So my brother got a piano. Or to be more specific, his parents bought a piano for him. Huh. My parents wouldn't have bought me a piano at six. Considering we share one of these parents, this causes me considerable distress.

But that's a different story.

Anyway, a piano. Yeah. It's a real fucking piano. You know what that means? It has no power button. You can't shut it off. You can't turn it down. Hello, migraine. So nice to see you again. Glad you could make it.

Of course my brother loves the blasted thing. He repeatedly plunks out the three ten-second songs he knows with the greatest dedication and zeal. My best bet at this point is that he gets his finger caught in the hinge of the cover and declares enmity (the young are so impetuous).

But of course I love my brother too much to wish such misfortune on him. Continue, my little artiste. I have plenty of painkillers, after all.