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.
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.
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.