Artists, beware. The Leanan-Sidhe is one amazing hot Faerie lover who loves artsy types. Seriously, artsy guys make her cream herself. She will inspire you to create the best works of your lives and she wants only to love you boys long time.
Alas, she cannot love you long time. Because she will burn your wimpy little ass out in no time. If she doesn’t burn you out, then you’ll become so lovesick with longing you’ll basically drink or drug your own sorry self to death. Not to mention the moping. For the love of Pete, does the world really need another mopey artist?
Artists die young. We all know that. But why? Folks, the Gaelic have known why for millenium. Fucking faeries, that’s why. Specifically the Faerie Mistress, or Leanan Sidhe (lanawn shee).
She’s like Nancy (of Sid and Nancy) Courtney Love and Yoko Ono on steroids. And hotter. WAY hotter. She is the most awesome thing you’ll ever know, and you will never survive it.
Some say she’s like a vampire, but that’s not true. She doesn’t want to kill you, you’re just too weak to handle her. She a fucking FAERIE for fuck’s sake. You think falling for Tinkerbell is all cutesiness, but Tinkerbell will burn through you like a party of 7 year olds let loose on the birthday cake. She really doesn’t want you be such a pussy, she wants you to stay with her, but you suck. So now she’s sad and lonely again and has to find another artsy dude to seduce.
The whole “Leana-Sidhe are bloodsuck vampire bitches” was propagated by Yeats, and admittedly, he did had a justifiable bone to pick with her/them. His buddies died young because they fell for her and couldn’t handle her. No one can. His buddy Keats, dead at 25. Poet Percy Bysshe Shelley dead one month shy of his 20th birthday. I mean damn. That’s cold.
Yeats: “for theLianhaun shee lives upon the vitals of its chosen, and they waste and die. She is of the dreadful solitary fairies. To her have belonged the greatest of the Irish poets, from Oisin down to the last century.”
Well, let’s be honest, poetic types and musicians die young. Shit, even in these modern times we all know the 29 rule. If you’re a musician, fucking COOL it during year 29. Seriously, do drugs, party, go crazy at 28 and 30, but for your 29th year, man, go fucking straight edge vegan. If you can make it through 29, you’ll be okay.
Writers: you’re not so lucky, most of you die in your 30s. She likes her writers a little older.
The Leanan-Sidhe like em all, but the young ones are the most susceptible. Yeats made it to 73 because he never let the bitch in the door. Life tip: You got a potential Faerie problem, hang some mother fucking iron all over the place. Faeries HATE iron. It hurts the shit out of them. (One can rumintae about the ancient Celts coming up with this mythology as they used their iron age technology to pound the shit out non iron weapon wielding enemies, like the Tuatha Dé Danann). When the Leanan-Sidhe tried to seduce Yeats he put his dick in an iron condom and that was that. She never bothered him again.
A writer gets all drepressed and kills himself or drinks himself to death? Fuckng Leanan-Sidhe. Seriously, i was going to hunt that bitch down after David Foster Wallce killed himself, because don’t think i don’t know what was going on. Unfortunately, i’m a musician and i’ve caught her staring at me through the window more than once. No, i can’t do it. I’d be her bitch before she even got finished blowing in my ear.
A banker needs to kill her. Some wall street guy.
Anyway, you’ve been warned. Rehab does not work, because drugs are not the problem. They’re a SYMPTOM. Duh. A symptom… of FUCKING FAERIES. Literally.
