"Don't use too much! You're using too much! Agh.... You can't use too much! I got that in Europe! It's European! It's European and it smells like men!"
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
My name is Holly, and I am addicted to lesbian rock. More specifically, almost any artist in the "angry white woman with a guitar, singing self- absorbed songs about being done wrong and heartbreak" genre. Apparently these are the only artists who can really express the difficulties and obstacles I've overcome by growing up upper middle class, spoiled, and white in New Hampshire.
As luck would have it, I came of age during the late 90s, when girl power and Lillith Fair were gaining all manner of popularity. I attended endless Ani DiFranco concerts, and painted my bedroom walls with lyrics that really brought forth my inner pain. I shaved my head and probably quoted, completely unironically "every tool is a weapon, if you hold it right." My mother, tortured by endless mix tapes entitled things like "I am NOT a Pretty Girl!," during our many college visits- to women's schools of course, that I would never actually attend- was baffled. "What do these women have to be so mad about?" she would enquire. And I, in my 17 years of wisdom, would reply "Life, Mom, life." She would roll her eyes and keep driving, and my reply? "You think that I am the derelict daughter, well I fight fire with words, words are hotter than flames, words are wetter than water." Seriously.
Regardless, whenever I am feeling relatively angsty, I always return to my girls. Ani, Tori, Fiones, the Indigo Girls, Joni- the list is endless. The past week or so has been particularly dreadful. Perhaps spurred by a few ghastly run-ins with Jose, that super rat, I have been unable to listen to anything but heart wrenching folk-esque music. I am constantly on the verge of tears, and absolutely everything has meaning. The other day at work I actually considered going into the bathroom to listen to the Indigo Girls' cover of "Romeo and Juliet" and have a cry. Luckily some semblance of logic, and the fear that I would come out of the stall, tear stained and clutching my iPod to run into a co-worker stopped me. But just barely. I have to take solace in listening to it on repeat 17 times in a row on the T, or in my room, where I do some heinous hippie esque dance while singing. As you can imagine, my roommates LOVE me.
What to do? I've got to get some help before this gets even more out of control, and I start talking about my "moon time," the healing power of stones, and vibrating at a higher frequency.
After all, the hardest to learn is the least complicated.