You can hide it all you like, Punk-Rock Queen of the Naughties, and you can mosh in the fields until you’ve finally head-butted that fence post flat against the ground, but don’t freak cuz you find yourself singing “It’s gonna be a nice day,” while the Saltines are jamming in your head.
See there’s a little angle on your shoulder and he like’s to listen to ABBA, unfashionable though they may be. Don’t panic. Just hand him an iPod filled with the Golden Oldies and jam a little as you extract the still beating black heart from your second period teacher as she screams on about her pre-mortem autopsy. It’s all gravy, yo.