I can’t change the past. I can’t say, I wish I would have given into listening to Turn On The Bright Lights eight years ago, so I could have fallen for it, and them, and you, then. But I’m glad I didn’t. I can see me now—drunk in my bedroom, laying on my bed with my head over the foot of it, vodka at one ear, a scratched up hand holding a cigarette next to the other. This...