Seduction is always more singular and sublime than sex and it commands the higher price.
I still get so frustrated thinking about how when I made that list of my “favorite albums of all time” I forgot to put Jamie T’s Kings & Queens and Lykke Li’s I Never Learn on there because, what, they were too trendy? Too timely and topical and thus not timeless, though I love them and listen to them often, on repeat and with no apologies? All I want for myself now is to silence my inner male music critic/peeping tom telling me my taste is shitty and that I can only like a limited number of singer-songwriters before my hipness card gets revoked. And by hipness I mean power, I mean sex appeal, I mean credibility on the internet, which, though boring and silly and untenable, is undeniably hard to see go. This is mostly a reminder to myself to not self-censor, to continue being vulnerable; this is not me saying I should have no fucks because what the hell kind of advice is that and because I do have fucks, I clearly have fucks, I fucking love that I can still be caught off guard by a tumblr survey, I love the exquisite terror I feel at mentioning I like a(n admittedly not particularly novel) thing, a thing I discovered on my own, and it’s because I so love that intermingling of pleasure and discomfort that I’m writing this note at all, as a warning or maybe a prophecy: I’m allowed to feel things other than feelings about feelings.