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In a perfect world—in my perfect world—there would be certain rules of propriety, certain principles of appropriate behavior, that would be obvious to everybody. Common sense and restraint would prevail. But they don’t,
It seemed as if a girl singer like me had to be either Joan Jett or Joan Baez—and nothing in between—or people would get confused.
My music had always attracted quite a few lonely outsiders, people whose social skills were more hopeless than even mine; ones whose imaginary lives were probably more vivid than the lives they were actually living; even people who had maybe spent a little time on a psych ward—
