THIRST OF LIFE

Honey, when it comes to love there’s a fire in the deep end of my heart. Giving me the heeby-geebys

Our story beings on a Sunday afternoon, just between Halfway Tree and Spanish Town, where a young boy, not yet the cock o'the walk that he would soon become, was lying on the grass and taking in the sweet and sensuous scent of Hibiscus that languidly lilted along the summer breeze. It was at this precise moment that he saw her. Her walk was soft and delicate, with a thaumaturgical touch that only a rabbi’s daughter could have. Before their eyes had even met, her luminous lips had already lured him in. Salvation winked with the promise of a Bris held at pinnacle and a congregation of sage’s bunny hopping and chicken dancing to Yiddish Mento. Then their eyes linked, an aeon blinked, Amharic vows were scryed upon their hearts. Just to think, this all could be with the frenectomy and a few words of love…

I will let you drag me to hell if it means you will hold my hand.

Indie rock is such a bratty culture, and I don’t see a lot of ugly people in it, either. I feel very proud to be hideous. Thank God I don’t look like every other fucking dude wearing their girlfriend’s fucking jeans out there on stage. That’s weak and emasculated– and I don’t think masculinity is equivalent to misogyny. It just seems like everything is like a cat that’s been declawed– it still tries to fight with you, but it’s harmless. Nobody wants to get scratched.