I don't completely understand what she's doin' to a motherfucker, but I've been interpretive dancing with this box of Kleenex for the last half hour with "Trouble Ahead" on repeat. Yes, I'm twisting and twirling and ripping individual tissues out the fuckin' box and dramatically draping them across my elongated neck and then Matrix-style dodging them like bullets shot from a pistol held by my OWN FUCKING EMOTIONS BRO.

HOW FUCKING DEEP IN THE SHIT AM I?

Fuck you Wølffe. I'm a man in 2016, I should not be more prone to pirouette than slowly nod my head. I should NOT be wearing these spandex.

Do I think I can dance (^dance, dance, _dance)????

HELL YEAH I CAN DANCE. I'VE MADE THE LOT OF YOU YEARN FOR MY SWEET SWEET AND SUPPLE MANPURSE HAVE I NOT?

Dear Wølffe, I don't particularly care for the things your voice and songs seem to do to me, but while I welcome feeling erotically charged, I do NOT recommend charging your eroticisms while wearing scrub pants.

Thank you for existing. NOW GIVE ME A RECORD TO OBSESS OVER RIGHT MEOW!

Wolffe

Trouble Ahead

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