Bubblegum, but make it loud
Track three is a sugar rush wrapped in a cherry bomb. I haven't stopped humming it since Tuesday. Recommended for road trips and rebellious afternoons.
A candy-coated wonderland of opinion
Reviews that leap off the page.
— scribbled by friends, not robots
Section 1
Notes pinned to a candy-colored corkboard. Each one a small, opinionated eruption.
Track three is a sugar rush wrapped in a cherry bomb. I haven't stopped humming it since Tuesday. Recommended for road trips and rebellious afternoons.
The controls feel like jumping on a trampoline made of marshmallow. I died eighty-four times on the gumball boss and laughed every single time.
Illustrations so soft you could eat them with a spoon. My niece demanded three readings in a row, which is the highest honor a book can receive.
Crisp, chewy, and absurdly green. The barista winked at me when I ordered a second one and I felt seen. Will return weekly until I am made of dough.
Reader, I am not exaggerating. There are nine ducks, two suspicious geese, and a heron who is clearly the mastermind. Genre-defining quack work.
It goes thwock instead of click and I cannot describe how much joy that gives me. Office life improved by 37%. The 37 is scientific. I made it up.
Section 2
Scores grow as flowers along a winding path. Five stars bloom big. One star is a hopeful seedling.
5 / 5 — ecstatic
4 / 5 — chuffed
3 / 5 — neutral
2 / 5 — meh
1 / 5 — grumpy
Section 3
Long-form opinions, unrolled like festival scrolls. Pull up a stool, lean in.
The first time I heard the new single I was crossing a parking lot in a thunderstorm, and I genuinely believed the universe had cued the music up for me, because the chorus erupted at the exact moment lightning split the sky. The song is three minutes and twelve seconds of pure technicolor. It is not subtle. It does not want to be subtle. It wants to be a parade.
The drums sound like jellybeans being poured into a glass jar. The synths sound like neon signs at a roller rink. The vocals are stacked twelve high, all the singer, all in different moods. There is a moment around the bridge where the song appears to laugh at itself, and the laughter is contagious.
— I have listened to it 41 times this week.
Every winter I argue with someone, somewhere, about citrus. Oranges get the parade, lemons get the cocktail, limes get the spotlight on the taco truck — but the tangerine, friends, the tangerine is the one quietly doing the work. It peels with one thumb. It separates into perfect, polite segments. It does not squirt you in the eye.
A tangerine is the only fruit that fits comfortably in a coat pocket and survives the trip. A tangerine is the only fruit you can eat in a meeting without making it weird. A tangerine knows what it is, and it is excellent at being that thing. We owe it a national holiday and at least one statue.
— hot take, I know
Keep talking. Keep cheering. Keep gabbing.
— see you in the next gabfest