People are always asking me if i know Aimee Echo....

The first rule of Start Club is - you do not talk about Start Club.

If this is your first night at Start Club, you have to dance.

I want you to dance as hard as you can....

If i had a tumour i'd name it Sarah Roney...

This chick Sarah did not know how to play bass. she was a liar. she had no talent at all.

It's cheaper than a AFI show, and there's free beer.

*BEFORE ERICK SHAVED HIS HEAD*...And you, you are too fucking... BLONDE!

And then, Brian was gone.

I'll say this about Jeff. At least he's trying to hit bottom.

Mike was the guerilla terrorist in the music industry.

His name is Frank Zummo...

Erick had a bald head.

Jamie, you are by far the most interesting single-serving friend I've ever met

Aimee's philosophy of life is that she might get hit in the head with Jamie's guitar at any moment... The tragedy, she said, was that she didn't... (well once haha).

I got this sweater at a thrift store for one dollar.

Now a question of etiquette; the slut shirt? or the sluttier slut shirt?

I haven't been fucked like that since Shakedown!

Aimee sold her songs to record stores at $10 a cd. Lord knows what they charged. It was beautiful. We were selling big shots their own propaganda back to them.

I am Aimee's Cup of Wine. She drinks me. I make her sing 80's tunes.

I danced. I danced until my muscles burned and my veins pumped battery acid. Then I danced some more.

Without music, without dancing, we would have nothing.

I got in everyone's hostile little face. Yes, these are bruises from dancing. Yes, I'm comfortable with that. I am enlightened.

Getting dropped is the best thing that could happen to any of us. That way, we'd quit treading water and do something with our band.

Converse are the glass slipper for our generation.

Human talked us into caves where we meet our power animal. Mine was a chihuahua.

I'm fucking Eno. Who the fuck are you?

Billy's not here. Billy went away. Billy's gone.

You're not getting this back. I consider it ex-member tax.

You buy merch.  You tell yourself, this is the last hoodie I will ever need in my life.  Buy the hoodie, then for a couple years you're satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you've got your hoodie issue handled.

Listen to me! You have to consider the possibility that MTV does not like you. They never wanted you. In all probability, They hate you. This is not the worst thing that can happen.

You're not your instrument. You're not how many tips you have in the skull. You're not the van you drive. You're not the content of your albums. You're not your fucking record label. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.

Listen up, heretics. You are not punk. You are not a new waver or synth rocker. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else.

We're consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty, these things don't concern me. What concerns me are Robert Smith, Siouxsie Sioux, guitar pedals with 500 buttons, the right kind of Ipod. Red wine, Vinyl records, Myspace.

Nothing was solved when the show was over, but nothing mattered.

Is that what a real band is supposed to look like?

Only in death are we no longer part of Project Heretic.

TO BE A PART OF PROJECT HERETIC YOU WILL NEED THE FOLLOWING:

3 pairs


3 pairs


1 hoody


1 Chihuahua

brought to you by siX and sic
AKA tyler and jack haha
the empire GROWS!