My iPod got deleted. Not a song left on the boy and no backup to speak of. That thing rocked so many parties. It had two copies of every Biggie song so they'd come up on Shuffle more often. It was the father I never had, by which I mean the father that was a third-generation 20-gig mp3 player 98-percent full of indie rock, hip hop, and that one song from Space Jam that Matt put on there.
So you know I'm distraught.
Naturally you're asking, what can I do to help?
You can send me mp3s at firstname.lastname@example.org.
You can physically hand me burned mixes and CDs you have lying around. I will meet you to make the hand-off and we can drink a peach Snapple (or perhaps green tea Snapple, if that's how you ride) or you could drop something in my mailbox (PIERSON, DONALD) on the 7th floor of Tisch (721 B'way), Dramatic Writing Department. Lemme know: 646 226 2930.
In any case, I would be eternally in your debt. And we would've drank Snapple, which means we'd be bonded for life.
I need music. All of it.