I didn’t think it was possible to still want to have sex with the same person more than 1000 times. 1000 was the highest number of times I could imagine doing it with someone before it got too boring to do more than once a year.
Last Tuesday in Toronto, nearly seventy people had the privilege to watch a bikini-wearing prostitute bump and grind to the rhythmic spouting of blood from a decapitated head, while simultaneously stuffing two bloody fingers in her mouth. Hobo With a Shotgun is, at least, properly honest in its misogynistic premise.
Suddenly the lyrics to “Sadness is a Blessing” were no longer just comforting verses to her emo fans but indicative of a woman who in all her indie celeb glory was still immensely depleted of life’s fleeting elixir – love, obviously – and who, like most manic depressives and artists, needed real help and none of us had noticed until now, and most still hadn’t.