Lemmy was the singer and bassist for Motörhead, a band so badass that if they moved in next door to you, your lawn would immediately die. When my son texted with the news, I was devastated and I buried my face in a pillow and cried like a little bitch.
I LOVE Lemmy. I love the very idea of him, the very concept of him. I have Lemmy bed sheets, Lemmy dishtowels, Lemmy toilet paper. I have posters of Lemmy, but rolled up and in a closet because I’m not a 14 year old girl anymore. I do, however, have a specially-made Lemmy sex doll that I pork every night wearing specially-made Lemmy condoms.
I have Lemmy’s book, White Line Fever, and have even scanned it. It contains much wisdom.
“If you’re going to be a fucking rock star,” Lemmy wrote, “go be one. People don’t want to see the guy next door on stage; they want to see a being from another planet.”
Lemmy lived these words and was, indeed, a being from another planet–which might explain the terrifying moles on his face.
“I’ve never gone to bed with an ugly chick,” he wrote, “but I’ve woken up with a few.”
These words really hit home, especially after getting my Lemmy sex doll. They hit home really, really hard.
And finally, “I don’t do regrets. Regrets are pointless. It’s too late for regrets. You’ve already done it, haven’t you? You’ve lived your life. No point wishing you could change it.”
Now, I have been facetious in writing this, but I couldn’t think of any other way to write about his death that wasn’t simpy or ass-kissy. How does one write about a man like Lemmy Kilmister?
Rest in peace, you crazy son of bitch.