"Yeah, well maybe if you were nicer to daddy he would've been able to get it up and then he wouldn't have killed himself!"

A five alarm trash fire, careening from high school outcast melodrama, to underage hooker sex farce, to hit woman pulp, to proto-serial killer nightmare like a Pinto with its brakes cut. How I just got around to ingesting something this pure in its ugly, single-minded pursuit of cheap, cheap thrills will remain a mystery, but I'm glad I finally did, as it's a new favorite. Jill Lansing: you have my heart. Just don't shoot me next.