This morning my executive producer Toni walked into the office and put some music on in her office and this was the first thing that started playing. Now it’s stuck in my fucking head and I will be god damned if I don’t get it stuck in yours today, too. All you need is a little bit of the song and then it will slowly start fucking your brain and you cry, “Stop! Stop!” but it won’t stop. It will tell you that it loves you but it doesn’t. It just wants to control you. It wants to own you. It wants you to be an object. Then later, when the song gets off and you’re lying there on the floor, a shuddering, quivering mass of tears and shame, you’ll realize you’ve been song raped.
And you’ll hate me for doing it to you with La Bouche, the same way I hate Toni for doing it to me. I understand. It’s all right. I still love you, and I’m sorry. So so sorry.