How Has Your Music Taste Changed With Age?
Apr 29, 2017 6:13:19 GMT -8
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Post by rimjobflashmob on Apr 29, 2017 6:13:19 GMT -8
I was idly scrolling through my pocket communication computer this morning and saw this headline, which made me reflect on my own journey.
For example, when I was a but a calf, just entering the Forbidden Boner Hell, I chose to be serenaded by the warbling yodels of Stephen Malkmus. Jimi Goodwin cradled me between the folds of his immensity as I cried myself to sleep, knowing I was full of sin and tapioca. I also found joy in the alluring dulcet tones of Chan Marshall and Josh Homme, star-crossed lovers who never came within but a mare's breath of Dave Grohl.
When I graduated to The Age Most Befitting A Gulag, my tastes began to sink deeper into the Ocean Of Unerring Quarantine, wherein James Murphy raised me above his head and tied me to the scaffolding as he murmured to his hound and spat stale coffee into a trebuchet. There I hung, sweating under the three suns orbiting the palladium mines, until the trio of spectral parchment entities glided into my pancreas. Heather, John, and Kael breathed life into my less essential organs and severed my bindings with the teeth of a freshly slain manatee, and when I fell, the tinkerbell of avant-folk Patrick Wolf caught me in his scarlet loins.
I oscillated herein between varying shades of the Words Beneath the Bookcase, all the while wondering if this was where I would spend The Period Of Ancestral Death Meats. But my journey was not over. Richard dipped his hand into my torso, first slowly, then more vigorously, until my very soul felt unwell without his slobbering touch. Rephlexively I pulled away but it was too late, and his hearty band of chums pulled me into the Abyssal Heart of Rave Teac.
I fear my journey is not yet over, but I have committed myself to the path. For now I spiral in a modulation betwixt the Eternal Sound Laboratory Within The Mandibles and a moon so black in pitch it has no name, yet screams all the same.
For example, when I was a but a calf, just entering the Forbidden Boner Hell, I chose to be serenaded by the warbling yodels of Stephen Malkmus. Jimi Goodwin cradled me between the folds of his immensity as I cried myself to sleep, knowing I was full of sin and tapioca. I also found joy in the alluring dulcet tones of Chan Marshall and Josh Homme, star-crossed lovers who never came within but a mare's breath of Dave Grohl.
When I graduated to The Age Most Befitting A Gulag, my tastes began to sink deeper into the Ocean Of Unerring Quarantine, wherein James Murphy raised me above his head and tied me to the scaffolding as he murmured to his hound and spat stale coffee into a trebuchet. There I hung, sweating under the three suns orbiting the palladium mines, until the trio of spectral parchment entities glided into my pancreas. Heather, John, and Kael breathed life into my less essential organs and severed my bindings with the teeth of a freshly slain manatee, and when I fell, the tinkerbell of avant-folk Patrick Wolf caught me in his scarlet loins.
I oscillated herein between varying shades of the Words Beneath the Bookcase, all the while wondering if this was where I would spend The Period Of Ancestral Death Meats. But my journey was not over. Richard dipped his hand into my torso, first slowly, then more vigorously, until my very soul felt unwell without his slobbering touch. Rephlexively I pulled away but it was too late, and his hearty band of chums pulled me into the Abyssal Heart of Rave Teac.
I fear my journey is not yet over, but I have committed myself to the path. For now I spiral in a modulation betwixt the Eternal Sound Laboratory Within The Mandibles and a moon so black in pitch it has no name, yet screams all the same.
