When you are in, you are in love with
everything and everyone responds in kind. I have played to crowds of millions.
In person, on the airwaves, you have thought about me at night. You have been
entered from behind and scuffed your kneecaps on a carpet. I am the lit-up
dashboard of your potential boyfriend’s car. I am a tight T-shirt. I am
just-washed hair. I am the smell of your own sex coming to greet you after a
trip downtown. I am the taxi cab you let someone else get into. I am a
strawberry milkshake. You think I wouldn’t be as good as chocolate, but I am.
The other day, I played a benefit
concert for the Pine Creek Fire department because a lot of houses were lost
recently in a fire in my town. I didn’t have my voice back so I played guitar
with a country rock band who has one Grammy to my seven. I’m not saying
anything about it, I know. I understand. It’s a senseless metaphor, a singer
songwriter who can’t sing. But I saw you in the front row and I want to tell
you publicly that your stupid needles pierced my heart.
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