Today I am dead-tired. The kind of tired that, if you should push it, will result in an instant yet long-lasting migraine. I shall brave the migraine impending, however, to relate why it is that I am so very weary today.

Seeing as how music has been good to me lately, I was today's target to be harassed, nay attacked, with bad music. First of all, I'm not one to judge, whatever you want to listen to, do so, that's what headphones are for, but why, in the name of all that is holy and pure, would you want to subject us all to your musical taste if it, by definition, includes trance/house/tribal music. I'm pretty to open to music, but if there are two things I refuse to be receptive to, it's trance, in all its glorious forms, and country music. Today, I was lucky enough to be attacked by both.

First off, as I was innocently listening to my car radio, I am confronted with Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven, a song that I enjoy. And what's more, my little sister, whose musical influences include Raghav and the Bombay Rockers, seems to be enjoying it as well. Hallelujah! Fast forward to a few hours later and on the way back home, I ask little sis to turn on the radio once again, little suspecting what lay just beyond the simple pressing of a button. All at once, I am confronted with a country western twang yowling "aiyand she's buuuuuyyyyinggg a staiiiyairwaayyyy to... heAA... vunnnn!". Alarmed and horrified, I wonder if FM89 has... oh, no they wouldn't, no one could be that cruel... but alas, it is true. Dolly Parton's version of Stairway to Heaven has found its way to the airwaves. I can honestly say that a plague of locusts would have been greeted with mithai and laddoos at this point, especially since the lady in question's vocal stylings seem to consist of an odd yipping sound as she cuts off a word in mid-syllable, only to pick it up and stretch it as much as humanly possible. Feebly accompanied by either a guitar that has been badly robbed of its innocence, or a banjo that sounds embarrassed to be accompanying her, Dolly Parton has single-handedly butchered a song I used to like. Now, like the tragic shell-shocked survivor of a war, I get heart palpitations everytime someone strums the opening chords to that song.

As if this wasn't enough, I come home to find that my brother, high priest of the temple of trance, has set up shop in my room and is listening to sound that are more commonly found in a fully-functioning industrial plant. Upon mocking this music, I am told to "show some respect, this is house, not trance!". There are very few things about which I could give less of a damn, among them are Ali Haider, but that's a different story. A full half hour later, I am finally successful in shoo-ing the high priest of trance out of my room and into his own room, from which promptly more industrial machinery sounds accompanied by odd lyrics is heard floating out (a sample of such lyrics, "something beautiful is happening inside of me"). Repect, indeed.

And so, it is now that I come before you, mildly traumatised, but alive and vow to throttle whoever that RJ was that would play such a cruel joke on an innocent woman turning to her car radio for some travelling music.