I have just blasted the song four times in succession. Poor Margot is attempting to compete with this by playing the ethereal, atmospheric music that she's been digging lately next door. Unfortunately for her the rump-shaking dance dance revolution that is occurring my room is an all night party with never ending horn loops and galloping beats.
My deep love of Madonna can be blamed on my mother, who decided to infiltrate the impressionable brain of a toddler with The Immaculate Collection, as well as foster within this aforementioned child a favorable reception toward high ponytails and cone-shaped bras. After an incident in kindergarden where I got a little too involved with pelvic thrusting while singing "Borderline," I was put on Madonna probation. But like the subject of any good psychological study, this punishment only gave me forbidden fruit syndrome, making me spend countless afternoons searching the house for the Madonna cassettes my mother had hidden from me. I became obsessive and fantasized about rolling on the carpet of my My Little Pony themed bedroom wearing a wedding dress.
When the tapes were finally returned to me, I was so appreciative that I holed myself in my room and listened to "La Isla Bonita" on repeat while crying with happiness. Since then, I have learned to make my Madonna dance parties private events. It's probably best that way.
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