Here’s the scene: I’m 18, I’m with my curly-haired, tattooed boyfriend, we’re entering the music shop in Williamsburg by the water, I’m slipping two CDs into my jacket. After strolling suspiciously through the aisles and grabbing what we want, because we are young and hate capitalism and love the thrill of illicit activities and nothing can stop us, we head back to his beat-up Toyota Camry and compare our picks. He shows me his — probably some contemporary post-punk I don’t care much about — and I show him mine. Lala Lala’s Sleepyhead and The Lamb. He begs me for one. I let him take it. A token of my love. He got me into her music, after all. Then we get drunk and shoplift more stuff and go to a show and continue being invincible until we get tired.
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