a demon diarya dramatic retelling of REAL events by Ryan from Pitchfork
|Place: Somewhere over the rustic hills of Wesleyan after there was a jarring beam of light that shot down at earth from the sky, casing an incandescent light.
Time: 3am, witching hour as it is known the in streets.
The cold, antiseptic feeling can be compared to that of a hospital, though there’s something different, something otherworldly. The talking going on around is indiscernible, and it feels a little bit reminiscent of a spa, face down in a massage table, the little face donut providing breathing room and ambiance.
“What do they call you?”
“Andrew? My name is Andrew, who are you?”
“I’m Ryan from pitchfork, calm down, this won’t hurt at all.”
He lied, it did hurt, and for weeks after there was a pain deep in the butthole that seemed unending. What did it all mean, what was this all about? Was it punishment, was it pleasurable? Was this because of Glitter Penis? At any rate, it gave him direction, it gave him a sense of something outside himself, it gave him Kids (the song not actual kids though if he has them out there and somehow you are reading this, hey little guys!!)
When the first “settlers” came to the Americas with their guns and gifts of small pox and complete culture decimation, they supplied the people with the idea of Manifest Destiny, that anything they wanted was theirs, if they just believe. I can’t be sure but I’m going to take a guess that Disney based a lot of their movies on this concept as well. If you just believe, fuck, you’re an American, the people who were TOO STUFFY for Britain, you can have anything, the world is your oyster, that’s the same way that Andrew felt his butthole was taken, and it inspired him in a deep and penetrative way to live on the dream implanted on him by a collective of obviously psychopathic aliens that were calling themselves team Pitchfork. Andrew knew that together with his Jewy little friend (a necessity to any band of this type), he must go forth and make a god damn buzz band.
The year was 2008 and the times they were a changing. Previously, you needed the support and the finical crush that was a massive label to release music. Some would venture that if you want your music to be heard you still need this, I know this to be a lie. The pitchfork aliens have come down to earth and they walk among us, and like anyone Andrew sweats nervously as the label heads promise him things like “creative control” (probably a lie) and “dignity” but takes that for himself when he wears a pair of day glow orange shorts and nothing else, no one is going to control the way that he feels about his body, he confidently tells one of the hired beauticians who pluck hair from between his eyebrows, as she chants, sisters, not conjoined twins. (A/N: I never got this sort of treatment at my destitute Indie label and I’m HURT.)
The manifesto is laid down, there shall be models for all, there shall be headscarves and karma, and it has buzzing synths so that’s how you know it is real. But like everything, time ebbs and flows, and the further Andrew gets from this moment he realizes, my butthole suddenly doesn’t hurt anymore. Have I become the butthole? Has it absolved me from pain? Have I forgotten the times the pitchfork aliens screamed at me to dance like a monkey? Was any of it really, really.
Present day: Brooklyn, New York.
Ben: “Hey guys, I think I have an idea for a TRULY HOT FIRE song.” Andrew: “I’m listening…” Ben: “So like this totally pretentious twat is like Andrew, I love your work! and you’re like okay, but who are you, I think you should have bad karma, and he’s like Wow I’m a nice person but also a sensitive thug so these words hurt me, and then you’re like go fuck yourself cape cod, no models for you, and then there’s like some brake dancing…” Andrew: “I have a strange feeling that this has already happened before, Ben.”
But that’s the thing, it’s always all happening again.