When I was a brat-child (trust me, I was the worst), I would run to my room, slam my door and throw myself dramatically onto my bed after a fight with my parents. There I would fume and dwell on whatever angry thoughts an 8 year-old can conjure.
Eventually, I would hear a knock at the door. It was one of my parents (God bless ‘em), trying to talk some sense into their moody child.
That’s usually what I would tell them. Go away.
(P.S. My personal blog has made the leap from PenPointed Noise to a snazzy new Maps & Mochas so that I can write on more than just music and eventually PenPointed Noise will be laid to rest. See Maps & Mochas here.)