuned to someone who’s gone? It’s allowed. Just notice it.
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quiet songs for the loud house
Side A: Headphones in, door shut, volume at 3 so you could still hear the stairs.
Side B: You learned to listen for danger and called it a habit. What would you play at full volume in a house that felt safe?
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graduation mix (the smiling one)
Side A: All triumph, no minor keys. The one you played where people could see you.
Side B: There was another tape that year — the one you never played in company. That one counts too. What was on it?
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songs i couldn’t sing at church
Side A: The ones that felt more like praying than the hymns ever did.
Side B: Where did the holy actually find you? Write down the place. It still counts as an altar.
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first apartment, empty rooms
Side A: Music to fill a place that echoed. You danced in the kitchen exactly once.
Side B: That echo was freedom and loneliness in the same room. Which one did you tell people about? Tell the other one now.
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the hospital months
Side A: The same four songs, waiting-room low, over and over and over.
Side B: Repetition was how you stayed standing. Thank the loop — then write down what it carried you through.
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if you ever come back
Side A: Left labeled in the glove compartment. Just in case.
Side B: Who was it really for — them, or the version of you that still hoped? Write to that one. Gently.
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for the kid i was — side A is all yours
Side A: Every song they never let you play. Cartoon themes included. No apologies.
Side B: What did that kid love before someone made it embarrassing? Go get one of those things back this week.
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untitled — you’ll know when
Side A: The label is blank, but it’s your handwriting anyway. The tape hisses like it’s holding its breath.
Side B: This one still records. What’s the track you haven’t laid down yet? Say the first line out loud. That counts as recording.
There’s no player to listen with. So you press it to your chest. And somehow… you hear it anyway. A voice you forgot. A song you buried. A silence that still speaks. Blu leans in and whispers: “Some things were never meant to be erased. Just played differently.”
The ritual: After drawing a tape, journal the title. Then write what it might say. No filter. No edits. Just let it play. That’s the track you’re reclaiming today.
Built from actual tapes found in lost glove compartments and under childhood beds. Blu recorded over the noise with longing.
The Crane keeps a sister counter: Mixtapes of the Self — a six-tape microdeck for when you’d rather pull a card than work the claw.