Status Updates From Twisted II: Spawn of the Tw...

Sometimes I just want to end it all. Actually, I don't, but it feels so good just to say that, it's so... cinematic.

All emotional pain lasts exactly twelve minutes. Everything after that is pure self-indulgence.

"Jeremy" is cathartic. It doesn't take literary genius to write a line like "Daddy didn't give attention/To the fact that Mommy didn't care," but when Eddie sings it you know that the words were ripped out of him.

First time I heard "Alive" I was washing the dishes. Something about the song - that great bridge, maybe, or the voice that seemed to bleed - made me drop the sponge and walk over to the stereo. I stood there until the song finished. My eyes were wide open. My hair was standing on end. I wanted to light a candle.

Onstage there's something odd about Eddie: he's smiling. My God, what have we done - Eddie Vedder is happy.

Concerts are great for primal scream therapy, and they're cheaper than shrinks.

One time I was wandering around, feeling like a giant scar, listening to Pearl Jam's Ten on my Walkman. On my way out the guy at the package counter pointed at the tape I was holding and started singing "Jeremy." I don't know why, but that made me feel better.

What the hell, I owe Pearl jam one. Three. I've never met the guys, but I filched some story plots from their songs, and they have pulled me out of the pit a few times.

Passion requires chaos; the crowd pushing and jostling to reach the front of the stage, the heat and sweat, the reek of bodies packed into the platform, the deafening screams. This is a ritual, and Eddie Veder is our shaman.

A Pearl Jam concert cannot be an orderly affair with nicely dressed, well-groomed people in numbered seats clapping politely after every number.

What is the point of watching R.E.M. if you're going to do impressions of vegetables? The seats could have gone to the real fans, the ones who don't give a hoot about being cool, the ones who just love R.E.M..

Sonic Youth assaulted our senses with pure guitar noise, destroying all our notions of what guitars should sound like. The assault was so complete that we not only heard the music, we could smell it and taste it. The sound was... indescribable.

I believe that Thurston Moore is our key to communication with extraterrestrial biological entities. The man is an X-file with a guitar.

I would rather die than be one of the herd, bleep you all.

It hits me like a blow to the cranium: That woman is dancing my life. She writhes and thrashes about like someone in the grip of severe manic-depression.

I am antipatika /a bitch.
That's a rumour?

I live a life of debauchery and utter decadence.

Your enemies are the instruments of your destiny. To regard someone as an enemy is to admit that that person is your equal. You should choose your enemies as carefully as you do your friends. Always pick on winners; fighting losers is not only pointless, but an unflattering reflection on yourself.

Traffic is a metaphor for the human condition: uncomfortable, stifling, brain-numbing and soul-deadening. Traffic embodies the tragic sense of life: like death, we're all doomed to it.

I agree that the world is crawling with stupid people, but barring those with IQ deficiencies, I am inclined to think that these people were not born stupid, but made stupid. They do not know how to think because they've never had to - someone else does their thinking for them.

Let's pretend they don't exist, let's pretend that there is no violence. It's like having a corpse in your living room and masking the stench of putrefaction with air freshener. You don't get rid of the cause of the stench, you just cover the stench. Meanwhile you breathe in the putrefaction, except that you don't notice the stink.

Censorship worries me. I think censorship is insidious. One, it does not really solve the problem; it merely denies that the problem exists.

It's hopeless, anyway. If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world. It's impossible. J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

The runny pink matter inside your skull is not just there for ballast; you're supposed to use it. Think, goddamnit, think!

I am neurotic, manic-depressive schizophrenic, obsessive-compulsive and occasionally catatonic, but then, so is everybody.

The thing about being human is, it doesn't come with an owner's manual, so you have to figure out how you work all by yourself. It's mostly hit-and-miss, and that's the great thing about being alive.

This sick world is trying to break you. By sticking around, you annoy the hell out of it.

The point of living is to make it mean something. You fill up the void. You create your own meaning. In this vast septic tank, you find your own jewels.