Last week, I wrote about fancy parties, sequins, feathers, and old-school glamor. While I really do love things that shimmer and shine, I also like a healthy dose of “edge” with my fashion. So I’ll be the first to say it: I like a girl who can look like a badass. Put on a great pair of ass-kicking boots, invest in a pixie cut, and I’ll immediately admire the hell out of you. Case in point: Amanda Palmer. (Plus the fact that she’s an amazing musician.)
Her song “The Killing Type” is unabashedly raw and completely addicting. It sounds like the tortured tale of a woman in a stagnant relationship, shouting:
But I would kill to make you feel/I’d kill to move your face an inch/I see you staring into space/I wanna stick my fist into your mouth and twist your arctic heart
But the women isn’t the killing type. She can’t do it. She doesn’t even kill the spiders in her kitchen, let alone the man she married fresh out of high school. They had history; they had passion. Or they did. They did have passion. She isn’t sure where it’s gone, but it’s left, blown away like autumn leaves in the wind. They were so happy once. What happened?
Most of the time, he doesn’t look at her. Well, he does, but he doesn’t see her. He looks at her like he would look at a piece of art (which he doesn’t understand) or the morning paper (which he doesn’t really care about), with those empty eyes and pursed lips. And those glasses, those stupid little glasses that sit perched on the bridge of his nose. She’s not sure when everything turned to shit.
But she’s not the killing type…. Only, what if she was? He wouldn’t suspect anything. She was a good, quiet girl, everyone said so. What if…what if all of the sudden she morphed into some goddess of strength and courage? They’d never expect that; not from her.
First, she’d need to change her appearance:
The act itself would have to be very stealthy; she wouldn’t want to cause a scene. She would probably act in the middle of the night while he was sleeping and at his most vulnerable. He might be sleeping beside her or passed out on the couch where he now tended to sleep nearly every night of the week. Couch it would be. And after that, she’d have to leave town. She’s not sure where she’d escape to, but she would figure that out. That would be easy after everything else. Her new clothes would help conceal her. Nobody would recognize her, not in that coat and hat. Then she’d dye her hair, change her name, and start life over again. It wasn’t too late, right?
She would be free. She could go anywhere, do all of the things she’d always dreamed of but never did. She could find someone else; she could be happy.
But she’s not the killing type. She could never be. Instead, she’ll just keep imagining the possibilities as she scrubs dishes and does the laundry, preparing dinner for the husband she’d never thought she’d end up with in a life she never wanted. Still, she could never kill anyone. So she’ll just say it in a song–an amazingly, powerful, and emotional song.