“I once told a guy at a party that his personality was so disgusting it made me want to vomit. He didn’t believe me and continued to hit on me. So I voluntarily vomited on him just to get my point across.”
So, it would appear I’m “working” here at this seemingly upscale hotel located in the California desert whose name is synonymous with wild, alcohol-fueled, ink-obsessed tweekers, party hipsters and motorcycle chicks.
“I had a teacher who told me she slept with Jimi Hendrix. She said it was the best sex she ever had. What’s funny is she was the crabby old lady teacher.”
There was blood everywhere and butcher tools on the side. He had put the eyes left over from the corpses on his shelf just aimed at the door.
In its purest form, emo music used to be the lovechild of punk and confessional prose.
If you’re thinking of getting tribal tattoos, just get yourself a T-shirt that says, “I have no imagination” instead.
Like thousands of other basement bands across the country at the time, we spent our days skateboarding, building launch ramps in our driveways, and working up new ways to express our dissatisfaction with the world. Plenty of stuff pissed us off. This was 1986, after all, the high Reagan era.