Sure, I'm doing well. I love my city, my husband, my friends, my career. I'm finally where I've always wanted to be. My neighborhood is paradise. I'm happy.
But no matter how much I've accomplished lately, no matter how busy I become, I can't stop being angry. Angry at my foolishness, angry at the band, angry at the society that allows male celebrities to get away with murder and angry at the smart, talented women who follow them, as if they don't shine enough on their own. Angry at women who have children as a last resort because they think they'll never be successful in their career, so they surrender themselves to suburbia, to picket fences, to settle, to rot. And what can I do about it? Nothing. Should I renounce music? Stop being a woman? Blog about it? Oh boo hoo, the world is unfair. So it goes unsolved. And more women walk right into the fire, because for a moment, they can forget who they are, that they aren't free, that they have to settle for backstage instead of the spotlight. Well fuck the bordello. Mata Hari's dead, Yuri. I'm on my own.
5:27 p.m. - 2007-10-25