My new housemate has positively the grating taste in music.

Nothing like a good old funeral dirge at half past midnight on a Saturday night, right? Right?

This is going to sound awful, because it is, but I wish if she was going to play loud music on a night when we’re all in and I’m trying to sleep, that it was in a language I understood. Unwanted music is just better when you actually understand what the shit is going on and can maybe get into the beats and sing a long to the chorus in your head. It’s just better when it’s mildly catchy. This could be beautiful and profound. Maybe its the unidetified-language equivalent of radiohead’s creep. I wouldn’t know. Because all I understand of her tunes is that they are making my entire room sound like the soundtrack from a bollywood film about tone-deaf morticians with passions for xylophones.

I’d actually rather she looped Justin Beibers latest album.

That’s saying something.

If we were in anything less massive I’d be certain we were going crash and die. But a fat ass 99 bus seems like a good bet in an accident.