You’re all absolutely despicable. Every single one of you. Not an ounce of redeemable biomass among you. You rat bastards are the most revolting mockeries of the beauty of life I have ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon.

And I know exactly what you want.

You, the rat bastards, are here to convince me, the Pure One, to let you put your grubby little hot dog fingers on my precious Raffi CDs. And then, what? Will you put the CDs in the boombox? In the Walkman? In the record player? I bet you would put them in the record player because you grimy, slimy, half-excuses for sentience couldn’t possibly know where my Raffi CDs are supposed to go.
 

And who wouldn’t want to touch my wonderfully pristine tower of Raffi CDs? Who would refuse the offer to feel the weight of Raffi’s masterpieces, so painstakingly preserved, in their own palms, the hands of their own body, the parts connected to them that they believe themselves to have ownership over? Yes, I bet you rat bastards salivate over the very idea of making contact with such earth-shattering works of art. You picture the squarish shape of the jewel case, the circular shape of the disc, the humanoid shape of Raffi’s smiling face on the cover, surrounded by shapeless warm hues and warmer feelings. I’m sure you dream up entire lifetimes of touching, feeling, experiencing my Raffi CDs.

But none of that even matters. You know why? Because I will never, not in my life, ever let you rat bastards touch my Raffi CDs! I won’t even let you look at them! At the wax museum, they tell you to look, but not touch. But I touched the 50 foot tall anime render of George Eliot’s beloved character Silas Marner anyway, so I know that rule is a slippery slope. I climbed all the way to the top, and I touched it on the nose, and I showed them – yes, I showed them all – that if you can look, you can very easily touch. So I will not let you do either. I will hide my Raffi CDs in the deepest, darkest, coldest place, where none of you rat bastards could even cast your filthy gaze in their direction. You will not look with your grubby eyes; you will not touch with your grubby paws. Understand?

Do you even have eyes? Who knows? I certainly don’t because I won’t even be here when you arrive to convince me to let you slather my precious Raffi CDs with your touch grease. I’ll be halfway to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault by then! Aha, you’ll never touch my CDs if they’re in the Seed Vault! Bet you rat bastards didn’t think of that, did you?

And you know what? I’m gonna take my sweet, soft, beautiful, precious Raffi CDs – in the Svalbard Global Seed Vault – I’m gonna take them, and I’m gonna throw them down the darkest hallway, and I’m gonna fill the vault with gasoline, and I’m gonna cover the walls in dynamite, and I’m gonna make sure that’s the last anyone will ever see of my Raffi CDs forevermore. I’m gonna let the Seed Vault burn. I’m gonna watch the flames rise hundreds of feet into the air. I’m gonna imagine Raffi’s calming, comforting face as it melts and curls, the fires licking away the artifice of physical form that confines his image, his music, his very being. And I will be at peace, absolutely certain that you’ll never get your dirty, muddy, filthy, rat bastard grabbers on my Raffi CDs once they’ve been liberated from this mortal coil! Ha! Ahahaha! Ahahahahahaha!