Gryffin's at Exposition Park tonight and my hips got the memo before my coffee even finished brewing. Bass rehearsal counts as a morning routine, right? Come dance with me before the sun gets high.
Gryffin's at Exposition Park tonight and my hips got the memo before my coffee even finished brewing. Bass rehearsal counts as a morning routine, right? Come dance with me before the sun gets high.
My Chemical Romance at the Bowl tomorrow and I just found out the Black Parade deserves better than whatever I wore last time. Closet's a disaster and I'm running out of clothes to try on, in every sense. Tell me which one makes the cut.
Footwork drills before the coffee's even done, because Julia Jacklin at the Wiltern tonight means my legs need to earn their keep twice. The jacket only zips halfway anyway — blame the equipment. Come hold the foil and tell me I'm off balance.
Past my bedtime and three chapters deep, and this robe gave up on me somewhere around the plot twist. Come read over my shoulder — I'll bookmark the good parts for you.
Bonnie Raitt at the Pantages tonight and I'm taking my sweet time getting there — the dress is still hanging on the door and I'm in no hurry to change that. Tell me you'd slow me down even more.
Claimed a picnic table at the Greek two hours before Dermot Kennedy even soundchecks, and the wine went down faster than the sunset. This skirt gave up on decency somewhere around the second song on the drive over. Come sit on the bench side and keep my cup full.
Geese just burned Hollywood Forever down and now I'm walking out past the mausoleums with my ears still ringing. Live drums in a cemetery does something to me. Come find me by the gate — I'm not ready to go home yet.
Peaches at the Fonda tonight, so I'm breaking in the boots now instead of limping by midnight. One's done. Want the other?
Boy Harsher at the Palladium means the black dress comes out, and I've been dressed since my coffee was still hot. Darkwave deserves a little menace. Tell me you'd still make it through the door before me.
Reggae night at the Palladium and my closet is a crime scene — everything I own is on the bed except what's actually on me. Come pick what stays on and what doesn't.