Father John Misty – Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings
Everything she wears could be pyjamas – flannel and leggings, worn soft and softer, patterned with cats and whales and butterflies. She wears new boots scuffed with sandpaper, the laces picked and frayed. She slices the sleeves off thrift-store shirts, and lets the edges unravel.
Her eyesight is perfect. Her glasses are horn-rimmed. The lenses are scratch-resistant. She leaves them at home, and says, “Fuck, I left my glasses on my record player.” She squints at the road ahead, at billboards and signs, at movie scenes after paying extra for viewings on stupidly huge screens. She takes the 3-D frames home and keeps them in a drawer. She pops out the lenses and wears them to work.
She dyes her hair brown to red to black to blonde. She complains about the results. She does it again. She cuts it with kitchen scissors, and tackles the fringes strand by strand. She cuts it short and shaves it off and tries layers and graduations and angles. She doesn’t brush it.
She begins stories with, “I’ve made a huge mistake”, “It wasn’t my fault,” and “I know this guy.” She doesn’t make decisions influenced by retrospect. She throws herself at opportunities to stumble. She can not, will not, plan ahead (“I know what I’m doing”).
She drinks vodka and forgets the night. She drinks beer and shouts at her friends. She drinks wine and molests strangers. She drinks. She dances, turning turning turning and pointing pointing pointing. She misses the beat. She collides with everyone. She magnetises eyes.
She chooses soy and gluten-free and vegetarian. She reads Vonnegut and Moody and Eggers. She listens to music ironically. She quotes. She writes. She photographs. She blogs, and tweets, and networks. She rides a fixed-gear bike without a helmet. She collects people who do the same things and files them away for future use. She knows everyone.
She studies. She neglects. She works. She fails. She tries. She impresses and strives. She projects her nonchalance through her glasses, through her dyed hair, through her artistic tastes and aim (failure) to be different. She lives.
[Fear Fun.]