Oh, Etta.
I will think of you every time I sing this song in some shitty suburban bar.
Rest in Song.
(Also, I will think of you every time Beyonce pretends to be you and also during all those times I wish I were black in addition to whenever I’m singing slave songs in the kitchen while making griddle cakes oh yes and also while alone belting “All I Could Do Was Cry” in my apartment alone with my cat half-drunk off of bourbon with my cat.)
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