The only way to not be dead

Most of my writing lately has been particularly acidic towards people who claim to mean well. I am already late for an appointment and later will have the last shreds of my eardrums mashed into a fine paste by A Place to Bury Strangers, but feel compelled to enter some "content" here for my "audience" to "read."

Internet Jazz Hands.

Here's what I listen to, over and over, while writing some purposefully overwrought SAILOR PROSE about Filthy Jerry's adventures in Squidheadland.