[There is an uncomfortably long moment of silence, at least twenty-two minutes go by, before one of the missing Taylor Swift printouts is slid out under the door. It doesn't seem to be scrawled upon, but there is a little arrow in one corner, indicating it should be turned over to read what is said.]
Thor,
Taylor Swift is insipid. Your musical taste is appalling. I always took you for more of an Imagine Dragons "Thunder" type.
[There is a sentence that is angrily scribbled out of existence.]
Don't be a fool. If you could survive being reminded of Jane Foster every time you go bounding out of doors, I can survive this whilst in the comfort of my own chambers. I have the treats known as Pop-tarts with which to find consolation. They are of the chocolate variety.