Angela Natividad's Live & Uncensored!

27 February 2009


Zuma is a lot like heroin in that it will slowly consume your life, to no obvious purpose, while robbing you of livelihood and social vivacity.

But a Zuma addiction has fewer benefits. Case in point: while heroin addicts can probably find a junkie or two to hook up with, nobody in this universe thinks it's sexy to spend all your time playing an advergame.

25 February 2009

The Dirty Knife Allegory: Epilogue

Fig. 1: Possible exception to Theory of Guest Washing Dirty Knife, esp. when sinkful of existing dishes is vastly disproportionate to number of dishes used.

Me: The Dirty Knife Allegory bothers everyone.

Guy Who Related Dirty Knife Allegory to Me (GWRDKAM): What is left to ponder about it?

Me: I don't know, everything. Most people are really adamant that they would wash the knife. I think they're all liars.

GWRDKAM: Really?

Me: No, not really.

GWRDKAM: Why? It doesn't seem so unreasonable.

Me: I think in retrospect it's too easy to say you'd wash the knife. Like, I've thought about it so much that I'm convinced I'd wash the knife.

GWRDKAM: Funny story. The other day I had a drink, and out of habit, I washed the glass, because I always do after using one. And then I thought "oh fuck"!

Me: Hahaha.

GWRDKAM: Because I hadn't even thought about it -- and there was a whole sink full of dishes. And so I went ahead and washed all of them, then later my girlfriend [who has since run back into my arms following the original drama of the dirty knife, and all I had to do was take her on a weekend trip to Stockholm!], asks me, "Did you wash all of my dishes?"

Me: THAT'S THE THING. It gets all under your skin.

GWRDKAM: I had totally washed a sink of dishes in a frenzied panic.

Me: Suddenly every sink is booby-trapped.

GWRDKAM: But as my girlfriend pointed out, this is a different scenario. If there's a sinkful of dishes, no one would expect you to wash them. There's apparently a line somewhere between a knife and a sinkful of dishes.

I think I naturally wash only what I use because there's no ambiguity there (in most common situations).

Me: Bare minimum of courtesy.

GWRDKAM: Exactly. Otherwise I'd have to figure out every time what I shouldn't wash and what I should. And I think to wash nothing (not even what you use) would be a bit rude, and standing there for 20 minutes washing all the dishes would be rude, and everything in between is a grey area except washing just what you used.

Me: What if the person catches you in the act and says "Don't worry about it"?

GWRDKAM: Everything in between is a grey area except washing just what you used. [See fig. 1.] That may be the bare minimum of courtesy, but it'd be hard to argue that it was actually rude. And in this world, where all my friends all have different norms and different standards, it seems like the safest bet.*

Me: It is pretty safe.

GWRDKAM: Unless there's just one dish in the sink, I guess.


* This is probably too philosophical for people that are still wondering, "Seriously, what if the host asks you to stop washing the dishes?" I like to think the answer has something to do with whether the person would be receptive to you insisting you're going to finish the dishes ("Oh, I've already started!"), or whether it'd be better to just concede and leave them in the sink. S/he can't really blame you then. Well, possibly.

Air Force Flow Chart for Blogging Engagement

And it's actually pretty good, actually. V-v-via.

Don't you just love flow charts though? There are only ever a handful of variables in a given bubble, and all you have to do is pick a variable and follow through.

A well-made flow chart can solve all the troubles in the universe. (In the event that you do not believe...)

23 February 2009

The Dirty Knife Allegory

A few days ago, a friend presented me with this scenario:

"What if you were dating a guy, and one night he came over to your apartment. You cooked him dinner, everything was fine, and when he finished eating he washed all the dishes he used -- except for a single dirty knife that was already in the sink when he arrived.

"How would you react?"

I answered from my gut: "It would be weird, but it wouldn't bother me. I mean, if you invite somebody over, he's not obligated to wash any of your dishes. So if he washed the ones he used, that's pretty much the bare minimum of courtesy, right?"

"This happened to me," he said. "My girlfriend invited me over for dinner, and I washed all my dishes except for her dirty knife."


"Because I feel uncomfortable washing other people's dirty dishes. It's like telling them they're not clean enough to meet my standards."

"I see."

"Anyway, she left me over it."

After a setup like the one he gave me, a statement like that is fit to make your eyes pop. But really it was an oversimplification: the girl treated the dirty knife like a microcosm of everything else wrong with their relationship, in particular his own emotional unavailability.

The guy wrote the situation off as one of those instances where you become so ruled by your own fears that you project them onto situations that don't mean much at all. Sometimes a knife is just a knife. But I've been obsessed with it -- what I've come to call The Dirty Knife Allegory -- ever since.

I presented the scenario to an ex-boyfriend in the same way the first guy pitched it to me. His response to the hypothetical love interest who wouldn't wash his dirty knife:

"Wow. That can mean so many things. For me it would indicate that I can't trust her; she's only out for herself."

For some reason this completely freaked me out: the fact is, I wouldn't wash the knife. I might wash the dishes I used, but then again I might not. I guess it's a matter of how delicate the social situation is.

Crucially, the Dirty Knife Allegory put a clear face on a personal fear: however good, ethical and kind I try to be, there's a part of me I think is fundamentally bad. It's the part that, as a kid, wished my parents would divorce. It sabotages my romantic relationships, or ferrets out -- and broadcasts! -- bad qualities in people I personally just don't like. It's the part of me that resents hippies -- and that, a year and a half ago, dropped a big rock on a crawdad in Fall Creek.

(I felt really crappy about that afterward.)

I can terrace or hide these aspects of myself, but they never really go away. This leads to the question of whether there's a core to someone that is fixed -- something they're born with, aspects of character that betray them in the little things they wouldn't consciously think to change. Like me not washing the knife.

If a piece of us, the essence of us, remains static, then you have to wonder: are some people born with counterproductive or antisocial characteristics?

Pragmatic people will argue that's subjective, and to an extent I agree. But part of me has bought into the idea that a villain can be born as well as made. However hard I've worked to be the kind of person I admire, there are still things I've missed, things that fall through the cracks. Like other people's dirty knives.

Verdict's still out on this, and it probably always will be. My guilt over what I am -- and the irrepressible sense of empathy I feel for Anakin Skywalker's bad rep -- are probably just things I'll have to get over.

Some social media grokking on the topic (non-Twitter responses come from Facebook):

Me -- "Wondering if there's an aspect to people that can't be changed -- however hard they try, however much they want."

@andrewlockhart: "I was wondering about that the other day. I think some things are just in the hardware. No amount of programming will help."

@woodswittdealy: "It's a good bet that the best and the worst are never going away--greed and selflessness--they're with us forever."

@jolieaodell: "If people can't change, I think it's because they don't want it enough or try hard enough. Sincere, diligent effort is IT."

Evan B: "people can change themselves with a tremendous amount of effort. like, herculean. however it's all case specific, so your chances are fifty-fifty."

William O: "you can't 'fix' people."

Atif C: "There probably are some aspects about yourself that you can not change, but you can change the behavior associated with them...."

19 February 2009

The Guy's On Point.

Yong Fook is the lead developer at Sweetcron,* an open source service that enables you to consolidate your updates -- from blogs, Twitter, flickr, YouTube, wherever -- on a single page. (Imagine if Friendfeed and Tumblr had a really pretty, automated baby composed of all your internet bits.)

In the video above Fook discusses blogging's past, present and future. You've probably felt the crux of his argument already: you started a blog, and maybe let it die because sites like Facebook already aggregate your whole life.

Aggregation's where it's at -- the question is, how best to cultivate and package your aggregated material for the consumption of others? And is there a way to divide the personal and professional? Post-Facebook, should we even care about that anymore?


*I am playing with it now. Most of the time it drives me crazy, but that's only because I lack the tech skills to really leverage it. See Yong Fook's homepage to get a sense of how it works.

17 February 2009

Going Black to Fight 'Guilty Upon Accusation'

Avatars on Twitter are going ominously black to protest a new law, Section 92A, that's been passed in New Zealand.

After the 28th, users can get their lifelines internet disconnected "based on accusations of copyright infringement without a trial and without any evidence held up to court scrutiny." Because of the unveiled creepiness of that language, the law's been dubbed "Guilty Upon Accusation."

ReadWriteWeb -- whose New Zealand-based minion Ed joined the ban -- says the blackout's spread to Twitter's topmost tiers, notably to British TV star @StephenFry, the third-most-followed person on the site. Maybe in part as a result, blackouts have spread to Facebook, Myspace and Bebo. We're pretty sure you'll see them on blogs too.

Citizens of Internet don't have to be told that these types of rulings are the result of defensive corporate behavior and just general ass-backward thinking. We think it's important to be able to profit from the contributions you're making to the world, musical or otherwise. But technology changes things -- some technology, like the internet, forces us to rethink our business models or find new ones altogether.

That's not wrong either; it's just the world moving forward. (Consider that the VCR also freaked the entertainment industry out.) And if new generations of internet users increasingly perceive filesharing as part of the natural order, maybe we should find a way to move with that wave, shaping it as we go along -- think iTunes and Amazon -- instead of lashing out with lawsuits and extreme forms of punishments.

Victims will tell you: the only real demons are the demonizers.

It's also crucial to point out that copyright protection laws are not uncommon, but what New Zealand's done goes against the flow of where both consumers and governments are moving. In April of last year, European policymakers concluded that banning "suspected file-sharers" from the 'net is in conflict with "civil liberties and human rights."

And in December, our very own RIAA decided to stop suing song-swappers -- not out of the kindness of their hearts, but because the lawsuits ultimately cost them more than they were receiving in settlements. (Yeah, well, most 12-year-olds don't get a $12 million allowance.)

So New Zealand decides to not only ban persistent file-sharers, but potentially cut the internet connections of suspected ones? Without trials?!

That's just ugly -- especially now that the internet is increasingly perceived as a utility.

Anywho, the blackout takes place for a week. Find out how to participate -- or hell, just download the anthem -- here. If you're aesthetically too sensitive to take part, but still want to raise a fist against Witchhunt 2.0, the Creative Freedom Foundation is holding a song remix challenge in addition to "various other initiatives" -- video ads, radio broadcasts, etc.

First the drama of the Facebook ToS, now this. It's such an exciting time to be alive, connected 24/7 and full of rage.

Wonder what an internet riot would look like.

16 February 2009

The Facebook ToS Change, and You.


Crucial reading for users concerned about how Ev'rybody's Favourite Circle Jerk may misuse our data.


* And yeah, images SFW. Slackers.

15 February 2009

Reason #420984309 to Love Sci-Fi Fans.

It's a fact that aliens have been visiting Earth for last several thousand years. Many of our technologies are gifts from them.

It is a different matter that our Governments and some our scientists are in constant denial. Maybe this is their policy or perhaps the aliens have asked them to keep their identity secret in lieu of technical inputs given.

-- Commenter Shailendra Singh on article,
"Number of alien worlds quantified."

Something I Just Discovered About Myself.

I don't care how long we've known each other, I will unfriend you for blogging a dangerously emo break-up dirge and then tagging me on the note.

Your heartache makes my Newsfeed a downer.

Candy Heart Messages (Make Your Own!)

Don't leave your fate to the whim of impersonal candy heart box-fillers; eat your own chalky propaganda

The only setback is the stingy per-line character count. I like a challenge though.

14 February 2009

Establishing New Reference Points

(Fun fact: You can make the image bigger by clicking on it. Alternatively, you could just go here.)

11 February 2009

Traductions: "Show b00b!"

I'm pretty sure I'll get over this once I've walked by a few hundred construction sites, but in the meantime French catcalls rawk the party that rocks the party. Sample dish:

"Vous êtes superb."

"T'es ravissante!" (A deep breath, and an I-can't-believe-my-eyes expression, go the extra mile.)

"How does it feel to drive all the men mad...?" (The key to this one is stopping the girl and saying it very, very softly.)

Wrapping it up, last week at a crowded bar on Bonne Nouvelle the bartender noticed me ogling some overkill video surveillance equipment behind the cash register. When I gave him my drink order, he leaned in, motioned to the surveillance system and said, "With that I can see everything. But it is you that I'm watching."


No Room to Negotiate

Whenever I feel my circumstances begin to box me in, I think of something a friend said after a long afternoon of listening to me vent and swear:

Lower your standards or jump higher.

It struck me as devastatingly, stupidly simple -- but today, four years after he uttered them, the words still feel airtight.

09 February 2009

Tasty Discoveries

Occitane Miel & Citron, which will make you both aromatically edible and sparkly around the neck. (But not too sparkly.)

Pink Martini, a classically-trained band whose ear candy is infused with nostalgic Americana, Latin and French influences. There's also some big-band, bossa nova and gothic action tossed in. (Listen to their rendition of Que Sera Sera. Chills guaranteed or your money back*.)


*Not really.

More Truth Than You Might Guess

From this week's Post Secret, and via my friend Candace, who operates this site.

Diggin' how the filename is "BEATSTANFORD."

Choose Your Own Adventure

Peering into uncertainty

Years ago my dad and I shared the same dentist: one young, handsome Dr. Kramer, whose friendly staff and general competence made it pleasant to have our teeth cleaned, X-rayed and otherwise manipulated.

The time came for my regular check-up, so I drove straight to his office after school -- only to find the door locked.

I peered in through the windows and experienced a mildly nauseating mixture of confusion and foreboding. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds off like always, and the receptionist inbox sat loaded with files and documents beside a telephone with a blinking red light. Magazines were spread neat across a corner table, waiting for antsy perusers; and a king-size water dispenser stood dormant, three-fourths full, paper cups at the ready.

But on the other side of the door, where letters were pushed through a silver slot, a pile of mail sat untouched, approaching knee-height. The office had apparently been deserted for weeks, maybe more.

I called Dr. Kramer's number but didn't even get a recording; just one of those messages that indicates the box is full. So I went back to my parents' and told my dad. He frowned, perplexed as I was. "I'll look into it," he promised.

A week later he called and said, definitively, "Looks like they're gone."

"Weird," I said. "Any idea what happened?"

A thoughtful pause. I waited for something scandalous but banal: tax trouble, a malpractice lawsuit, dental Rapture.

Instead he said, "Sometimes a person leaves his car parked outside his work, or maybe the post office, and disappears. Nobody knows what happens to him. Ten years later you find him in a different country, with a new family and a new life."

I was stunned by this elaboration. Instead of waiting for me to express the awkward "Hrm" rising to my throat, he powered on:

"That's what happens when you fail to plan properly. You fill up with regrets and do something you should've done when you were young, except now you're old and have responsibilities, and everybody thinks you're crazy."

Nothing from me on that one. After a heavy remorseful sigh, he moved in for the kill.

"That's why I always tell you to plan your life now. Get all your fantasies out of the way before you have obligations you can't escape." a family seemed to linger at the end of this grand proclamation, but he didn't say it, and I didn't call him on it.

Months later we found out Dr. Kramer had relocated to a larger office in Lafayette, twenty minutes away from us. The damage, however, was done: dad found a new dentist, and the story he told -- that bizarre midlife escape scenario -- has played itself out in my mind again and again.

It's at least one of the straws that compelled me to pursue this Paris thing, which ironically annoyed him:

"We did everything to have you kids in a free country, and now you want to move to where they don't even have indoor toilets," he once sneered. (The toilet thing is an overstatement, but I chock it up to the intensity of his feelings. It must suck when your firstborn bids you adios and moves to the other side of the world.)

Three weeks have passed since I landed on French terrain. Here's a synopsis of what things have been like so far.

I visited Paris, essentially to stake it out, three years ago. I embedded myself in its rhythm, insofar as you can do that from a youth hostel, to gauge whether we'd mesh well. My memory of that period is unrealistically romantic: I made friends, stayed busy. My French wasn't great, but I felt I could survive.

Something in me's changed since then. On my first full day I was so terrified by the size of my undertaking -- living here, as opposed to being on vacation -- that I couldn't even bring myself to reciprocate Bonjour to strangers on the street. I was too scared to buy food, too intimidated even to utter "Pardon" when I bumped into other pedestrians.

I sought solace at the nearest cyber café and confessed all this to my friend Kito, who's been living in Germany for seven months. (We're ultra-chummy now because we more or less share a time zone.)

"Get over it," he said grumpily. "You have to at least eat something."

So I got over myself and went grocery shopping. It was not without its hazards (I didn't know where to put my shopping basket at the cash register, and everyone stared like I was a Martian), but it marked a victory: these days, I eat.

Now I oscillate between really discouraging moments -- like when the perfumier asked if I checked the bottle I was buying for damage, and I just stared stupidly -- and super-awesome ones, like when a woman on the street asked me for the time, and I gave it to her, or when I took the metro by myself (and transferred TWICE!).

I've also been lucky enough to tap into a small network of people willing to keep me company. Kito visited once, as did a friend living in Zurich; I have a Parisian friend, Alexia, who's enduring enough to let me hang out with her chums sometimes; and a few fellow expat/writers let me bootleg their wifi and sometimes even treat me to drinks.

So life is not bad. The biggest challenges? Living without being digitally connected 24/7. The general consensus is that it takes about a month to get internet access at home.

Heaven knows why it takes so long, but the telecoms seem to have no trouble finding ways to stretch the wait. After waiting three weeks and counting to receive a setup box via post, SFR sent over a letter that read, "Congratulations! Your request for internet access has been approved. You should receive a box in the mail within days of this mailing, and our technicians will ensure you are set up within three weeks."

I was all, You gotta be kidding. Three MORE weeks? Comcast back in Walnut Creek took 48 hours, and I thought that was heavy laggage.

Things have progressed since then. I should have wifi access by Wednesday, fingers crossed.

But being 'net-free hasn't been all bad. I go out daily on a quest for "weefee," and as a result found Sesame, a homey café by the Canal St-Martin, where the proprietress lets me futz around on my laptop and partake of her quiche all day if I want. I also spend a lot of time with an expat friend who lives close to Montorgeuil, where you can apparently buy some kick-ass cheese.

The walking is doing me good, and so has life without elevators. (My flat is on the fifth floor of a building -- 95 steps up. I count them twice a day, sometimes more, on my long way up and down.)

And because the language barrier obviously limits opportunities for engagement, I spend a lot of time alone, doing things I never do: staring out the window, preparing dinner, cleaning my apartment, listening to the radio and reading.

To echo Kito: "Life has become a lot quieter." More poetic, sure, but definitely quieter.

On Sundays everything is closed (with the bizarre exception of IKEA and restaurants), so the solitude I typically only experience for a few hours during the weekday compounds. When I finally get out of bed in the morning (...afternoon), Sunday is prime for aimless rambling.

Around every corner is a bookstore with a poetic name: L'Arbre à Lettres, Les Cahiers de Colette, Mona Lisait. Each is outfitted with its own aesthetic, its own altars raised to the authors it worships. I feel a compulsion to buy something from all of them, so my whitewashed bookshelf is far less empty than it was last week.

I also made the requisite pilgrimage to Shakespeare & Co. It's good to be surrounded by English volumes I'm intimately familiar with, coupled with a looming sense of anticipation: one day something I write may be sitting there, waiting to infuse some other naive scrivener with purpose.

To wrap this up, here's a stack of handy-dandy French words and expressions.

  • se connecter à internet -- to connect (oneself) to the internet
  • carte sans fil -- wireless card
  • prise -- electrical outlet
  • carte SIM -- sim card
  • wifi (pronounced weefee) -- wifi
  • blogeur -- blogger
  • la pub -- advertising (short for "la publicité." "I work in advertising" would be "Je travaille dans la pub." Get it?)
  • marketing -- marketing
  • télécharger -- to download

Non-techie stuff:

  • sans doute -- probably
  • sans aucun doute -- without a doubt (thanks, Olivier)
  • enterrement de vie de garçon/jeune fille -- bachelor/bachelorette party. The phrase translates to something like "funeral for the life of a boy/young girl"
  • tant qu'il y a la vie, il y a l'espoir -- as long as there is life, there is hope. This is from Alexia, who's been teaching me a lot of proverbs.

Sometimes, to be funny, she also repeats ad slogans: "Il a free, il a tout compris!" And if you want to know what that's all about, you'll have to Google it. Or, well, tune in next time.

06 February 2009

25 Angela Facts You Won't Find in a Google Search. (Well, Now You Will.)

Russian. Kitsch.

Once you've been tagged, write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you.

Note: I already did my tagging on Facebook, and I don't want to be all Overachiever and tag 50 PEOPLE, so I'm nixing this rule on L&U.

Fact the 1st. Russian kitsch is weirdly appealing to me. I love the stark appearance and urgency of proletariat propaganda, the big furry hats and coats, the stern expressions, the literature (Turgenev is my favourite), and the art -- especially stuff from between 1900 and 1920.

2. I have judged the characters of men I dated by asking them what passages they liked best in The Little Prince.

3. Talking about Warren Buffett makes me giddy.

4. I stock facts and anecdotes to whip out at a pin-drop. If you know me long enough, you will hear the same one, delivered the exact same way, two or three times. Please stop me if I ever do this to you.

5. Carmen is my favourite opera.

6. If I could put any celebrity in a jar to shake and gaze at when I'm sad, it would be Johnny Depp.

7. When I was six, a girl my grandma baby-sat bit my arm and took the skin off. Grandma did nothing about it -- and I held the grudge up until two years ago, when she coyly confessed that after the girl bit me, she brushed her hair extra-hard so it would hurt.

8. Now that I'm older I realize most of the foods I hated in childhood were due primarily to prejudice. The exception to this epiphany is peas. I. HATE. PEAS.

9. Know how every senior class has a Hall of Fame? I won the airhead awards for mine in both eighth-grade and twelfth: "Lost in Space" and "Most Likely to Have Her Head in the Clouds," respectively.

10. At age eleven I submitted "novels" (of, like, 12 pages) to Dell Yearling, Scholastic and Penguin (I think?) for publication. Each rejected me, probably due in no small part to my cover letters. They were written in pencil and said, "You probably think I'm an amatuer [sic] because I'm a kid. I AM NOT AN AMATUER."

A similar approach (via email, natch) won me my first gig as a blogger.

11. I say derisive things about karaoke, but the truth is I like it and secretly hope someone forces me to sing, and I prove unexpectedly dazzling, and the whole room pays me lots of compliments afterward.

12. As a kid I got kicked out of a comic book store for trying to steal a Ranma 1/2 manga. I never wanted to steal again.

13. Tonight marks the first time I ever peeled a garlic clove.

14. I used to raid my church kitchen for the Eucharist bread. They later switched to biscuits.

15. Guilty pleasure: Sitting on the phone with old high school friends, trawling MySpace and gossiping about who "let go."

16. I eat all the grains first in a bowl of Lucky Charms. Then I count the marshmallows and eat them in heaping spoonfuls while they're still crunchy. A friend once criticized me for this, so I tried eating them the normal way. Can't do it; the second she left the room I was segregating like crazy.

17. Starbucks fired me at age 16 for asking an artillery soldier if he ever killed anyone. If they had not fired me, I would probably still be working there.

18. My parents claim the first word I ever uttered was "baboy," Tagalog for "pig." When I finally grasped English, it wasn't a word that escaped me but a sentence: "I don't like it."

19. I was forbidden to read when I misbehaved.

20. Chili-laced hot chocolate is my favourite beverage.

21. At a previous job, I took up smoking to expedite a promotion. It worked.

22. In fifth-grade I made Spelling Bee Regionals. Didn't win though. We could misspell five words before being disqualified; I can't recall what all of mine were, but I do remember screwing up "diligent." (I spelled it "deligent.")

23. I like uncooked brownie mix.

24. Jadzia Dax is the Star Trek character I love best. It really pissed me off when Terry Farrell left the show and Ezri Dax came along.

25. When we were 17, me and my boyfriend thought Elephant Bar was for rich people. He'd lean back on one of their zebra-print booths and be all, "When I'm rich, places like this are gonna save me tables."

05 February 2009

AP Goes Gunning for Shepard Fairey

The Associated Press is going after Shepard Fairey for taking an Obama photo taken by an AP news photographer -- and turning it into one of the most iconic art images of the Obama movement.

From TechCrunch:

Fair use is under attack, and the AP is leading the charge. Artists like Fairey take copyrighted images and reinterpret them all the time. Many argue that is what art is. Fairey’s Obama poster certainly made a bigger impact on our culture than the original image, which he reportedly found by doing a Google image search. He is being represented by the Stanford Fair Use Project.

The argument follows that Fairey should be protected under Fair Use because the image was changed so significantly that even AP didn't know it was derived from one of their own until a few weeks ago.

Last year AP tried waging war against bloggers over fair use of its news material. TechCrunch's Michael Arrington boycotted it.

In the Event that You Forgot that Kate Moss is Skinny...

Stella McCartney sees fit to remind us.

I'm diggin' the chalky Painted Desert ambiance though. It's so Peter Sís. (Dude illustrated one of my favourite books.)


04 February 2009

So I Guess I Should Be Too.