[...] Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort by with which one wrenches one's head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like San Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized why it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweep supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, agrresive symbol of chastity. With just a touch of my burning hand, I'm gonna live my life to to destroy your world. Prime directive, exterminate the whole fuckin' race. Then your face drops in a pile of flesh, and then your heart, heart pounds and it pumps in death. Prime directive, exterminate the whole fuckin' place.
George Orwell y My Chemical Romance pueden ser una combinación catastrófica.