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I love Pink. Pink Sizzles, Pink Rocks. And so does the artist of the same name. More of a word than a name, and only one word, because only one word is necessary.


Pink is hard-assed, Pink is hard-core. Pink pushes the envelope, and she manages all this because of another singular word:


Pink is a call-out to all of us party-of-one-girls dancing alone in our living rooms. She wears her heart on her tattooed forearm; her music, her art, her politics on her stage, and she is always, always, always masterfully in control of that stage.

Pink inspires me. Her music gives me the courage to never be, never be anything but loud and nitty gritty. She makes this gawky, four-eyed kid in hand-me-downs proud to be too school for cool, treated like a fool, an underdog.

A dirty little freak.

Yes, this post ends in a video, another video. See, we haven’t been Jiggy here on Wildflower for a while. Don’t get fancy, just get dancy.

No? What do you mean, ‘No’? What part of party don’t you understand?

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