We Will Not Have This Orwellian Bullshit.

[image courtesy of Stereogum and my interweb piracy skillz. Come get me, Washington]

These last few days, I have felt a little like I have been living in a rather alarming science fiction scenario. One government controlling the world's Internetz? A single, self-serving entity which will determine what we can read, watch, talk about, share, buy, engage with, and decide what we are allowed to know and say? An institution which can erase my blog from existence, this little slice of pixellation I call my place in the Internet, for simply having too many pictures of Jake Gyllenhaal from Jarhead, particularly that scene in which he dances around naked with a Santa hat on his boyparts? And by deleting my site, effectively erase my voice and entire online identity, with no explanation, no justification, and no prior warning?
How dystopian. How utterly ridiculous. And in all honesty, how terrifying.

Fuck that shit. Fuck SOPA [Stop Online Piracy Act]. Many many other worthy users of the web have come forward to say and do their part, far more eloquently than I will ever be able to do.

Here is why you should know what SOPA (and its sister bill, also currently making its way through the US legislative system, PIPA, or Protect Intellectual Property Act] are all about. Here is why you need to care, even if you're on the other side of the planet (HELLO MALAYSIANS). Here's why you need to quit whining about how you can't half-ass copypaste complete your final assignments because Wikipedia went all black and "this is so inconvenient lah you guys".

Here is the breakdown of both SOPA and PIPA by Pajiba.com. With profanity.

Here is Cracked.com's hilarious but also sobering account of how, eventually, just about anyone is going to be able to abuse both SOPA and PIPA.

Here is Sue Fyenn's wonderful run through of all the implications of both acts (should they be passed in United States Of America Headquarters). Long, but easy to understand, and totally worth it. And yes, she articulated the situation so effectively that I was pretty much shitting my pants by the end.

Here is Wikipedia's own explanation, including its blackout protest initiative.


Here is a GIF about SOPA, starring a koala, a goat, and Oprah and Jesus on a jetski, in true Oatmeal comic style.





Here is an open letter signed by a group of musicians, artists, actors, authors and other creators of original content (including MGMT, Neil Gaiman, and one Mythbuster), sent to Washington, detailing how both SOPA and PIPA will end up causing more harm than good to themselves and their audience in the long run.


This Internet, it is a glorious one. It has allowed us to share and engage with the world in a way that was unthinkable just a few years ago. The Internet has given us so much, including this long-overdue recipe for unicorn shit cookies.




Imagine if, say, I don't know...Universal Studios suddenly decides this is a threat to copyright, and pulls this site down, and my blog as well, simply for linking to it. I don't know about you, but I don't want to live on a planet where even unicorns must live in fear of copyright infringement. Screw you, SOPA.

Now let's all go sign some petitions.

"Men Seldom Make Passes, At Girls Who Wear Glasses"

The makeover reality show (reality makeover show?) Plain Jane is something that flew under my radar a little bit when I first caught the opening episode earlier this year. There were several things about it that bugged me, but I wasn't able to fully articulate them until now, when I managed to sit through two or three episodes of the second season (who keeps renewing all the shit shows anyway?).

To put things in context ; each week, British fashion expert and self-professed "fairy godmother"Louise Roe takes one average-looking, socially awkward young woman in her early twenties, and gives her a head-to-toe, inside-to-outside makeover. At the end of the show, the no-longer-so-Plain Jane is put into heels and a tight dress, and sent tottering down a dramatic staircase to confess her love to the guy she's been secretly pining over for years.


1. Being a "plain" girl is bad.

First of all, here's just one example of what this show considers to be an unattractive woman.

Right.

These girls, to me, look and are perfectly fine. Sure, they could all use some polish here and there, but the show takes it several steps further. The girls are made out to be walking fashion disasters, completely socially inept, and general failures at being women at all. It's patronising and insulting, and for a show meant to be empowering and feel-good, it does exactly what everything else in mainstream media already does for women ; it emphasizes a certain beauty ideal and constantly reminds you of how inadequate you are until and unless you change the way you look so drastically that cute boys will finally want to actually speak to you, let alone have voluntary sexy timez with you.

Second of all, it's really striking to note how there really isn't a male equivalent for the term Plain Jane. It seems to be in a category of derogatory words apparently created exclusively for women (slut, spinster, bitter old cat lady) that somehow don't apply to men. As my Gender & Sexuality lecturer is all too fond of saying ; "That is really something you need to think about".


2. Being a true woman means you need to like makeup, cute shoes, and doing your hair.

No plaid shirts, sweats, ponytails or comfortable shoes for you, young lady. Nope. Because what will people (read : your super cute crush) think?? Not at all - you must be an expert at slathering three different kinds of foundation on your face, you must sashay down sidewalks like a goddess in strappy high heels, you must have impeccable hair. Do you enjoy playing football, eating pizza with your fingers, conducting scientific experiments, and reading lots of books? Well aren't you the tomboy. All that will have to change, or at least be tucked away long enough for your crush to not notice. Plain Jane is here to help you embrace your womanity and turn you into A REAL GIRL dammit.


3. Flirting is the most important life skill you will ever learn.

Or at least, that's what the people over at Plain Jane will have you know. There is a segment of the show devoted to teaching our Jane how to flirt properly ; how to be coy, how to giggle, how to keep the conversation "light and fun". She is usually set up at a restaurant or a park, with a string of fine young gentlemen she is meant to impress within a certain time limit. Which leads me very nicely into :


4. Electrocution is TOTALLY ACCEPTABLE in the noble mission of imparting the art of flirtation to sad, lonely, desperate plain women.

I'm not even kidding. The girls on this show are fitted with a device that will administer a mild electric shock (but still an electric shock) if they do anything wrong during their crash course in Flirting 101. The fairy godmother hostess Louise Roe ensconces herself nearby, out of sight, armed with a hidden camera and advice from an expert in body language or psychology, and presses the electrocution button at any sign of bad flirtation behaviour. These transgressions include everything from laughing too loudly (how unladylike), being "goofy" or "dorky" (oh god forbid) or asking the guy what he does for a living and whether he enjoys it (so unsexy).


5. It is completely appropriate to stalk your crush when Louise Roe makes you do it.

Here's the thing ; the crush in question is usually someone the girl already knows, and is pretty good friends with. So the unrequited loving is not a case of admiring the dude from a tortured, pining distance, while he goes on with his life without a clue that our Plain Jane even exists. He knows her, and clearly likes her enough to be her friend and hang out and stuff.

Which makes it that much creepier when Louise Roe insists that "I simply must have a look at this crush of yours!" and immediately employs all sorts of inappropriate fairy godmother ninja moves, like stalking him at the park from inside a large black SUV with tinted windows. Or skulking around shelves at the campus library, trying to get a glimpse of him through stacks of dusty books. The crush is oblivious, and carries on drinking his coffee or perusing his astrophysics textbook or tossing his Frisbee around (this is not a euphemism for...anything). And as our Plain Jane candidate gets ever more nervous and flustered, Louise Roe is all like "Why are you freaking out?" and I'm like BECAUSE YOU'RE MAKING HER ACT LIKE EVERY BAD GUY IN EVERY SPY MOVIE EVER. And also like Edward Cullen.


6. Going skydiving (once) will give you self-confidence.

Plain Jane isn't all about external beauty. Nope. Once per episode it tries really hard to pretend that it also cares about other things, like how our Jane might be afraid of taking risks, resists change, finds it difficult being spontaneous, or is afraid of snails. The prescribed cure is usually one round of some sort of extreme activity which involves jumping out of a plane in mid-air, or variations thereof. And voila! Self-esteem!

Okay.

The only good thing I can say about this stage of the makeover is that it's the closest the show ever comes to acknowledging the women's own personality or interests. The rest of the time, Plain Jane is just too busy glamming these girls up to really care.


7. Getting the guy at the end.

And therein lies my biggest problem with this show - the ultimate prize, the final goal, the greatest incentive to go through with the entire makeover process, is the promise of True Love at the end of it all. Louise Roe can yammer on all she wants about how it's not just about the guy; the fact is that the show is packaged that way. Every stage of the makeover is somehow designed with "What will Ty/Benny/Matt/etc. think?" in mind. It's real life packaged as a romantic comedy - awkward geeky girl in glasses, handsome and seemingly unattainable love interest, makeover montage with the help of an impossibly glamorous fashion fairy, all sorts of slapstick shenanigans courtesy of our heroine's inherent clumsiness/social awkwardness, culminating in a romantic fantasy of transforming into a beautiful, stylish, confident and desirable woman who will finally clinch the affections of the long-time crush.


The one redeeming quality of this show is most definitely the Plain Jane girls themselves. All of them seem sweet, genuine, goofy, funny, smart, and the kind of people I wouldn't mind hanging out with at all. None of them come across as fame-hungry young things jonesing for their 15 minutes in the spotlight. They seem to really want the help they've asked for, and there is not a whiff of pretentiousness to be found anywhere. And in a reality TV climate so full of rich, entitled, vapid, stupid people becoming famous for no reason at all, this is refreshing indeed.

Here's an entire episode of Plain Jane condensed down into three and a half minutes, so you can experience it for yourselves, and also witness Louise Roe's incredibly frightening, spindly, insect limbs of evil.

Pretty.

A fantastic piece by Katie Makkai, defining the word "Pretty" and all its implications, on the pressures placed upon women to be pretty, and to find and place value in physical appearance. Every girl and woman you know should watch this.



I am fortunate enough to have parents who never insisted on me doing or wearing anything that was designed to make me a pretty little girl. I've always hated dresses and skirts and necklaces, and it wasn't until a few years ago that I made allowances for stuff like nail polish and dangly earrings, but never more than that. I was a happy kid, though. Puberty hit me extremely hard. I went for years and years before finally being diagnosed, at 18, with PCOS or Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, a fairly common but pretty much never-discussed reproductive problem. PCOS basically involves a whole bunch of tiny growths in my lady parts that mess with hormones and result in me missing periods for quite literally years at a time (ngehh...too much information, you think?).

The physical symptoms of PCOS include skin pigmentations, excessive body hair growth plus hair loss - generally a very fucked up cocktail of almost too-balanced male and female hormones. It's not a curable disease so much as a lifelong condition ; as far as doctors can say, I'll be on the Pill for the foreseeable future to regulate my lady processes. And for the longest time, before I knew enough to put a name to my condition, I felt exceedingly strange, and very ugly. I have been mistaken for a boy far too many times than I can care to remember, and I somehow felt not worthy enough of being female, and I hid within baggy jeans and men's shirts and short hair. I had a hard time understanding why anyone would want to be friends with a creature like myself, while at the same time I took pleasure and comfort in other things I knew I was good at ; I was smart, and I was funny, I knew that. I could read three Jane Austen books in one day flat. I had impeccable taste in music and pop culture (durrr). I was nice. But oh boy, oh no, I was just too hideous to live. I wasn't skinny like other girls, I could barely fit into off-the-rack clothes, my voice was way too gravelly and deep to ever be considered feminine, I walked with a very pronounced slouch, eyes forever glued to the floor, because I was so much taller and bigger than everyone else. I didn't have my periods every month, like every other girl did. I looked so different from what I thought the acceptable image of a Real Girl should be, and as a result I hated being touched, I hated having my picture taken, I hated having to look at myself in any way or form. I wasn't girl enough. And I certainly wasn't pretty enough, and I hated myself for that as well.


Pretty was important to me. Being pretty would finally validate my status as female. Or failing to be pretty, to at least not be physically repulsive (physically repulsive is essentially how I saw myself in the mirror from ages 12 to 18). I wasn't right, I thought my parents would be terribly embarrassed at my failure to be a proper teenage girl. It didn't help when other girl cousins of mine were complimented on their looks and I got praise for my endless strings of A's. What was academic nerdery compared to being able to wear a cute blouse and look nice in it? It didn't help not knowing what was wrong with me ; years of so-called alternative herbal therapy and pills and being told "Don't worry it will work itself out" and that one time we seriously considered some weirdshit form of electrical acupuncture.


I can't tell you exactly when things changed, or how. Perhaps it was the comfort of knowing that whatever was wrong with me could be handled by a little yellow pill, or maybe it was just maturity. Whatever it was, my skin cleared up, I grew out my hair, and I stopped worrying. I stopped taking Pretty as the ultimate definition of womanhood, or femininity. I still feel a mite insecure around those seriously gorgeous girls who always have perfect hair and can pull of a miniskirt like woah, but I've stopped looking in the mirror and going "Ugh" at myself. I look like what I look like. Once in a while I get super dressed up and then I'm all "Hey, I clean up pretty good". I still get mistaken for a dude now and then, but these days it doesn't mean the end of the world. I wear nail polish and jewelry and nice clothes because I like them and I want to, and I no longer see them as items reserved for Real Girls Who Have Periods And Never Get Asked Stuff Like "Hey, Are You Just A Guy With Boobs Or What?" (true story [I was fifteen], and I have had much worse than that).

When I join in with the girlfriends on another round of Holy Crap, The Cramps Are Murdering Me Lah, it's always with a mixture of gratitude that I can actually be a part of this distinctly female monthly occasion, but also with the desire to tell them to quit whining because they have no idea how easy they have it (in the reproductive sense, anyway). And I suppose, most of all, I learned not to judge by appearance, pretty person or not. I know I risk sounding Hallmarkish and cheesy, but it's true. I'm a constant reminder of it myself, and I'm forever grateful to the people who were willing to look beyond my *gasp* PHYSICALLY REPULSIVE EXTERIOR (kidding, I'm not ugly, really) and see the personality and the everything else I already had but didn't notice because I was so busy trying to find a way to be pretty. Pretty, not to stand out from the crowd, but the kind of pretty I thought would finally make me normal, and regular, and just a girl. I cannot tell you how glad I am to have gotten over that period (HA) in my life. It's still a struggle, and it's not as though I am completely free of doubt and insecurity. What is good is that I'm in a much more positive place mentally, and not constantly beating myself up for failing to be a woman by my apparent inability to look like one. And that's a fine place to start.


In other news ; Fassbending continues. I'm slowly working my way through his (good and not embarrassing) films, and I watched Fish Tank just last week. It's a fabulous piece of work, a depressing and unflinching look at life for the British lower classes, and achieving womanhood, and escaping your circumstances. Michael Fassbender gives a very impressive performance in this one.



Very impressive.

No, actually he's a terrific actor and (usually) picks fabulous movies, so I won't have to constantly justify myself with "Oh but he's so pretty".

Up next in my Spree of Fassbendage is 2008's Hunger in which he also appears nekked plays Irish republican hunger striker Bobby Sands.

A Blog Update...In Your Pants.

So once again I disappeared off the face of the blogging world, seemingly for no good reason. It's just that the last couple of months have been taken up completely with projects, finals, and coming home for the holidays to help my mom look after my aunt, who is in the final stages of ovarian cancer. We've moved into my aunt's (Internetless) house, and between dealing with the hundreds of visitors pouring in, and doing what little I can to help around, the shiny world of the Interwebs has held very little appeal for me over the past few weeks. I could probably wax philosophical about mortality and loss and things like that, but I'm not going to. It's hard enough trying to deal with the fact that my aunt has entrusted me with the honour of composing her eulogy. "You write it", she says "and it'll be a good one". I hope I can deliver.

So instead of watching adorable animals on Youtube, I've been spending my days catching up on my reading (some nice controversial Salman Rushdie for starters), like a good student of Literature should, and learning how to cook. Not just instant noodles, mind you, but the formidable and spice-drenched world of good proper Indian cooking, with its peppers and mustard seeds and cardamoms and chilli paste. And onions. Dear god, so much onion. Why, India?

In any case I have just acquired one of those mobile broadband wireless thingies, so I'll be able to surf the Net for at least a couple of hours a day, and be a better blogger and blogbuddy. Before getting into my usual foot-long posts, though, I thought I'd bring us all a litte bit of much-needed cheer by resurrecting my favouritest blog meme of forever ; the In Your Pants game. Feel free to play along, peasants. Just grab your iPod or other media player of choice, put it on shuffle, and add the words "...in your pants" to the end of the first 20 song titles that come up.


1. Benediction in my pants.
2. Summer In The City in my pants.
3. Southern Radio in my pants.
4. Sin-Eaters in my pants.
5. To Be Young (Is To Be Sad, Is To Be High) in my pants.
6. Valerie in my pants.
7. In The Middle in my pants.
8. Sunday Sunny Mill Valley Groove Day in my pants.
9. Hardship Acres in my pants.
10. Five Little Rooms in my pants.
11. There Was Light in my pants. (No. Kidding.)
12. Boys You Won't Remember In My Pants.
13. Corner Of The Sky in my pants.
14. Don't Stop in my pants.
15. Dull Life in my pants.
16. You're Going Back in my pants.
17. Hush in my pants.
18. Helplessness Blues in my pants.
19. Norway in my pants.
20. Pumpkin Soup in my pants.

Oh the joy of pants.

Bitterness Is A Flavour Which Does Not Become Him.

Skimming through the sheer multitudes of digital hate on the Interned, I think I may just be one of the 5 people on earth who still has a good word to say for a certain Novak Djokovic.

We all know what happened. Djokovic spent most of the last two weeks at the US Open wallowing in the pain and misery of everything from a rolled ankle to a stomach bug to breathing problems ( how bad these ailments were, and whether they even existed, only Novak knows). And then Andy Roddick decides that the day before his quarter final match against the Serb would be an awesome time to crack a joke or two at his opponent's expense, saying something about how Novak "also has SARS, anthrax, and the common cold". To be honest I thought it was quite funny. But the Novak got majorly pissed-and to cut a long story short- after he kicked Andy Roddick's ass he proceeded to continue his trend of petulant, whiny behaviour, and immediately turned the crowd against him with some poorly chosen comments. Over the 13 days of competition he showed a totally different side of himself ; no more wit and bouncy cleverness, no more impersonations, no more guts and pluck, no more of everything that made people fall senselessly in love with him in the first place, myself included (although my biggest gripe is that he never took his shirt off, but for the interests of intelligent discussion, we won't go there).

Novak Djokovic is barely 21, quite possibly rather spoiled and coddled while growing up, on account of his immense talent ( child prodigy and all that crap) and his only problem, in my humble opinion, is that he sucks when it comes to hiding his feelings, whether he's elated or pissed or in need of the toilet. He's hopeless at it. And we all know that these days, being an athlete or indeed any kind of public figure calls for a lot. You have to know what to say and when to say it, how to smile, exactly how much of your personality you need to project, the intricacies of not offending anybody, and Nole here seems to have a lot to learn. It's as if he lives to offend the home crowd of wherever he happens to be playing tennis. But why not consider the fact that he's at least being honest? Instead of doing the diplomatic and mature thing, he simply let loose and let the world know exactly how pissed he was. Andy makes Nole angry, Nole kicks Andy's ass from Manhattan to KL, and then demeans the man to his own Noo Yawk crowd. Not a smart move, not the grown-up gesture one would expect, but for a while it sure beat the usual response of "Everything's fine it's all a huge misunderstanding we're buddies we really are omg totally". And on the other hand, since we're being fair here, somebody with a sense of humour like Djokovic's ought to be able to take the jokes as good-naturedly as he dishes them out ( if he's anything like me, though, being laughed at would be tantamount to the greatest insult to his soul, and in that case I can totally emphatize. We folks with the massive egos need to stick together, you know). And since we're being so disgustingly fair here, why does nobody get offended at the sight of Roddick, five years older than the Serbian, chucking racket after racket at the ground, in petulant frustration because he couldn't get his macho 125mph serve to stay within the white lines? Surely that's just as crass, if we're judging maturity of behaviour here?

I'm not saying all this because Novak is quite hot and freaking hilarious to boot (or at least, he used to be) but simply because I expect, and know, that he is capable of much better than this. The bitterness shocked me a little, I must admit. He got so caught up in his own righteous pissed-offness that he ended up losing the plot. He played awesome tennis all through, but I still want to see ye olde Novak back. Winning a major tournament does not give license to a pro tennis player to lose his playfulness or his sense of fun or indeed his entire freaking personality. Personally I believe there's something more and deeper to all this; nobody can change so drastically in temperament and character in so short a time. Yeah he's tired, who knows how awful the extent of his injuries are, the crowd was heckling him the whole time, I'd cut the dude some slack and say he had the right to go all PMS-ish on us for a while. But it's imperative that he comes back pumped and ready to win some hearts back, because not even the people who lyurve him will be prepared to stick by him if he decides to make this perpetual and petulant pouting and whining a permanent fixture of the Djokovic package. He needs to stay true to the spirit of the Little Yellow Smiley Face he has stuck in the middle of his racket. And if he truly needs an attitude adjustment, I shall more than happy to whack him repeatedly on the cranium with his own racket until the force of impact knocks a couple of cogs back into place.


Now where did I leave my always wonderfully-behaved Jake?

Depression Is A Flavour That Does Not Become Us

The BAP apologizes for her lengthy absence. It is only because she has been majorly depressed lately. Nothing serious, really, just the usual stuff; fretting over whether the decisions she has made have been the right ones, whether she has somehow effectively mucked up her entire future, afraid of letting down the Parental Units. It's simply that I am not happy with where I am right now. School nauseates me, the tedium of it, the blah-ness of it, the persistent nagging feeling that I don't belong here, that I've made a mistake, and yet if I decide to screw the education system and make a heroic escape, would that amount to a mistake much worse than the one I think I seem to be making right now? Why was I so so so short-sighted as to totally ditch college in favour of form 6? Why has nobody kicked Andy Roddick out of the US Open yet? Spending 6 hours a day, five days a week, swallowing textbook after textbook of subjects I take no joy or interest in learning ( except that thing about how a politician convicted of any crime and sentenced to more than a year in prison will be ineligible to take part in any form of political activity for five years following the date of their release. We won't name names here. I'm a coward and I don't want to get locked up.) only to regurgitate said textbooks when finals come around. And I keep telling myself that it's only another year and 3 months, but then it hits me how very very very long a time 15 months can be.

But depression is a flavour that does not become this blog. So we'll leave all that misery alone, and partake in a nice fat long tag. And for once, I did not tag myself. You have Lei Ying to thank for this.

Name
Vanessa, who also goes by BAP and will beam like the sun at you if you ever refer to her as Mrs J. Gyllenhaal.

Sisters

None. I heard they can be a real pain.

Brothers
One. He becomes less of a pain the older he gets.

Shoe Size
9, 9 1/2, 10 or sometimes 12. Never 11, oddly enough.

Height
The last time I got measured at hospital I was 165cm, but I totally refuse to accept this, because when I was 12, I was 169cm. Somebody has made a mistake. And they shall pay.

Where do you live?
Oh you know. Here.

Favourite drink.
Right now I am in love with this awesome kiwi concentrate juice my dad got from some store, I forget which, but it's really really good and it's supposed to be healthy and all that shit. So. Yeah. Oh and Kiwi! reminds me of these guys


who have finally hit the screens of HBO Asia, and have already helped me cope somewhat with my depressionism.

I think I already have a crush on Bret.
Oh well!

Favourite breakfast.
The kind I eat in the morning.

Ever been on a plane?

Yes...the astral plane. 'Twas psychedelic.

Swam in the ocean?
Dude, I am terrified of the ocean. It's so big, and so blue, and so..wobbly.

Fallen asleep in school?
Yes. It's too noisy to really sleep, but I take what I can get.

Broken someone's heart?
Uhm, yes, I believe I have. Not in the romantic sense though. It was the day I told my mom I didn't think I was quite sure I believed in God anymore.

Sat by the phone all night waiting for someone's call?
Oh please. I sacrifice sleep for nothing and nobody, except World Cup matches, and that one time I stayed up to watch tennis. And it wasn't even live tennis. I must have been under medication then.

What is your room like?
I don't know. My grandmother has effectively stolen it from me, so my "room" at the moment is probably half of the three-seater couch in the living room. Bummer eh?

What is right beside you?
Nuffink. Some Jake would be lovely though.

What is the last thing you ate?

I can't remember. I think it was rice. Check my intestines, will you?

Ever had chicken pox?

Yes, and it was so awful I can't even remember it now.

Sore throat?
I have one right now actually. On top of a recovering ear infection. Joy.

Stitches?
Not literal ones, but Jake was on the Ellen deGeneres show just a couple of hours ago, and boy did he have me in stitches. I was so busy wallowing in self-pity I forgot how funny he is.

I'm going to skip one or seven questions here, ok?

5 Things I Was Doing 10 Years Ago
1. Screaming at my brother. Boy, could I scream back then.
2. Getting pinched by my very mean Math teacher.
3. Being made to listen to ABBA.
4. Screaming at my brother.
5. Uhh...oh yeah. Screaming at my brother. I think I traumatized him. Thank goodness Malaysians don't get into all that therapy shit.

5 Things On My To-do List Today
1. Blog
2. Look at Jake. Excluding the Ellen show, I haven't gazed upon his mug for almost a week. It tears the soul apart. No freaking wonder I'm so miserable.
3. Watch all the US Open tennis I possibly can before I have to go to bed because of the stupid time difference. I mean, the day sessions go on when I'm asleep, and the night sessions take place when I'm in school. How sick is that?
4. Look at Jake.
5. Look at Jake.

5 Things I'd Do If I Were A Billionaire
1. I wouldn't be blogging. I'd have people to do that for me.
2. I'd have Jake cloned or something. So I'll finally have one of my own.
3. I'd buy Iceland and make Sigur ros play gigs for me whenever I want.

I am so freaking uninspired, so I'll cut the tag short, and I won't tag anyone either ( yes, I know. I sense your disappointment)


Oh who am I kidding? I could never clone Jake!! It would un-Jake-ify his Jakeness, somehow.