The Eensy Weensy Spider...

I am not a fan of spiders. By that, I mean that I am afraid of spiders, to an embarrassing extent. The only spider I ever killed was incredibly small. I found it on my bed in my apartment. At the time I was living alone and had just been broken up with, and I sort of had to kill it to prove to myself that I could do that sort of thing on my own. If necessary.

Cut to: A few days ago, I noticed a tiny red spider on the wall near my closet. It was in the crook where two walls meet, at eye level. I thought about killing it, but it was so small that I said to it, "I'll spare your life, if you promise you won't grow up to be a giant spider (or decide to hang out on my bed)." Maybe it reminded me of the poor little guy I'd killed before.

This morning, I noticed that the spider is still there, but it looks... smeared and dead, as if somehow it died of heatstroke, or combustion. My immediate (logical) conclusion was that somehow I must have killed it with my mind, even though I hadn't meant to do that. I spared that little guy-- had a benevolent attitude toward him--and he died anyway. (Kind of makes me think of the Clockmaker theory of God... not that I'm a god, not even to a tiny spider.)

Such is life.

The Very Narcissistic Post

I stumbled upon this quote today...

"A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely." -Roald Dahl

Yes, but self-image is such a sticky, strange and interesting matter.

Have you ever taken a picture of someone and thought it was really great, only to show it to them and get a horrified look? I find that if I take pictures of a person and ask him/her to choose the best one, it's not at all the picture that I would have picked.

Cole really seemed to love this picture that I took of him, but I think it lacks the essential Cole-ness that I love about him. I can see why he likes it, but I have lots of other favorites that would go before this one.

But that's just the way it goes, when it comes to appearances. Everything is so subjective. As far back as I can remember, the days when I think my hair looks atrocious (generally, days when I didn't wash it and had to figure out some way to style it dry) are the same days that people compliment my hair and say, "Whatever you did today, it looks great."

Sometimes when I feel like I have made myself look particularly good, I will take a self-portrait. Hands-down, the photos end up looking terrible. If I think I look vaguely sexy in the mirror, I look like a hag in the resulting pictures. I have bad vision but not necessarily wonky eyes, but in pictures I always think I think vaguely cross-eyed. Maybe it's because I'm trying to look straight into the lens, or maybe I actually have wonky eyes. I wouldn't be shocked if the latter was true.

Okay, the eyes are wonky (and the picture is blurry), but can we take a second to acknowledge that they are a lovely, lovely shade of teal in this picture? I didn't futz with the color or anything.

I came across this article today on Jezebel, and when I looked through the scans from the "Practical Character Reader," I was struck by this picture in particular.

Because she reminds me of this person (and honestly, I cannot find a picture on Facebook that illustrates just how bad my profile really looks... just trust me, here):

Seriously, people, what is up with that forehead? It looks like my hair is a wig! (Incidentally, my friend Brent took this picture-- and he loves it. What?)

However, I am tickled to find out that this is apparently a type. Okay, it's a bad-type type, but it's a type! I am not alone in having this terrible profile-- there it is in a book, c. 1902. I feel so much better about it now. Haha.

I think the only thing we can really do is try to look our most presentable, whatever that means. Yesterday I wore a patterned purple TJ Maxx dress cinched with a pleather belt. I attempted to straighten my hair but felt like it ended up looking really puffy. But people took note that I was trying to look good. One co-worker said that I looked like an editor at Vogue, and asked what designer label my dress was. I realized-- just trying to pull a look together turns out to be your personal style, for better or worse. Even if you feel like you've failed, you just have to find the inner confidence to "make it work," as Tim Gunn would say.

Was I making it work? Did I even look like this in real life? I don't know, but at least I tried. And thank goodness my hairline doesn't look so far back from the front.

What was the point of this post? I can't even remember. Oh yeah, I guess it's just that I really liked that Roald Dahl quote. And I think that what I like best in a picture of me is seeing my personality shine through. Of course, I'd like to look sexy and pretty and thin and stylish, but that's not what defines me. Like it or not, I'm a "personality" girl, and without that essential element, it's just not a good picture of me.

Recently on "The Real Housewives of NJ," Jacqueline took her 17-year-old daughter to a photo-session with a portrait photographer. Jacqueline kept saying to her daughter, "You don't have to be so uncomfortable. You look beautiful. I want you to be comfortable with your body." Finally, the daughter stormed off, crying, "I AM comfortable with my body!" (Sure.) But at the end of the session the daughter rejected all of the beautiful pictures, saying that they were ugly. It's really sad, the way that people are so, so self-critical. It makes me want to turn around and embrace every bad picture of me (thanks to Facebook, I have many bad pictures of myself at hand), if only because I know that when I am older, I will only wish that I could look so young, weird forehead or not. I guess I try to anticipate my craggy old self, so that I can appreciate my now-self more. Haha.

This is one of my current favorite pictures of myself. I look like I'm having fun. and that's not something you can buy at Sephora, folks.

This version isn't quite as attractive, but I'm using it on my Facebook and my Twitter right now (hence the slight color futz). I like that I look kind of silly and smug in it (like I have a secret). When I smile with a closed mouth I look more like my dad, and I love when he makes faces like this one. I also used to make this face a lot when I was a kid, so it's kind of a throwback, for me. (When I showed it to Cole, he said, "I like it, but it's not my favorite.")

See? I learned that face from the master.

So is there a science to beauty and handsomeness? Maybe, but it's all in the eye of the beholder.

"A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely." -Roald Dahl

It isn't easy to be a person who ascribes to those words, especially when looking at oneself. If you have good thoughts about your own appearance and the appearance of others, I think that counts as double sunbeams.

Double mitzvah! Party it up. Take a half day.

Eating Cookies and Blogging... Productive!

Going back to the last entry for a second, one of the interns at our office told me that if you order a decaf with several shots, the shots will be decaf. I nodded, but I refuse to believe. He also told me that when he worked in catering they would tell people that the coffee was decaf when it was not... so, maybe not the best source for coffee veracity. And the barista at Insomnia on Beverly told me that there's no such thing as decaf (he was kind of a snob). Bottom line: If you, like me, are not a caffeine person, maybe just stay away from coffee. That's what I've been doing lately.

Both of my sisters are now blogging on Blogspot, so I feel a little bit of an obligation to do a post here. I have been blogging somewhat faithfully on Xanga because at least there I know that a few people with whom I'm acquainted in real life actually read it. But as long as I'm here reading los blogs de mis hermanas (one of those hermanas is in Uruguay right now, hence the poco de espanol), why not drop a line?

It's a new season at work (it's literally summer, and in TV-speak we're working on season four), which means new people and readjusting to being at the office all day. Right now I'm engaging in a wonderful (read: terrible) new afternoon tradition of eating two JoJos with milk. A JoJo is a Trader Joe's version of an Oreo, but I don't really believe that they're so much healthier. I make them "healthier" by removing the white innards. You may think, "Two JoJos and milk is a respectable snack." But I'm noshing all day, so everything adds up.

Cole and I just got our very own P-Touch Labelmaker, and Cole is labeling everything he can get his hands on. It's kind of hilarious to me.

My laundry room is closed from 9pm to 7am, which is kind of a problem for me because I never get home from work in time to do my laundry. This morning I woke up at 7am, and the laundry facilities were surprisingly kind of hopping (luckily I got there first). A couple of weeks ago I complained to my mom that my laundry never smells particularly good when I use my apartment complex's machines. She sent me back to LA with her Bounce dryer sheets, hoping to remedy my problem. Well, those dryer sheets are radioactive or something, because even though she sealed them in three layers of plastic within a brown bag, they smelled REALLY strong. All day I have been eating food and thinking, "This food tastes a little weird," and I just realized that it's the smell of the Bounce sheets on my hand. I tried a real fig-in-the-raw for the first time and thought, "This fig tastes like soap." No, it tastes like LAUNDRY. And I have definitely washed my hands several times today. Sadly, my laundry didn't come out smelling particularly good. But my food is woodland fresh or whatever the sheets are supposed to smell like.

What else is new? Hmm... I am looking for a new roommate. That's a drag. I am decorating my room with cute stuff from Etsy. That's draining my bank account. But it's fun. Speaking of drained things, I subscribed to HBO just to watch True Blood. Now I can see it on the East Coast feed! Three hours early is a lot when you're as anxious to see the next new episode as I am. My midweek TV obsession is So You Think You Can Dance, which is on tonight. Can't wait. I also can't believe it's only Wednesday. My mind has been telling me it's Friday since I woke up on Tuesday.

Despite my grotesque amounts of TV-watching, I am trying to write a novel. Or at least, that's what I think it's going to turn out to be. I just need to actually finish it. I always think of the best scenes when I'm driving, then get to work and open the Word doc and write, as a shorthand, "They go dancing." Terrible work ethic. Slowly but surely, though, I will get through it. I'm sick of opening up a document three years later and going, this story ain't bad, why didn't I finish it? I just want to get through it, if nothing else then as an exercise in finishing a long story. It will go toward my 10,000 hours (I just read "Outliers").

I'm reading Stephen King's "On Writing" right now, which some writing-related person once recommended to me (I can't remember who). It's nice to hear that even the most successful writers were once getting rejected. Keep trying, everybody! Just keep on trucking.

Good day to you all! (aka the zero people who read this)

Boggles the Mind

A few moments ago during a coffee run (we have a Starbucks on the lot), the girl in front of me ordered (for one of her superiors) a "decaf latte, with 4 shots." I immediately laughed and said, "What's the point of asking for decaf? Isn't that a little weird?" Neither the no-nonsense barista (female) nor the assistant (who seemed frightened, even out of earshot of her bosses) seemed to find any humor in my statement. In fact, the barista gave me a look of death and said something curt in defense of the order. Then I stepped up and ordered a light frappucino with whip cream (not for me), but decided not to share the humor in that with the humorless barista.

Their reaction to my statement made me take pause. I wondered if, in fact, I have been mistaken (all these years) in thinking that espresso shots contain caffeine. After I placed my orders, I sidled up to the assistant and said, "Shots have caffeine, right? Is he just asking for decaf to delude himself, or what?" She looked up at me from squeezing her orders into her carry-out tray, then shrugged. "I don't know." She was reading the coffee orders from an email that said, "Please deliver to floor 6," so I wondered if she even knew the guy. She was probably intern, and that probably wasn't the weirdest order she'd ever filled.

But when I got back, I told two friends, just to check. They thought it was weird.

And then I Wikipedia'd "espresso": "While there can be significant variation, on a per-volume basis, espresso contains approximately three times the caffeine content of regular brewed coffee (1.700 g/l (50 mg per fluid ounce) of espresso versus 0.50–0.75 g/l (14–22 mg per ounce) for brewed coffee). Compared on the basis of usual serving sizes, a 30 ml (1 fluid ounce) shot of espresso has about half the caffeine of a standard 180 ml (6 fluid ounce) cup of American-style coffee, which varies from 80 to 130 mg."

I guess the strangest part of the whole encounter was that nobody stops to laugh at (or question) all the funny little things like that that happen every day. Or maybe people don't notice? Or care?

This inspires me to share two quick coffee-related stories.

A few months ago I went on a (fairly unremarkable, kind of bad) coffee date, at a Coffee Bean. During the good part (the part before we'd really talked much), we sat down at a table that was already littered with tiny espresso mugs (I love miniature crockery). A few minutes later a barista-janitoress asked if we were done with our coffee. We laughed and said yes, none of this was ours. Imagine if we'd imbibed all of that caffeine! The barista told us that she never jokes or makes judgments, because you never know... Out of curiosity, we asked her the maximum number of extra shots anyone has ever ordered from her. She said that somebody had asked her for FOURTEEN shots in one drink. We concluded that said person must have been a recovering drug addict, looking for an angry fix. Nobody else could handle that kind of buzz.

Least of all, me. This past summer Cole and I took a UCLA Extension one-day seminar, at UCLA (which is not a total duh because they have classes all over, I think). On the morning of, we arrived in Westwood a bit ahead of schedule, and decided to drop into a Peet's Coffee, because we don't generally go to Peet's. Neither of us being major coffee people, we ordered Chai Lattes, which turned out to be undrinkably spicy. I didn't want to just throw a $5 drink in the trash and walk out, so I asked the baristas if I could have something else. At first one of them gave me attitude about how everybody knows that Peet's is stronger than other places (my response: Um... I didn't), but another one (who seemed to side with me that the Chais were gross) took pity on us. Cole was planning on suffering through his latte, but the barista offered to make new drinks for both of us. I don't remember what happened, but something went wrong with drink #2, and I finally ended up getting some sort of coffee drink-- but forgot to order it decaf. At that point I just wanted to get out of this cursed shop, so we left.

Cut to: 10 minutes later, my heart is beating like a hummingbird's. I always drink decaf because my family drinks decaf, and because I generally have a lot of energy to begin with. I didn't actually think that caffeine was something that would mess with me, other than making me have to pee more or something. But wow, caffeine is not my friend. I felt like I was taking crazy pills, FOR REAL. I was laughing and sweating and shaking. And about to enter an 8-hour lecture.

So... those are some tales from the coffee crypt. I ended up including LA's Big 3 (Starbucks, Coffee Bean, Peet's) without even trying. While drinking a good Chai Latte (a rare treat; I usually don't order). (But when I do order... now that I order for multiple people at once, I always give myself a fake name, because even though I love the fake name game it's too weird to do an obvious fake name for just myself. Today I was Bill. Last time I was Wanda.)

Thanks, But No Thanks

This morning Cole brought in a few recent issues of Rolling Stone. I grabbed the one with Sean Penn on the cover, eager to read anything having to do with his performance in "Milk." After finishing that article, I happened to keep reading the very next one, about Ray Kurzweil (the link is a pdf of the article).

That article freaked the shit out of me, in a way that I can't describe to you other than to say that if you read the article, you will know what I mean. I felt sick after reading it. It sets up that Kurzweil is a little batty, but also that he has accurately predicted many technological advances. Then it outlines his newest prediction, The Singularity, which is just about the most disturbing thing I've ever read. Basically, he predicts that in 2045, robots are going to live inside of us, backing up our brains like computers--well, among other things. (The other things are too numerous and strange to go into here--like I said, read it and weep.)

At this point I looked up and said to Cole, "I really don't think it's possible to back up your brain like you back up a hard drive." Cole said that it's quite possible that I am wrong, and he's right-- but I personally don't like to think that the brain is something that we can fully understand. I like that human thoughts and how they work are a sort of unknowable mystery, overall. At least to me. Cole says that anything could be broken down by science, but I honestly think that the idea of taking someone's thought and then being able to accurately reconstruct it sounds more like science fiction.

I think as a person who likes to write and tell stories, the idea that the contents of a brain can just be uploaded and printed out kind of spells the end of storytelling and writing as we know it. I mean, by the time that happens the world will be a very different place anyway. Maybe I should worry about this when it gets closer to being real.

The thing is-- I think every person who wants to write wishes that s/he could articulate his/her ideas in a deeper and more expressive way, but I have a feeling that just being able to read a brain's thoughts in analog or whatever wouldn't necessarily enhance the beauty of a thought as expressed with the perfectly chosen words. I don't know, I feel very inarticulate right now. I don't have any robots helping me.

One particularly disturbing moment: "By scanning the contents of your brain, nanobots will be able to transfer everything you know, everything you have experienced, into a robot or a virtual-reality program. If something happens to your physical body, no problem. Your mind will live on-- forever."

I honestly think that sounds like the freakiest thing possible. A disemodied mind, living in a computer? Kill me now, right? Kurzweil also says that eventually robots will keep us from aging, and he takes 150 pills a day to keep himself young enough to live until that day. Oookay.

The thing is, as much as nobody wants to really think about his/her mortality, I don't think that any of us would want to choose to NEVER die, or to live as a sort of hazy half-person. We aren't prepared to die, but I think we're even less prepared to live forever.

Anyway, although the article builds up the possibility of Kurzweil's future being possible, the author eventually reveals the opinions of a few other top scientist types, who pretty much say that Kurzweil is crazy.

But the most reassuring (in terms of, oh wait, this is guy is probably totally deluded)/freakiest part of the article is the very end, where Kurzweil admits that he's creating these nanobots as a means to reanimate his father, who died in the 1960s. He wants to bring his father back as some sort of robot that has all of his father's memories, thanks to nanobots rooting the memories out of his (Ray's) brain. He says that the first thing he'd tell his father is that he really did get to create music from computers, just as his father hoped he would. That's the part where the story starts to sound like a disturbing movie cliche of a boy who just wants to make his father proud, with a very Frankenstein-y twist. As long as Ray lives he's going to be pushing to develop the technology to make the future he wants possible, and that's just-- disturbing. Scary. On a lighter note-- in the process he has invented a whole bunch of useful devices for the blind, etc.

The thing is-- I wonder what Ray's father would think. I think that an aversion to death and the deaths of others has to do with fear of death-- but once it happens, it happens. I have a feeling that this dead father is okay with being dead by now. Ray wants to create a world where nothing is unknown, where life is the only possibility. But there have to be unknowns in life, I think. There has to be death. I don't want to live in a hyper-technological world. Reading this article almost made me want to go off the grid, or at least go cavort with Mother Nature more often. Seriously.

Well, I'm hoping that the people who said that this isn't really as possible as Ray thinks are right. Maybe in four hundred years from my robot body I'll be posting some sort of retraction to this entry, using videos of my memories as illustrations. Hopefully not, though.

Or maybe I'll come around to it. If nanobots are running around (and Ray Kurzweil is still alive), I might not have a choice.

Destiny Sucks, or Sensitivity Calls

A few days ago I overheard some of my co-workers talking about the viral ad campaign for the new season of "Lost," and questioning whether the fake billboards for Ajira Airways were really going to pull oblivious non-viewers into watching the show. I didn't really think about it, because I don't watch the show.

I first noticed the fake logo on the side of one of the trucks here at the lot. The only reason I made the connection to "Lost" was because a) The logo seemed fake to me, and b) The logo was framed by the tagline "Destiny Calls." Up until this week, the truck had a picture of the cast of "Lost" framed by the same tagline, so I put two and two together.

I noticed my first Ajira Airways billboard on my way to work today. Same tiger, same "Destiny Calls."

Now, whatever. Viral marketing, fake companies, it happens. So far I have only seen one scrawly red "Who Watches the Watchme..." spray-painted as if it were legit graffiti on a wall, and I can understand the sort of freaky appeal of fiction creeping up on our real lives. When I saw that graffiti I wasn't sure at first if it was some excited fan or some corporate ad campaign, and it definitely made me want to email my friends who worked on it and/or are big "Watchmen" fans.

The thing that really bothers me is the idea of "Destiny Calls" vis-a-vis a show that is centered around a plane crash (and I know, I know, this ISN'T the same airline as the fake airline that crashed in the first season of this show--but still). Somehow this says to me, "Come ride our fake airline, for your Destiny is to be in a plane crash." And something about that seems very wrong, in light of the recent miracle-crash on the Hudson and the tragi-crash in Buffalo. The Hudson incident was such a triumph that the Buffalo crash felt all the worse, I think. We crashed back down to earth, in more ways than one. If destiny is what called all of these people to die so tragically, then destiny sucks. Destiny sucks ass.

I watched the "60 Minutes" interview with captain "Sully" Sullenberger, and in one segment where he met the passengers, a man said to him, "My brother died on 9/11, and I don't think my family could have handled another blow like this. Thank you for saving my life." When I recounted that story to my family over Thai food last weekend, I was nearly in tears. It is just... beyond cruel that Beverly Eckert died in a plane crash while traveling to Buffalo to commemorate her husband who died on 9/11. This plane was like a "Who's Who" of good people, of people who were trying to make a difference. I'm not saying that these people were better than other people who died in plane crashes. I'm just saying that it sucks to lose people, and it especially feels strange not to know that these interesting people existed until a circumstance happens that makes them cease to exist.

I think a lot of my taking issue with this lies in how one defines the word "destiny." It can be a good thing or a bad thing-- "I was destined to find this wedding dress," etc. BUT this is a show centered around a plane crash, so I'm going to venture to say that perhaps they are wanting us to make the fly this airline/get-in a-crash connection.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines destiny (n.) as "The power or agency by which, according to various systems of philosophy and popular belief, all events, or certain particular events, are unalterably predetermined; supernatural or divine pre-ordination; overruling or invincible necessity; = FATE." Following that thread, "fate" is defined as, "The principle, power, or agency by which, according to certain philosophical and popular systems of belief, all events, or some events in particular, are unalterably predetermined from eternity. Often personified," but further definitions break it down into "doom"... "death, destruction [and] ruin."

I guess I just find it to be in bad taste on the heels of several airplane crashes to have an ad campaign featuring a fake airline, accompanied by words implying that--should you fly this airline-- your doom awaits, most likely via airplane crash. As Cole and I like to say, "Too soon! Too soon!"

Auto-Tune This

While I was at home this weekend, I stumbled upon this article in Time magazine, about the now-ubiquitous use of Auto-Tune. I have been thinking about it ever since (well, on and off-- not obsessively), because overall it's a totally fascinating concept. Having been involved in sound last year, I am kind of bummed that I never got a chance to play around with Auto-Tune, just to see what it's like to sing into a device and hear it perfect my pitch in crazy space robot-esque manner. I really think that there needs to be some sort of mass market Auto-Tune toy. I would love to play with it all day (and utterly annoy everyone around me, I'm sure).

But-- as the article states-- it is kind of sad that anybody can run their voice through a subtle Auto-Tuning. There is something to be said for imperfections. I have heard that some older people are bothered by the fact that CDs don't have that scratchy turntable imperfection that records used to have. I guess our generation will look back wistfully on a time when voices were voices, perfect or not.

This also creates an environment where anybody could record a song, for better or for worse. (Well, if they're really out of tune the Auto-Tune can only go so far. Remember Kim from Real Housewives of Atlanta? Yeah.) Is this opening up the field in a positive way, or is it just allowing mediocrity to reign?

On a positive note, now there is a chance that I could someday record a hit song.

And I have Real Housewives on the brain because season two of the New York cast premieres tonight. I have realized that I love watching drama on TV and keeping the dramz out of my real life. I don't know if those two things are related somehow-- like if people who don't get drama from their entertainment seek it in real life. One of my friends was telling me about her life and asking how a certain event in her life would have played out, if it took place in a story that I was writing (or I guess a TV show-- a lot of times in my short stories people just sit around and make vague, bleak statements).

I said, "Look-- if it were a story I'd want things to happen that would fan the drama flame. But in real life relationships, not so much." It was the first time I'd really articulated the fact that stories are not the same as real life, and why. I was kind of proud of myself, for knowing the difference. I mean, I'm not saying that all stories are or should be drama on the high seas. But, you know.

My other friend, R, noticed this about me. She was complaining that so many of her friends come to her with problems that they want her to solve, and said that the reason she likes chatting online with me (we both work at computers most of the day) is that I'm not looking for a shoulder to cry on.

R: I like that you want no therapy [from me]
R: I like that you're relatively problemless
R: It makes you easy to love

While my drama-free attitude makes me easy to love in real life, my willingness to dish on other peoples' drama makes me a good chat-friend. She and I love talking about celebrities' gossip and problems because those people are basically not real to us. They are not seeking our free therapy.

Note: I am probably not problemless so much as I try not to spin things into problems.

Next time I think I will write about my many-splendored views on love.

Tug-of-War

I am in a tug-of-war between wanting to write on my memory-packed Xanga and wanting to start afresh here. I don't like letting go of sentimental things.

My problem with Xanga is not so much that it's memory-packed, but more that it's Xanga. I prefer Blogspot, but I'm sure if I move here I'll want to relocate once again, when something more appealing comes along. In search of the perfect blog-host.

I am also constantly debating how much to really share about myself. As I get older and information gets more and more easy to come by, I find myself valuing my privacy. It's kind of a surprise because I never saw myself as a particularly private or mysterious person, but now I kind of want to be one. I see that I used to drop a lot more information in my Xanga entries, and now I am a lot more hesitant. I didn't even do that 25 things questionnaire that went viral on Facebook. Although now that it has come to light that Facebook has devised a plot to own everything that we post there, I'm starting to wonder if the creators weren't just trolling for interesting ideas for stories and characters. But I feel like people who blatantly steal other peoples' content for profit are probably not storytellers at heart.

So yeah, laying it all out for everybody to see vs. buttoning my lip. I feel like this must be a common struggle for people who want to write. There are a lot of writers who somehow seem to manage to seem totally confessional and be fairly private, all at once. Smoke and mirrors.

I bought a new shampoo and conditioner and today my curls look a little curlier and more structured, despite the rain. And yes, I am still using the same after-shower hair products.

The clouds are haulin' it across the sky, post-sideways crazy rain. I'm sure there will be more rain shortly.