What am I to do with all this silence?

I agree! However, your poetry gives me constipation.

I don't think there is any defense for this. There is hope! Cling to it! Every moth becomes a butterfly. Or something.

So I would be opening a box containing poo? In that case, how would that differ from my current situation? It's bad all around, and since it's direct, I would have no other recourse but to reciprocate and send a few brown curls of my own.

And you're wrong about butterflies. Clearly, they come from Richard Simmons.

I explain him the way I explain any other person that MTV introduced into the world of music when they're not teaching teenagers how to be stupid little shits on True Life and Jersey Shore: white noise, not unlike Taylor Swift, John Mayer, and any other "light rock with a twinge of folk" musician that steps into the limelight.

There are plenty of ways to describe these singing yeast infections, but my preferred method is to compare them to a bad fart converted into sound.

Bad things go away if you give them enough time. Except herpes.