I love the Beatles.
When I’m inspired to write an upbeat song, I often imagine what John & Paul would come up with today. Maybe they’re on the couch, watching Seinfeld reruns.
There’s this Seinfeld episode—“The Lip Reader”—where George’s girlfriend breaks up with him.
She tells him, “It’s not you, it’s me.” And George loses it.
He’s outraged. “You’re giving me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ routine? I invented ‘it’s not you, it’s me!’ Nobody tells me it’s not them, it’s me. If it’s anybody, it’s me!”
She sighs and says, “All right, George. It’s you.”
And George, without missing a beat: “You’re damn right it’s me!”
Classic George. He wins the argument and loses the relationship in the same breath.
But here’s the thing. I was thinking about that scene, and I realized—George was accidentally right. Not about himself, but about breakups in general. “It’s not you, it’s me” is almost always a polite lie. The truth, if we’re being honest?
It is you. It was always you.
We just don’t have the courage to say it out loud.
So I wrote a song for everyone who finally did.
You said the sky was falling down, that if I leave, I must be dumb, that I’ll regret the things I’ve done, that if love’s lost, it must be found. I’ve had enough crap for a year, some famous words you need to hear:
It’s not me, it’s you, life’s on repeat, a déjà vu, I’m walking out, tell me, baby, whatcha gonna do? It’s not me… no, it’s you.
You said my words don’t mean a thing, that I can’t dance, I should not sing, that I’m a fool who talks too much, that I’m not worthy of your touch. I’ve heard enough, just let me go, just one last thing you need to know:
It’s not me, it’s you, life’s on repeat, a déjà vu, I’m walking out, tell me, baby, whatcha gonna do? It’s not me… no, it’s you.
You said I’m scared to be your man, but it was just a one night stand!