I have a room. It's called the room. I go there. It's fucking fan-tastic.
True story.
It's so good that all of the music I want to blast at people in my family doesn't need to be blasted cos it's only me. So I don't bother myself.
I sit and I think about all of the music I might blast at them. Then I go into the living room and I tell them all about the music I would like to blast at them. They don't believe me cos I've squidged their grey matter from the get-go and they're fucked from day one anyway.
So I pollute their minds with threats about culture, knowing all the while, that all cognizant matter will inevitably worship at the twin temples of Morrissey and Cohen.
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