Dear fucking Jack White,
First of all, why. Just, why. Don't play dumb with me. You know perfectly well what I mean. I mean, how dare you.
1) How dare you be so awesome as to have picked up music as an alternative to seminary school. How dare you be so fucking badass and maintain those altar boy looks? Do you know how bad a good case of the smits can feel?
2) How dare you make music the best of which is like the product of an orgy amongst Blind Willie, Booker T., Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, The Rolling Stones, and the Kinks? How dare you make up relevant, brain-tickling and sense-confounding poetry seemingly on the spot?
3) Where do you get off effortlessly living out the rock star dream of starting and rocking multiple bands with all-star casts of legendary and current musicians, and receive instant, real-time validation from the likes of Rolling Stone who would probably rather just suck you right off rather than waste all that drool on their rankings and articles?
4) How dare you be the wild and sexy brooding artist that crumbles my little heart? And why in God's name would you get married to a gorgeous British model while set afloat on the Amazon river by a freaking shaman after I pledged myself to you as a scrawny thirteen year-old??
5) The theremin. The freaking, theremin.
I am Jack's tortured girl soul.
The Dead Weather's new album Sea of Cowards. Seriously.
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