Anyway, in the quiet moments of the night I began to ask myself whether or not I truly have a snowball's chance in hell in the current music industry. I began to instantly inspect my body, every scar and zit on my face, the small bald spot that still shows if my hair is parted wrong, my strech marks, my pudgy tummy, my ugly toenails... but then I took a step back and thought...
"This is CRAZY!!!"
I'm a good singer! I write my own music, which is more than I can say for most girls my age in the music business today.
But there are standards, people say. But who needs standards!!!??? Isn't the whole point of making music to produce emotion? To provoke the human spirit?
And here I am, pinching my chub in the mirror... I SHOULD BE CELEBRATING MY CHUB!!!
I'm not anorexic, I feed myself! GOOD FOR ME! I HAVE SELF-ESTEEM!!
And it doesn't even matter if I get sent back home to work a 9-5 job because I would much, much rather go down because american society is too blindsided by someone else's cute ass and a tiny waist to listen to me, than throw up all my food and sing cheezy pop songs written by some shmuck who lives on Sunset Boulevard in his ten-million dollar home.
Believe it or not, it used top be that no matter how rich someone got, they had to keep some sort of connection to those who were poor, those who were hurting, those less fortunate than them so that they could keep making music that spoke to people. Music doesn't speak anymore, because music has no voice. Music has an auto tuner that "fixes" more than pitch, it also "fixes" human identity and image.
Ghandi once said "You must be the change you want to see in the world"
Your words are your torch...
Lets burn down the house...
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