It's Fraeedey

So by now, many of us have had the great displeasure of being exposed to the abomination of what passes for a song these days called Friday, not so much sang as cawed like an exploding crow caught in a jet engine by this talentless cretin of a rich kid named Rebecca Black, who only had this musical apocalypse (non)crafted by a company of which the sole intent is to acquire any free-floating monetary sums from parents who have even less real value in themselves than their untalented crotchspawn flush daily, in order to allow these delusional, tone deaf leeches to garble unintelligibly into a studio microphone, allowing further tone deaf "professionals" to further mutilate their recorded vocal excrement with autotuning, a dead giveaway of the massive void in the "artist"'s essence where any self-respecting musician would actually have talent and experience stored up.

The Battle of Hungeria

Trying to sleep. It's morning. Not crack-of-dawn early, but still only three digits on the very non-analog clock, and as I clash with consciousness, making every dodge, block and parry against its relentless onslaught of distraction, noise and light, the illuminated red numerals tick by at an alarming rate, average though it may be. Finally I am driving back waking moments, retreating into the outermost fringes of the realm of slumber.