Desire here is ridiculous because it is real. The title turns attraction into injury, but the song keeps proving the joke has a bruise underneath it: distance, touring, photos from elsewhere, a party where our song turns public pleasure into private embarrassment. Polachek’s speaker tries to sound casual — Not like I’m counting the days — and immediately gives herself away. The beloved’s glamour is not just tempting; it becomes evidence of absence.

The recording makes that ache aerodynamic instead of heavy. Its tight, bright pop grid keeps the body moving while the words admit loneliness, so the crying-on-the-dance-floor image never curdles into melodrama. Polachek’s clean, elastic vocal treats Can’t deal as both confession and punchline, and the absurd Show me the banana detour keeps erotic longing funny, childish, and bodily.