One Stormy Night.

We seem to be in the eye of a storm, rumbling thunder, lightning flashing and big fat pouring rain. There’s nothing on television. My cat, who five minutes ago was the picture of sweetness, all cosied up and sleeping, is now running around the kitchen and lounge room like he dropped an E or something. Why must he venture into every cupboard that’s open? It’s not like he’s never seen the mixing bowls and the frypans ten million times before.  I guess he’s a bit frenetic. I can’t talk, kiai – ing and kicking all over the place, practicing my ninja moves. We’re really one and the same, me and Smudge, as I too like to stick my head in the kitchen bin and jump into laptop bags just for the heck of it.

Is this what my life has become? Observations of my cat? Smudge might as well hire me to ghost write his autobiography. What’s in the toilet bowl and other poignant life questions. I tried to convince him to go with something a little more snappy for the title, but he’s just about as stubborn as I am.

Well, that’s just about enough of that chapter.

I’ll tell you instead what I’ve recently come to realise. Writing is hard. Actually, I already knew that, but I’ve put it into a different context.

You see, the other day I broke my first board in Karate. Thank you, thank you. Your applause is greatly appreciated. Anyways, prior to such accomplishment I was told that to break a board you need three things – belief, focus and follow through. And with my genius mind I extrapolated that it is the exact same thing with writing.

I know, mind blowing isn’t it?

Not really, it’s just sometimes you realise obvious things when they’re put in certain ways.

To write that piece, that short story, novel, poem, or whatever grabs your fancy, you first need to believe you can do it.

Yes, well that’s all very well and good, but secondly you must put your ass in that goddamn chair and focus. Focus with the steely gaze of a falcon on his small, mousy prey. Attach falcon! Attack!

Now that you are so focused, one hundred percent, that not even your cat laying over your keyboard like a hippy in front of a bulldozer, can deter you, you must then follow through.

Break through that board, or in this case blank white page, all the way to the other side, with a big fat KIAI at the end. Wasn’t that just the most satisfying snap you have ever heard in your life?

I know it was for me. I’m freaking hanging that ply wood on my wall or something and writing all over it:

Belief

Focus

Follow Through

Because that is some good shit. And I would do well to remember that shit.

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I Am Number 6

I’d like to think my cat ruining my driver’s license renewal papers is his way of saying ‘I love you, don’t ever leave me’. But I think I’m reaching a bit. The lines on his face, however, do make him look like he’s in a constant state of worry. But he doesn’t really give a fuck, as he licks his balls in the middle of the dining room table. He doesn’t kiss his mother with that mouth… That’s why we settle for eskimo kisses.

I read my numerology the other day. Apparently my personality is one that relates better to pets than humans. Well, I did have a mind slip the other day that would support this theory. Running through my list of errands I thought ‘and I’ll take the kids for a walk down the back paddock … oh wait, kids, I meant dogs…’

Wow. I know my biological clock has been ticking loudly at me lately, with strange compulsions to abscond with the cute four years old at my karate dojo, but hmm…

As my kitten rests his warm little chin against the crook of my arm as I write this, unfortunately he’s the closest thing I’ve got to children.

And I ask, where else am I supposed to put my overflowing reserves of love? Into some unhealthy obsession with someone I barely know? Sure, why not. I’m sure they would highly appreciate being the object of my undivided attention. Until I leave a bunny rabbit in their kitchen boiler.

Kidding. I’d never do that to a bunny. I’m an animal person, remember.

My mother told me that one day some guy will come along and make me his princess.

I said, ‘no, not princess. Warrior princess?’

Because for some reason I have this vision of myself being a badass black belt within the next five years.

Yet, at the rate I’m going it’ll probably be more like ten years.

Teenage girls, at the moment, have more strength and flexibility than I do. Am I intimidated by these confident, pubescent little fuckers? Hell yes. They bloody well knocked over that standing punching bag thingo with their flying side kicks, whilst I think I pulled a muscle.

Like I already don’t feel like an old lady, you know with my clock ticking and all.

Woman, you’re freaking 22 years old.

But if I’m going to create my own personal army of black belts, I’m going to have to start early.

Maybe I’ll just settle for my own personal army of cats.

 

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Fire Demons, Dragons and … Smoke Alarms?

‘I probably shouldn’t have thrown that precariously zip-locked bag of kitty litter onto the passenger seat of my car,’ I tell myself as I scoop handfuls of tiny recycled wood cylinders out of the impossible nooks and crannies of my interior. Now my hands smell like sawdust and wood chips. Mmm, earthy.

I love the smell of firewood.

That was a segue I didn’t see coming, yet it seems highly appropriate to this time of year.

It’s my favourite time, when it’s just getting cold and crispy enough to have the fireplace burning.

Mum did a test fire, seeing as though it’s a new house and we’ve never used the fireplace before. Needless to say she smoked the house out and we were happily introduced to the living room smoke alarm for the first time.

Those things are like horror movie monsters. They just keep coming back, no matter how many times you kill them.

It was quite appropriate that I was watching Grimm at the time it went off, as it coincided with a fire demon bursting up through a man hole in all its blazing glory. Now I’m thinking that if only the victims on that show had fire alarms, maybe they’d be warned of their skin melting, internal organ cooking death.

It’s funny how your internal logic works when watching a show like Grimm. You see I couldn’t swallow some god like volcano monster’s existence, yet all the human shape-shifting ones I’ve totally accepted as realistic.

That and dragons. Because dragons are badass. Especially when they reign torrents of fire down on your foe after you momentously declare ‘Dragons are not slaves’.

Holy crap. If you know what I’m referencing then you’ll understand my turn of phrase. Singularly one of the most awesome moments I have ever seen on TV.

That and the Pegasus/Galactica standoff. Can anyone say tension?

I sure can. Aren’t I special?

Now I lost my train of thought, now I’m thinking where the term train of thought comes from, now I’m thinking about trains…

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Cats Make Wonderful Companions

Last time I was left home alone I went cuckoo for coco puffs. I remember it so well and surely thought I would lose my mind once again this time around, with my mother off galavanting on a cruise ship somewhere in the South Pacific. It’s safe to say I haven’t been caught out talking rampantly to myself so much this time, which is an improvement I suppose. I’m not sure. It depends if talking to your cat is a step above talking to yourself on the crazy scale or below. I’d put my money on below, because at least a cat has a different personality and is outside of your own head.

Yet again, every time I find myself enjoying the company of my kitten I can only think of this…

"Cats Make Wonderful Companions."

“Cats make wonderful companions.”

At least I only have one.

But, believe me, if I had the money, I’d probably want to bring home the whole goddamn pet shelter. Before I got little Smudge, my white and grey tabby, I’d just stand in front of the cages, cooing, at all of them. ‘Oh, you’re a sweetheart. Aren’t you a sweetheart? Aww, you too, and you and you and you…but not you…nah I’m kidding. How could I not love ALL OF YOU! I’ll save you all, and we’ll all frolic around the farm and meadows together!’

Then the shop owner would be all like ‘you’re still here?’

…Holy crap, do I ever need a boyfriend.

And yet my efforts are bordering on non-existant.

It doesn’t help that Smudge gives the best cuddles ever! And I can survive for awhile off just one whiff of the blue-eyed silver fox who came to fix the coffee grinder today. Reow.

Just subtly drink in the manliness. Ah, yep, that’ll last me.

Is that weird?

When I was eighteen these rather unsightly, middle aged removalists came to our house, and I mean they were not pretty, not one little bit, but my god did they ever smell amazing. It was like pheromones gone wild. ‘What is this scent? I don’t understand! You’re so unattractive, yet I want to be near you…’

Okay, I’m starting to hear myself now, and perhaps this whole being alone thing is affecting me more than I thought.

Woman, put on some perfume, and get out of the goddamn house.

(And I promise, this will be the last post about my cat… but I dunno, there could be more in there. I can never be certain. Okay, probably more like my 3rd last…)

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Blogmonster’s Saddest Movie Moments of All Time

Some movies have the ability to absolutely kick the crap out of you. They can send you spiraling down into the dark depths of depression, and make you sob like a little girl crying for her mummy.

I cry at sad movies. I’m a crier. When I’m traumatised by a dramatic event, carefully constructed to yank at my heart strings, I don’t keep those salty beads of emotion trapped inside like a tragic prisoner of war in the battle against public embarrassment. I let them flow until my eyes are red and puffy and my nose is running like a leaky faucet.

It is terribly unattractive. But on occasion my patheticness has worked in my favour.

Which brings me to my Sad Movie Moment Numero Uno: 

Spoiler alert.

I was five years old. We were watching The Lion King in preschool and I had secured myself a spot on the hard, carpeted floor. I don’t remember everything about that movie watching experience, but I do remember losing my shit at sad movie moment no. 1.

Mufasa’s death.

Holy crap. What a scene. The music, the self sacrifice, the betrayal, the guilt, the exile. For anyone who has seen The Lion King (and who hasn’t?), I needn’t say more. Consequently I did ball my eyes out, yet on the flip side, the teachers felt so sorry for me that they kicked out some poor kid out of the bean bag and gave me prime seating. Score.

Sad Movie Moment Numero Dos:

Keeping in the vein of Disney’s ability to make you care exorbitantly for drawn animals on a screen, we come to a touching moment in their animated classic Dumbo.

So, mumma elephant is locked away after a sudden outburst, brought on by an intense desire to protect her son. Dumbo is effectively torn from his kin and the one that loves him most. In moment no. 2, we have mumma elephant’s trunk holding her baby through the bars of her prison, swaying him back and forth, comforting him, showing him that she loves him no matter what he looks like, or how different he is, all the while the heart tugging song of ‘Baby Mine’ plays in the background.

Again, holy crap. I feel a little misty just thinking about it. Play this clip at your own expense.

Sad Movie Moment Numero Tres: 

When I was eight years old, my mother actually banned me from watching this movie because it made me constantly depressed and prone to cry at the drop of a hat, even when I wasn’t even playing the damned thing.

Perhaps I was just an overly emotional child. Maybe it was the strange water table under our house that messed with my energy field, like some sort of ancient indian burial ground. But my god, I have never been so affected by a movie as I was by The Lion King 2: Simba’s Pride.

I know what you’re thinking. How could it possibly stack up to the original in emotional stirring? For one the music, for two (is that even proper grammar?) the tragic, star crossed love story, for three (yeah, it sounds kinda funny) the misunderstood betrayal, for four the intense battle scene at the end where daughter uses her father’s wise words against him to make him realise how wrong he’s been. AND THE CIRCLE OF LIFE CONTINUES.

“Look at them, they are us. What differences do you see?”

Gets me every freaking time. Waaaaahhhhhhh.

Sad Movie Moment Numero Cuatro: 

Revenge of the Sith. George Lucas kills off every single Jedi in one single scene, set to the heart wrenching tones of John Williams beautiful and haunting score blasting at you from all angles, and seeping into your soul with chair rattling bass.

Oh yeah, and Anakin kills younglings, stares woefully out the window, juxtaposed with an equally distressed Padme, destroys everything he’s ever loved in a tragic string of events, and gets chopped to pieces by his best friend.

…And I saw it twice in cinema. Oh, the humanity.

Sad Movie Moment Numero Cinco:

Peter Jackson’s King Kong.

Damn you humans. He’s not a monster! You just don’t understand him. He’s really got a kind and gentle soul. It was you, putting him in chains, that made him act out. You brought this on yourselves and now you’re killing him when it was your own stupid fault!

Waaaaahhhh.

I went to the ladies room after seeing that movie in cinemas. I swear people were looking at me like my boyfriend had just broken up with me, or someone had died.

Ah, my poor brother having to sit with me while we had lunch, my face all puffy and tear stained.

He didn’t do this to me I swear, strange onlookers, it was that goddamn movie!

Sad Movie Moment Numero Seis, Siete, Ocho:

Alright there are just too many sad movie moments to warrant their own singular recounting. So I’m just going to bunch these together.

The moment in The Notebook when the old-lady Ally remembers that it was their story all along. (Now, I don’t have any senile grandparents, or loved ones, but I can imagine how heart breaking it must be for someone you love so dearly to not remember you).

The whole third act of A Walk to Remember. Let’s just say I was mighty grateful that my two male roommates weren’t home to witness the god awful mess I turned into.

And the third act of Beaches. If watching someone reconcile with their best, closest friend, only for them to deal with their slow wasting away from some incurable disease isn’t enough, just when you’ve balled your eyes out, and can’t take no more, Bette Midler breaks out in Wind Beneath My freaking Wings. I tells ya, it couldn’t have been any crueler.

Well, this has turned out to be a very long list. And I’ve forgotten to include Moulin Rouge, which manages to destroy me every time … oh and even the end song from The Wedding Singer. So … freaking … sweet. He’s going to stay with her until she’s grey and old! He’s even going to let her hold the remote control. My god, you’re killing me.

Just look at Julia’s aka Drew Barrymore’s reaction when she realises it’s Robbie aka Adam Sandler on the plane.

Somebody stop me.

Luckily my knowledge of Spanish counting ended about three numbers ago…

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This Could Be Very Dangerous

Oh, wow. I can post from my phone. I couldn’t possibly think of anything more annoying than single finger typing and constant predictive text. Especially with my less than nimble fingers.

However, I am stuck inside waiting for my script writing tutorial, because of the miniature cyclone raging outside, so I must occupy my time somehow, meanwhile looking to everyone like I’m writing the longest text message of all time.

All I thought about in my first script writing lecture is how distressing it is to already know everything. Taking the word ‘everything’ with a grain of salt, however. Just the answers to newbie’s questions that you instinctively want to scream across the room.

Or yell out at the teacher about common short film length.

Look at me! I’m having a minor brain aneurysm holding my seasoned knowledge inside.

I am certain however, that past the introductory faze, it will be I whom receives an education.

Because despite my best efforts, I, in fact, don’t know it all.

P.S. The dangerous part is that this phone blogging business could be addictive.

In my previous post I pondered having a notepad surgically implanted in my hand, to jot down all my insightful thoughts whenever they crossed my mind. Scarily, a phone seems to be just that…

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Use Your Scholarly Words

I had the most brilliant observation the other day to share with you all, then I completely forgot what it was. So, really, it couldn’t have been that brilliant.

They say writers should carry a notepad around with them so they can jot down all the little unexpected gems that may cross their minds. But like my forever disappearing Chapstick, I know I would have to have one surgically implanted into the palm of my hand.

Or a tape recorder in my head. That has to be invented sooner or later, right?

Now all I have to share is a mildly entertaining anecdote about my first day back at Uni.

Actually I use the term ‘entertaining’ very loosely. Perhaps mild is exaggerated also. What’s below mild? I’ve never seen ‘boring’ on a taco flavouring packet before…

I can’t believe that Old El Paso ad where they try to make tacos less spicy with ice and a pedestal fan. I’m like ‘cucumber yogurt people! Obviously. Or is that just an Indian thing?’

Anyways. First day back at Uni and I’d forgotten to turn my ‘intellectual switch’ back on.

I noticed that it was still on everyday-citizen/waitress/friend/daughter mode, when in my self introduction to the class, where you could share the latest move you’d seen, I described Django Unchained as ‘cool’.

I, in this mode, thought that this was a perfectly adequate description, especially when in the realms of a short personal introduction. Because, I dunno, maybe you’d gather a little bit of insight just knowing that I enjoy Tarantino films.

But, alas, no, what was I thinking? That was an everyday-citizen/waitress/friend/daughter response. You’re back at Uni now baby, you must expound. You must think critically. You must think about the way that you think.

In my defense, I was first cab off the rank, so I only forgot to flick back on my intellectual switch.

Now, to the guy that described Prometheus as a ‘spiritual’ prequel to Alien, good on you for remembering.

I have never heard that turn of phrase in my life, but it sounds intellectual, so you must be on the right track!

Believe me, I went to film school, so I could defiantly give you an in depth breakdown of all the themes and techniques used in Django Unchained. But, the thing is, when I did expand and said that it was Tarantino just indulging in what Tarantino does, with a whole bunch of long shots in the beginning that go on forever, it didn’t quite encapsulate my movie going experience like the word ‘cool’.

So, I conclude, let’s keep it simple people. It’s a self introduction. There’s plenty of opportunities for self evaluating and exegesis-ing in class.

Ah, exegesis-ing. My wielding of the English language is incomparable. I can almost feel the high distinctions already.

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Don’t Go Facebook Investigating If You Value Childhood Memories.

In a previous post I informed the reading public that, for me, this blog was a form of therapy. A place where I can safely profess all my worries and traumas in hope that they will flitter away into the realms of self deprecating humour and ridiculousness.

The other day, out of part morbid curiosity, part nostalgia, I decided to Facebook investigate (*cough* stalk), the person who will be forever immortalized as my brother’s former friend who scratched the shit out of my Tekken 3 disk. Low and behold I found that he was now a cashed up bogan, with a collar bone tattoo, a souped up car and the possessor of a very disturbing meme of a man with excrement all over his face, next to a rather sizable bottom, also covered in excrement.

Forever … Traumatised … and the grown up image of what had always been a rather good-looking boy, now forever shattered. So I shall deny having any sort of girl hood crush on said disk ruiner.

I guess that sometimes it’s better not to go nosing around in your past on the whim of childhood nostalgia.

And it may be healthy to forgive and forget the complete destruction of your favourite video game, even if it may have deprived you of Hwoarang and his perfect hair and chiselled features … sigh.

I’m sure sharing that with you all has helped me start on the road to recovery.

I’ve also fallen back into obsessive patterns of behaviour. Nothing too serious. For some reason when I feel the need to impart on the world my own brand of insulting humour, I then, afterwards, with great annoyance, continously wonder whether I’ve offended anyone.

Obviously I think I’m funny, otherwise I wouldn’t share.

I remember light heartedly insulting a new acquaintance, in an off hand kind of fashion, no harm intended, and her first impression of me resulting in ‘utter bitch-face’. I think it may have also had something to do with her foreignness and the language barrier…

But, luckily we ended up being the best of friends.

I would never take me too seriously. There isn’t a spiteful bone in my body. Not that I’ve individually test each bone for spitefulness. Because, I don’t know, the way my hips bones keep fucking me over and getting out of alignment, they must be pretty damn spiteful.

But never spiteful to anyone else … which was what I was getting at, before I, in true Blogmonster fashion, went off on a random tangent.

No grab for sympathy, or anything.

… Now I’m paranoid that I’m annoying you all.

What kind of therapists are you anyways? Stop looking at your watches, I still have five minutes left!

I’m also worried I’m turning into one of those people who always talk about their cat …

And refer to themselves in third person using their blog moniker.

But I guess, we’ll just have to leave that for another time.

 

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When it Comes to Children’s Talent Shows, I’d Use the Word ‘Talent’ Loosely.

I heard somewhere that people who reminisce in their old age are likely to live longer.

I, for one, am already convinced that happy people have a longer life expectancy, and nostalgia, with its ability to create warm fuzzy feelings, plays a big part in that.

For me, listening to certain songs helps bring those special memories flooding back.

That’s why, on occasion, I still listen to the artists I loved when I was a young whippersnapper – no matter how embarrassing listening to them may seem now.

Heck, I don’t mind being embarrassed, some of my favourite memories are from embarrassing moments.

One song, that to anyone else may seem like a jilted breakup song, leaves me with a extreme case of the giggles because of the memory I have permanently associated with it.

It reminds me of six friends standing on a stage at their year seven graduation, wailing into microphones over a Delta Goodrem track, with absolutely no musical talent at all, and wondering why they had chosen to perform such a non-appropriate song in the first place, or for that matter, anything at all.

Maybe it was because one friend (me) and another (the only boy in our exclusive group) had a rather sizeable obsession with Miss Goodrem, and chose the song purely on the fact that our boy could play it on piano.

We then later found out that he couldn’t actually play it … yet we had rehearsed the song, so stuck to our guns and instead used a backing track.

We even performed it in front of our music class first, a prelude to the main event, if you will. My mortal enemy introduced us as ‘The Delta Wannabes’, needless to say I wanted to smack her across the face.

On the night of our graduation, our then music teacher Mrs Cripps had the audacity to, at the last minute, switch the backing track for the original recording, because she was afraid we couldn’t keep in tune without it …

Uh, yeah. I’m pretty sure that if we were going to crash and burn, better on our own with the backing track instead of trying to compete with an impossible vocal range that was well outside our own capabilities. Just saying.

Now every time I listen to that fateful song I can’t get the image out of my head of my friend groping his own ass when singing ‘if you think love is blind’. I didn’t get why he did it at the time. Maybe he was just lost in the music … I think I’m still coming to terms with it.

The sad thing is our year seven graduation wasn’t the only time we ‘performed’ in front of an audience. Oh, we entered talent quests alright, with still absolutely no discernible talent.

Were we just impervious to embarrassment back then? Or were we really that deluded? (I’m beginning to think we just used it as an excuse to hang out at ‘rehearsals’.)

In one dance number my friend slipped over on stage and fell on her ass because she had made the regrettable decision to wear socks…

Another time we made Lion King masks out of paper mache and danced around to ‘I Just Can’t Wait to be King’, constantly bumping into one another because we didn’t cut the eye holes big enough … and then the track skipped half way through because of little kiddies jumping around in the corridors, so we lost our place and had to continue stumbling around aimlessly until, with sweet relief, the bloody song ended.

At grade nine camp we lip synced to Manamana by The Muppets. I was quite mortified that my mortal enemy was the one to put on my compilation CD, only for the first track to be a Britney Spears number. Something completely unacceptable at the time by fourteen-year-old standards, which she didn’t mind telling me so in front of our entire year.

On another occasion my own mother choreographed our routine to Jennifer Lopez’s ‘Ain’t it Funny’ for our grade six camp ‘talent show’. The entire time I swear the actual talented dancers of our year were glaring at us, and on the return journey home someone asked me if it was a comedy routine.

Ah, yes, I have enough happy memories to see me through to a ripe old age. That is, of course, if I haven’t already died of shame.

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Rainy Days and Mondays

Once again we come to an impasse. Which way forward? We thought we were making strides in the right direction, yet now we lie motionless and stagnant. We cusped the brink and did not make it all the way over. We don’t know what is wrong, or if anything is right. All we know is time and how it slips away from us. We’re old and wondering why we didn’t make the most of it. And we feel anxious when we’re alone with our thoughts. There’s no comfort there. And we wondered why people have to suffer, and why we suffer in the most trivial of ways. And we wonder why we can’t sleep at night and are tired during the day. We wonder why the rain makes us sad. Why wet clothes on a clothes line are so unforgivable, when the days roll by and they still hang there, all limp and melancholy like.

And I’m lacking in inspiration, and the angels offer no solace. They tell me it will all be over soon, that I’ll some how emerge with the answers. I already know too much. It’s all too loud for me to find any peace around here. I am the center of all my greatest misfortunes, even my small ones. I tell myself to be grateful every day, yet it doesn’t change anything. I tell myself everything under the sun and it all remains the same.

When you’re trapped inside your young self but your body continues to age… The world expects one thing from you, but you can only offer what you have. You’re uncertain about most things, stuck fast about others. You’re sure about the here and now – it’s the future that daunts you. And perhaps you’ve thought that if you weren’t so busy thinking about the future, you would have taken advantage of the here and now. And perhaps you’ve thought that the here and now was once your younger self’s future, yet you’ve forgotten your past expectations. And it’s all meaningless, anyhow. Because you thought you’d be different, but you’re still the same. You imagined yourself a different, future version of yourself, but you’re still the same. And it’s not that you don’t like you. You like you just fine. You couldn’t imagine not being you. You just thought that you would be ‘full potential’ you, and not ‘anxious – living in the future’ you.

It’s all fine, in the end. Things happen and then you die. You didn’t do anything wrong. What’s to say what’s right and wrong. The only problem was that you tried to live by those rules. You thought the world saw you as one thing, but you were really another. But the world didn’t see you that way. You were mistaken to think that the world was looking at all. Then you feel mighty foolish that you tried to live your life to a set of standards that were never in place. Only you disappointed you. You made promises with yourself, and you broke them. Some you kept, and those that you did made you feel proud and accomplishing. Those you didn’t, well, they left you sitting at your laptop on a rainy day, wondering why you couldn’t keep them, and not doing anything about it.

Don’t worry about it.

Just listen to The Carpenters, get it out of your system, put it down to a rainy Monday, and move on.

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