(no subject)
I've gotta be honest with you, most people who claim to know tragedy have no idea what they're talking about. There's a lot of grief in the world, but the folks living it aren't bragging, they're too busy coping. The way I see it, if you're able to get up in the morning and make the coffee, you've already gotten past the clutching, awful heartache that's like a broken rib, and therefore you don't need any airtime to bitch about your poor fucked up life. You dig?
I dare any of you to beat me on the tragedy front. Seriously. If one of you can come over here with a story that rivals the circus my life's been made into, my hat's off. But that doesn't mean I've got all the rights in the world to spend the rest of my years whining about my late husband, the books that're in the works, the money I've lost. 'Cause, really. Is that gonna sell records? Is that gonna raise my daughter? If I roll over and allow myself to be buried under rumors, they've won. I've seen the websites, the forums calling for my head on a platter. What sense would it make to do their work for them? None at all.
Chin up, shoulders back. It's not just good posture, it's half of the formula for walking through life mostly unscathed. I didn't always know that. Used to be that curling into myself was a recipe for success. If you ball up tightly enough, you can remain unnoticed until you need to hit hard. The element of surprise, and all that bullshit. But you know, you've only got respect when you're kicking ass, and beatdowns aren't selective. If you don't keep your middle finger raised in defiance to the world at all times, you might as well keep your hands in your pockets.
Which isn't to say that there's only ugliness in the world. I'm here, aren't I? Rimshot. All kidding aside, guys, there's a lot of beauty lurking around the corners, in the cracks between sidewalk and grass. It's the curiosity, the promise of days and love and drugs that keeps me from walking Kurt's path. That rare, genuine smile that Frances gave on the rare occasions that I made waffles on Sunday mornings and let her put more whipped cream on them than any child should be able to consume. The look behind the eyes of a girl in flared skirt and ribboned heels, shaking my hand after a show, saying that I'm an inspiration, asking if she could hug me.
The answer to that, I should tell you, is yes. Always yes. You smile and nod, and listen to them tell you about the first night they ever heard your music, the way you spoke directly to them, and even though you've heard it a million times, it always seems new, always seems shiny. There are some things you can stand to hear just once more.
If you spend your life standing still, you'll burn your fingertips when the fire creeps nearer. When you're in constant motion, there's no chance of anything curling around your calves and drawing you back. It's been over a decade, and I still haven't had a nightmare about that, about him. I wonder sometimes, if I run far enough and fast enough, could I outrace them forever?
Hi. My name's Courtney Love. You've seen me in the tabloids (looking wonderful), on stage with my shirt pulled down over my tits (again, wonderful), and kicking life's ass on a daily basis (must I repeat myself?). I'm a woman, I'm a mother, I'm a bitch, I'm a diva, and - this should come as no shock to you - I'm always, always right. Authors and the mindless Nirvana fanchildren have made me out to be some kind of streetgirl, some kind of whore, but they couldn't be farther from the truth. Some people express themselves through literature. Some people express themselves through art. I express myself through music and sex, and I simply have a lot to express to a great number of people.
I dare any of you to beat me on the tragedy front. Seriously. If one of you can come over here with a story that rivals the circus my life's been made into, my hat's off. But that doesn't mean I've got all the rights in the world to spend the rest of my years whining about my late husband, the books that're in the works, the money I've lost. 'Cause, really. Is that gonna sell records? Is that gonna raise my daughter? If I roll over and allow myself to be buried under rumors, they've won. I've seen the websites, the forums calling for my head on a platter. What sense would it make to do their work for them? None at all.
Chin up, shoulders back. It's not just good posture, it's half of the formula for walking through life mostly unscathed. I didn't always know that. Used to be that curling into myself was a recipe for success. If you ball up tightly enough, you can remain unnoticed until you need to hit hard. The element of surprise, and all that bullshit. But you know, you've only got respect when you're kicking ass, and beatdowns aren't selective. If you don't keep your middle finger raised in defiance to the world at all times, you might as well keep your hands in your pockets.
Which isn't to say that there's only ugliness in the world. I'm here, aren't I? Rimshot. All kidding aside, guys, there's a lot of beauty lurking around the corners, in the cracks between sidewalk and grass. It's the curiosity, the promise of days and love and drugs that keeps me from walking Kurt's path. That rare, genuine smile that Frances gave on the rare occasions that I made waffles on Sunday mornings and let her put more whipped cream on them than any child should be able to consume. The look behind the eyes of a girl in flared skirt and ribboned heels, shaking my hand after a show, saying that I'm an inspiration, asking if she could hug me.
The answer to that, I should tell you, is yes. Always yes. You smile and nod, and listen to them tell you about the first night they ever heard your music, the way you spoke directly to them, and even though you've heard it a million times, it always seems new, always seems shiny. There are some things you can stand to hear just once more.
If you spend your life standing still, you'll burn your fingertips when the fire creeps nearer. When you're in constant motion, there's no chance of anything curling around your calves and drawing you back. It's been over a decade, and I still haven't had a nightmare about that, about him. I wonder sometimes, if I run far enough and fast enough, could I outrace them forever?
Hi. My name's Courtney Love. You've seen me in the tabloids (looking wonderful), on stage with my shirt pulled down over my tits (again, wonderful), and kicking life's ass on a daily basis (must I repeat myself?). I'm a woman, I'm a mother, I'm a bitch, I'm a diva, and - this should come as no shock to you - I'm always, always right. Authors and the mindless Nirvana fanchildren have made me out to be some kind of streetgirl, some kind of whore, but they couldn't be farther from the truth. Some people express themselves through literature. Some people express themselves through art. I express myself through music and sex, and I simply have a lot to express to a great number of people.