A (very short) open letter to the Heart network.
Do the only records you possess comprise of Sex on Fire (incidentally, considering I was complaining about Lily Allen's lyrics yesterday, shouldn't the similar mediocrities in Kings of Leon be down the VD clinic rather than telling us that their sex is on fire?) and Poker Face, or is it just some truly bizarre coincidence that every single time I catch even the slightest jangle from your wonderful radio stations that either one or the other, or as today, one followed by the other are the tracks you've chosen to broadcast from your doubtless incredibly diverse playlist?
Yours,
septicisle.
Yours,
septicisle.
Labels: misanthropy, musical terrorism, non-politics
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