The New Yorker as a Music Recommendation Source

Yesterday I fought with the bamboo weave rug in front of my door on the way to take an exam. The door stuck and I started barking "mother fucker" before proceeding to rip the rug from under the door and haphazardly throw it halfway into my bathroom. Fortunately, no one saw me.

It's come to my attention that I have only listened to one CD--digital file of an album, really--in the past week, which would be something recommended to me by the hegemonic brainchild of David Remnick. I don't want to put a picture of David here, though, because I don't want to deify him. Maybe he can endorse John Kerry in the 2016 elections and then I will include him on my blog if I haven't died of a heart attack.

Oh, the album: Gui Boratto's Chromophobia. Fuck. I continue to assume one uses the same keys as on Microsoft Word for Mac to italicize a word. Every time I hit "Apple Sign"+"I", "Page Info" appears.