If you want to sing about whores and harlots, go ahead. If you want to insert a random folk song into your pop/alternative rock album, I guess I can live with that. Make up a fantastical world where 9 p.m. is still the afternoon, and I’ll play along. Do what you want, Panic at the Disco, but don’t lie to me.

            I’ve stuck with you through the years—all three—and the least you could do is be honest. I watched as the concept album you were working so hard on fell apart. I made it through the disappearing exclamation point in your name. I was even fine with your new sound. It was upbeat, refreshing, and, as most critics are saying, a little reminiscent of The Beatles. Who doesn’t love The Beatles?

            Yes, you are bold, brave, experimental, and I respect that. But where-oh-where do you get the nerve promising me, “You don’t have to worry, ‘cause we’re still the same band”? Let me tell you, boys, I sincerely hope this is a joke.

            Ever since this new album dropped, I’ve felt like I don’t know you anymore. That fever you said couldn’t be sweated out? Gone. The crazy techno beats of 2006 have been replaced with guitars, trombones, trumpets—instruments I didn’t even know you knew. I know that, in many ways, you are still the same band, so maybe we can still work things out.

            And if it was all just a joke, Panic at the Disco, I beg that you please stop toying with my emotions. It’s the least you can do after what we’ve been through together.