🖋️ Letter from the Editor
As published in The Daily Tremor, Vol. XXIX
Dearest Gentle Reader,
Once, we caught a glimpse of Lola Young and thought: English Rose.
Delicate petals. A blush of uncertainty.
The sort of softness neurotypical society tucks into vases—expecting it to stay fragrant, tame, and polite.
Oh, how they tried to box her up.
Pressed-flower neat.
The type to wilt for our convenience.
But the bloom did not last. She pulled a Morticia Addams (whom we revere)—and she cut the bloom off—herself.
Lola tried on classic beauty like an ill-fitting dress—
tiptoeing through the Chelsea Garden Show of public approval,
all demure glances and pastel melancholy.
It didn’t suit her.
The world, as it tends to,
watched her struggle to contort herself out of coherence.
Cried out for authenticity. Then punished it with a label: “Disorder” —
as if chaos were contagious.
They observed from a clinical distance,
forgetting that observation is its own kind of violence.
But what emerged from those years wasn’t a wilted rose.
It was something unrulier.
Roots torn from the soil.
Petals gone feral.
Not broken. Not reassembled for ease of consumption.
Un-arranged. Unapologetic.
Singing sharp and true from a wild intersection of clarity and discord.
Messy. In fact.
And somewhere inside that track —
under the melody, between the lyrics —
there was a frequency not meant for commercial broadcast.
A secret code, perhaps?
A rupture?
A seed compound?
Our sources believe that RAWTRUTHIN® was formulated from this very track.
LEAKED FIELD RECORDING — PERCY CAUGHT IN MESSY MERRIMENT:
(Seriously, you have to see this…)
Sources believe the Elusive Author captured Percy mid-performance —
perched atop that very cake like he owned the room,
beak glinting under studio lights,
tail feathers swaying to a karaoke rhythm no one else could hear.
Whether the champagne was to blame, or revolution, no one can say.
He squawked something — off-key, on-point — that might have been:
“But cut me some slack — who do you want me to be?”
Some swear it was a lyric.
Others call it prophecy.
With Percy, you never know.
Messy invites you to confront conformity.
Refuse to be folded neatly into a genre or diagnosis.
It is a mirror — one you’re not meant to please.
Do you long for a part of you that is buried — suffering Stockholm syndrome obedience to a façade you were forced to wear?
This is not a breakdown. It’s a reversion to original form.
As karma’s feathered scoundrel exposes all with most unregency elegance, one must ask —
What was our Elusive Author doing at that recording studio that day?
Is Lola Young a Neurospicy Operative?
Worth pondering over a cuppa, don’t you think?
Yours in borrowed eyeliner and subversive sponge cake —
—The Editor-in-Chief
(and, inexplicably, today’s Karma’s chaos courier!)
KARAOKE CONFESSIONS — Percy’s Prescribed Listening:
“YES! SQUAWK! I warbled through this like a pigeon in a blender. Lola, do forgive me. When I reincarnate, I’d like to come back as the eyeliner brush that paints your truth. If you ever gave me an autograph, I’d have to laminate it against my own clumsiness. But hear her real voice, not mine — it’s rare, raw authenticity in human form. That self-abandonment is to be avoided at all costs! Yes, this song … it’s a cracker!!
And now, Dear Reader… about the Pink Pony Club affair…
Percy. Sequins. Secrets. Revealed with one discreet tap of the disco ball — should you dare 🪩.
Dispatch from The Daily Tremor
Missed a dose of the subversive signal? Catch up on rogue remedies, sightings of the Elusive Author, and resistance dispatches too volatile for mainstream media…
