Amanda Palmer becomes more feminist stereotype with each passing year. From the 'dark cabaret' to the million dollar kickstarter the girl who drinks from a bottle has become so very cliche'. Art school Bostonian with a cool husband and tattooed brows. Time moves fast, shelf lives are short.

I have had a love hate relationship with Palmer for years now. Half wanting to kiss her on the mouth half wanting to punch her in the same place. That's her appeal, that's her gimmick. And in her smug faux accent (girl really wtf is that?) she struts and becomes the fag hag hipster we all look at with a cocked head. Shes the chick with the mattress on the floor, the filthy bong, the hairy pits.

Her Dresden Doll tales of revenge and power, sex and taunt were brilliant and aside from her ode to her bush her new stuff has been very good. She is every college kid with a trust fund and shes not a kid and she doesn't have a trust. Shes a facade, shes a mess, she is Boston.

On Patriots Day 2013 a couple kids did something really dumb and we will never honestly know why. Limbs wont grow back though you may find a chunk of Bobs right kneecap in Copley Square. Shit happens, life is unfair, everyone has an agenda.

People mourn and fear in very unique ways. Some fist pump, some cry, some shout USA!, some think fuck this at least there wasn't traffic on the Pike. Artsy bitches make silly poems.

Here's Amandas from her 'Amanda Fucking Palmer' blog:

a poem for dzhokhar

April 21st

you don’t know how it felt to be in the womb but it must have been at least a little warmer than this.

you don’t know how intimately they’re recording your every move on closed-circuit cameras until you see your face reflected back at you through through the pulp.

you don’t know how to stop picking at your fingers.

you don’t know how little you’ve been paying attention until you look down at your legs again.

you don’t know how many times you can say you’re coming until they just stop believing you.

you don’t know how orgasmic the act of taking in a lungful of oxygen is until they hold your head under the water.

you don’t know how many vietnamese soft rolls to order.

you don’t know how convinced your parents were that having children would be, absolutely, without question, the correct thing to do.

you don’t know how precious your iphone battery time was until you’re hiding in the bottom of the boat.

you don’t know how to get away from your fucking parents.

you don’t know how it’s possible to feel total compassion in one moment and total disconnection in the next moment.

you don’t know how things could change so incredibly fast.

you don’t know how to make something, but the instructions are on the internet.

you don’t know how to make sense of this massive parade.

you don’t know how to believe anyone anymore.

you don’t know how to tell the girl in the chair next to you that you’ve been peeking at her dissertation draft and there’s a grammatical typo in the actual file name.

you don’t know how to explain yourself.

you don’t want two percent but it’s all they have.

you don’t know how claustrophobic your house is until you can’t leave it.

you don’t know why you let that guy go without shooting him dead and stuffing him in some bushes between cambridge and watertown.

you don’t know where your friends went.

you don’t know how to dance but you give it a shot anyway.

you don’t know how your life managed to move twenty six miles forward and twenty eight miles back.

you don’t know how to pay your debts.

you don’t know how to separate from this partnership to escape and finally breathe.

you don’t know how come people run their goddamn knees into the ground anyway.

you don’t know how to measure the value of the twenty dollar bill clutched in your hurting hand.

you don’t know how you walked into this trap so obliviously.

you don’t know how to adjust the rearview mirror.

you don’t know how to mourn your dead brother.

you don’t know how to drive this car.

you don’t know the way to new york.

Amanda Palmers, "A Poem For Dzhokhar"

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