A moratorium on villainous eating

There are three things in this world I love perfectly: three-dimensional movies, preferably set in the mythical past; extremely popular music; the "me, an intellectual" joke construction from last year. Earlier this month Nicole texted me a link to Harry Style's new song "Sign of the Times" while I was terrified on a plane and in need of distraction. I thought to myself, "Ah, he's been incandescently famous for a good eight or nine years now. Time to get on board," then proceeded to listen to it 496 times. It's a pretty good song, and combines some of my favorite things, like "churlish-sounding pianos" and "incredibly vague yelling." (He keeps singing about bullets? I do not believe that anyone has ever tried to shoot Harry Styles, but then again, I am politically opposed to the maxim "Write what you know," so I do not seek to censure, merely to learn.) Anyhow, this entire buildup is a flimsy excuse to contextualize the following text message I sent to my friend Brook yesterday:

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