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The Rave-Ups: The Book Of Your Regrets (Epic)

j. poet, Creem, September 1988

THERE ARE times when I hate music. Like when yer walking down the street feeling like the sky's gonna fall on yer head and you've lost your lover and yer dog died and a car just went by and splashed some kinda smelly puddle slime on yer best pair of pants. Despite this you're maintaining. Your emotional defenses are up, and your heart is cold as a dead polar bear's bunghole, and you think that even if your lover walked by arm in arm with someone new it wouldn't even make you blink. And just as this thought completes itself, a car rolls by, and the window is down and the radio's blasting and even though you've never heard the tune before it cuts you to the bone, stabs you in the heart, kicks you in the head and rips the wiring out of the defensive machinery that it took you so long to construct.

Total word count of piece: 686

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