But no matter how many goth poems you’ve written, no matter how many times you sighed and declared your life to be meaningless, no matter how many times unrequited love slapped you in the face, you could never, ever pull off patheticness quite like Morrissey.
In the beginning notes of HSIN, we’re there with him. Son, heir, vulgar shyness. If you’ve ever been a wallflower (and if you hero-worshipped Morrissey, I assume you have), you nodded along to those weirds.
You shut your mouth, how can you say, I go about things the wrong way. I am human and I need to be loved, just like everyone else does.
"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us...We need the books that affect us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside of us.
-Kafka
"How could you, Francis. How could you. You heartless bastard." -Ilyka
"Death to the Republic of Dork! All hail the Geek Empire!"
"It's kind of like Lileks on electro-shock treatments that aren't quite working."-steve the llama butcher
email the emperor:
unconqured -at- gmail.com
(bonus points for anyone that can guess the literary referance in which "unconqured" and "I" figure prominently)
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