Dear Crimson Caricatures,

First off, I just wanted to say I'm a long-time fan, first-time writer, and former face owner.

I'm writing about your latest show "The Punk Rock of Surf Rock: A Ballad," as I was unaware of the level of rock that would be brought to the show. So it was to my surprise when midway through your first song's third guitar solo, my face melted clean off my skull.

I believe it was when your guitarist entered the second minute of his uninterrupted D chord that I first noticed my face had melted. Of course, this wasn't the only thing that led me to this discovery, as I had also lost the ability to smell, taste, hear, see, or feel my cheeks, which were at this point forming a puddle, ruining my Converse.

Chillwave punk surf rock band playing

I can't imagine this is a problem you deal with regularly, seeing how your shows usually take place in the cool, abandoned warehouses of the Northeast, in addition to the structural support typically offered by the human skull, and I hope that we can deal with this issue in a way as clean and simple as my now totally exposed skeleton.

Now I don't want to blame this all on you, as I have no way of knowing if it was in fact your post-industrial, pre-atomic soundscape that caused my facial liquidation. In fact, earlier that day I had taken a B12 vitamin without any water, not to mention I had missed my last two dentist appointments. While my doctor assured me it was neither of these, I know that he's more of a Dave Matthews man, and question his credibility, as well as his shredability (ability to shred).

I have chosen to write to you in hopes of facing this problem directly, despite not having the necessary skin, muscle, or facial recognition left to literally do so. Lawyers have assured me both that "there is no legal recourse for rocking too hard," and "you look like the keeper of crypts, the killer of kings, the deliverer of death—may the dark days begin," so there's no need to worry about a lawsuit. However, I do hope you'll reimburse me for my now cheek-stained Converse.

In the end, I come to you, not as a man of malice, but as a fan suggesting we take advantage of the opportunity we've been given. In the words of my now ex-wife, "That is truly horrifying, I'm going to stay at my mother's," which is 50% verbatim what the Chicago Sun said about your last album. So what I lack in a face, I plan to make up for in brains, and humbly suggest my grim reaper mug shot as the cover art for your next album "Guns & Roses Made of Guns."

I look forward to hearing from you through a rhythmic series of taps on my chest and arms.

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