Sometimes you forget that it's Easter Sunday because you've been up late reading Neuromancer and have had weird dreams about a gigantic terrifying crab with a sound system implanted in its legs which terrorises the city and so you are confused by the onslaught of egg puns on Twitter for a few minutes and the weird photos of Lindt bunnies that apparently your friends like to eat face-first then Instagram the scene before devouring the rest of the egg. So you sit down to write the Pipwick Papers in a state of slight confusion.
Think of this as an Easter Egg hunt but one where I've done all the work for you so you have nothing to hunt and there are no eggs.
This is not the Sunday Papers.
"It wasn’t inevitable that country music would thrive in the globalized world of perpetual Facebook updates, a world whose frenetic pace can be felt in electronica, or whose nouveau riche aspirations are extolled in hip-hop. In fact, the co-occurrence of spiraling technological advances and the continued rise of the country genre – which traditionally has valued more off-the-grid sensibilities – seems almost paradoxical."
"Death can be a soft border, or it can be a hard barricade. It can be a fortified barricade like the Maginot Line through which thou shalt not pass. That's what it has become in Western culture over the past 100 years. The dead don't come on our side, we don't come on their side, and if you're trying to talk to them or you're trying to interact with them there's something wrong with you. You're up to no good."
"Somehow total campness was palatable to me in a way that more measured versions of femininity hadn’t been. I’d leapfrogged good taste to land with one foot in trashy Barbie-hued fantasy, the other planted firmly in plaid, parkas and pullovers. I began to face my own queerness sidelong as I straddled butch and hyper-femme, at first embarrassedly and then gleefully, filling my wardrobe with sequins alongside rough denim and camo print."