Your presenter of your TV programme that you’re half watching while reading this rubbish is yet again talking about something – either tangible or abstract – that apparently exists only in relation to yourself, according to your ears.
Whether you love your sport, your music, your movies, your weather, your reality shows with your fantasy friends, or your random crap you find when flicking through your countless channels, your presenters and your pundits are all constantly referring to you as either your progenitor or your possessor of your subject being broadcast.
Meanwhile, your concerned critics are mourning your loss of both your definite and your indefinite articles.
However, your experts in your English language say it is unlikely that your TV presenters are now also your epistemological philosophers of solipsism, but are simply one of the most vocal elements in a material universe of exponentially witless wankers.
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