To have some honest moments is a rarity. We’re not encouraged to really look at what we’re feeling.
I have a love for shoes. I collect them. Race cars, paintings; those aren’t my thing. I just hang shoes on the wall. They’re architecture, you know?
The dark side is not something most people think is inside them.
I love being in a skirt and boots. It goes back to the librarian-principal look. I like the idea of carrying books around in a skirt.
When you’ve got the virgin and the whore sitting next to each other, they’re likely to judge each other harshly.
When you’re having a really bad day, and you think something a bit self-destructive, put your hands in the air, your index fingers above your head, one each, touch the air with them and say “horns.” And make sure you remember that you have to stay around, so we can touch horns when I see you again.
Somebody will come backstage and go, ‘You saved me.’ And I will have to say, ‘Stop right there. You saved yourself.’
I see the dream and I see the nightmare, and I believe you can’t have the dream without the nightmare.
The sense of loss is such a tricky one, because we always feel like our worth is tied up into stuff that we have, not that our worth can grow with things we are willing to lose.
I’d like to think that my work has multidimensionality. That I can change a pair of shoes in the middle of the song and it’s OK. That there is no structure that says I have to wear the same pair all the way through. As long as I’ve got feet, it’s all right.
I’m a musician first, a food-lover second, a dirty mouth with feet, and a girl last time I checked.
I’m really into moderation. Too much of anything will harm you in the end.
There is value in everybody’s gift. No matter how hard it is to find or how strange it is.
Women must understand that simply attacking or hating all men is just another form of disempowerment. A woman has to realize that when she makes a man crawl it doesn’t give her power. All it will do is make her puke eventually. Rather than say–all men are bastards– let’s say–all men are infants, until they decide to be men–Calling them bastards is boring at this stage.
When you stop putting yourself on the line, and you don’t touch your own heart, how do you expect to touch other people?
The way I see it, the men that I’m with, whoever they are, it’s like look, you have to accept that I like ice cream, and I know it shows up on my hips but if you can’t accept that, then leave. Go away. Toodles. It is non-negotiable.