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I am constantly surprised at how my ideas and opinions can shape-shift. As recently as seven months ago, I might have told you something I believed and I might have really, really believed it at the time.

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I saw this documentary when I was in high school; before that, I’d glamorized the idea of being a scandalously young rock star, and these girls were kick ass pioneers, but they were also broken to the core by the industry.

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Because if you didn’t fall madly in love with your middle school/high school/college crush to this song or buy a black studded belt and immediately proclaim yourself as “emo” upon first listen, then you are either a dirty, filthy liar, a sociopath with no regard to human emotion, or too young/old for this song to be relevant. That’s it, hands down, no exceptions.

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You’re the Diane Keaton and Mia Farrow to my Woody Allen. The Patty Boyd to my Eric Clapton and George Harrison. The half-Japanese cello enthusiast to my Weezer.

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Tattoos are art. Someone drew them and I paid to hang their work in the gallery that is my body. Would you bum rush the Mona Lisa and start smearing your dirty hands all over it? Do you need to touch every bump on a Van Gogh to appreciate what it looks like? Not if you’re not Mr. Magoo, you don’t.