Dear Mr. Earworm,
You might have crept in unknowingly, but I've known about your presence for decades. Yes, I've got your number! Actually, I've enjoyed you as a tenant on many occasions. But something needs to be brought to the table once and for all.
Like my mother used to say when I would become rebellious and irrational: MY HOUSE, MY RULES! Well, sorry to get all authoritarian on you, but enough is enough. It's my body, my ear, my cognition that you're slowly eroding when you become reminiscent of the 80s or go teen pop on me. So no more Lady Gaga. No more Right Said Fred. No more Lionel Richie. No more "Like a Virgin"! No more anything that you don't hear me whistling or singing in the shower.
I know your selection, so I know that you're capable of pleasing. But consider this a warning. Any more of that intolerable noise and I'm going to fish you out with a finely sharpened #2 pencil and feed you to Freddie. He's just a fledgling piranha, but oh boy does he have an appetite!
Yours Truly,
Brently
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