Don't come around, I've got my own hell to raise

I suppose this is a bad time for me to rediscover my intense, burning, passionate OMG EMO (before there was such a vague yet hilarious concept) love of Fiona Apple's Tidal. Considering I have 493030 things to do and none of them entail me reverting back to 1997 Jenn and lying on my bed with my big black Doc Martens resting on my violet-colored walls next to the pictures of Jakob Dylan and Maxwell while listening wistfully to Ms. Apple. But seriously, the album is a masterpiece and if you disagree, I will cut you (did you not read where I told you that I used to wear Doc Martens?! AM SERIOUS BADASS AT HEART).

What happened to her, besides that crazy awards show breakdown (I forget and am entirely too lazy to verify which one, but I want to say VMA's or something of the like)? I loved her. She was like Tori Amos but with intelligent lyrics (oh that's right, I said it-bring it Amos fans, I'm not afraid of you or your orange-haired demigod). I mean, honestly, I defy you to listen to Never is a Promise and then find me a song that is so achingly beautiful.

Also, remember Maxwell?