Dear future wife,
It is really late, and I should be in bed. Why I’m writing to you at such a time and so far in advance of our loving each other in kind is well beyond my ability to explain, though I’m sure it owes a little to me feeling kind of bored and horny, and who on earth will be a better object of my baser yearnings than you, my dearly beloved? I justify my obstinacy in this hour by saying that I’m studying for an important test tomorrow, but the test is all about Genesis, and I’m half-listening to junky reality TV in the background as I read my notes. I wouldn’t say this impairs my preparation because the program in question doesn’t intrigue me in the slightest and I’m only watching in anticipation that someone, anyone will dare to sing a song of actual, legitimate quality. Alack and alas, so far I’ve been foiled by an endless succession of excruciating country ballads, sappy R&B soul, and sellout Ed Jazeeran singer-songwriter schlock. I think it’s safe to say that no one will be singing Radiohead, unless they take a swing at Creep, you know, that Radiohead song everybody who doesn’t like Radiohead claims to like – the one from their most uninspired, generically alt-rock album Pablo Honey. Hell, at this point I’d be astonished to hear anybody cover No Doubt, Maroon 5, or Pharrell, all of whom make decidedly safe and mainstream genre music that may still be too edgy and experimental for this show despite their leaders sitting on the judges’ – that is, the coaches’ panel. What was I talking about? Oh, right. Netflix, Starbucks, Chipotle, Starbucks, Netflix, Spotify, iPhone, iPad, Facebook, Starbucks, Insta, Netflix, Radiohead.