Rememberings

by Sinéad O'Connor

have left some people out because I know they prefer privacy and others because I want them to be pissed when they look for their names in the book and don’t find them.

She’s having an affair with the singer from the Fine Young Cannibals. Apparently he is fine and young and having her for breakfast, dinner, and tea.

I secretly long to be square. It ain’t comfy being squ-oval.

Joe plays guitar. He says he doesn’t play well, but he does. My sister plays harp and my younger brother plays drums. I always thought it would be brilliant to make one album together and call it Fuck the Corrs. But the fights would have made Liam and Noel Gallagher seem like pussycats.

Commercial success outranked artistic merit. I made a lot of money for a lot of men who couldn’t actually have cared less what the songs were about. And in fact would prefer I told no one.

No one ever asked me what my dreams were; they just got mad at me for not being who they wanted me to be.

I’m feeling flattered that the Establishment considers me enough of a threat that it needs to try and discredit me along with all the other bands and artists who have been under attack in this censorship of music that is America since Straight Outta Compton. Clearly, we’re all onto something. Clearly, we’ve all been onto it all along.

He’s utterly bewildered but still waits every day for me because he never saw a heterosexual woman with no hair before. He doesn’t realize I’m actually asexual. I don’t bother enlightening him because he’s already too mind-blown.

Because to be a good Catholic, you had to think you were a piece of shit. That was the idea. The less you thought of yourself, the more God would think of you.

I get to the party and start talking to Jon Bon Jovi’s then wife, Heather, a very beautiful lady.

Heather was Richie's wife. As in Richie Sambora. My NJ is showing.