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| Friday, February 27th, 2009 | | 9:06 am |
Journal Privacy
I've changed the default journal settings to "Friends Only" - stuff I wrote years ago is still public. The main reason for this is twofold; 1) LJ only allows the privacy of multiple entries at once to be adjusted if you have a paid account, which I do not have or want, and 2) I do not relish the prospect of going back through 100-odd entries and clicking through several screens for each one to make them all private/friends-only. So for now, only the current stuff is friends-only, and if perfect strangers want to scroll back through several years of White Wolf fanfiction, quiz results and slightly overdramatic teenager stuff, they can go for it. Richard Bach (writer of Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Illusions: Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah) busted out this gem before I was born: "Live never to be ashamed if anything you say or do is published around the world, even if what is said is not true."And if you want to be added, drop me a line. | | Sunday, April 23rd, 2006 | | 3:52 pm |
I'm going to rock the casbah on this midterm tomorrow. I just thought you all should know. | | Thursday, April 20th, 2006 | | 3:06 am |
Update: Columbia application is in. Schools applied to: Boston University School of Management Boston College Carroll School of Management Columbia Graduate School of Business Schools not yet applied to: Suffolk University University of Massachussetts, Boston Graduate Management Program New York University: Stern | | Tuesday, April 18th, 2006 | | 7:48 pm |
Every few months or so I abruptly that having a livejournal means I can actually write stuff. It's almost an imperative, really, since I usually do keep up on my friends list, which (now that I think about it) is almost a stalkerish activity if I don't supply content of my own to keep the cycle going. ...the other thing is, well, I have two midterms over the next six days, and writing is more fun than studying. So I've decided to go ahead and freewrite for ten minutes or so, or as close to freewriting as I can get without pissing off my internal editor. It's not that far away really; it just includes a little bit of backing up and correcting typos. Maybe some minor rewording too. So I went to Boston last week to interview at a couple of business schools. One of the interviews went decently well, although I think I might have found out more about the school through the interviewer than the school found out about me. Which may have been the point, after all; to see how smart the candidates really are based on the quality of their questions and how much research they've done. Boston College - well, a private Catholic school, you do the math. It's an investment and I wasn't planning on going in there slack-jawed. The other one actually went really well. Boston University has an excellent program, and the guy who interviewed me was actually one of the people on the admissions committee who'd be reviewing my application (BC's person was a second-year MBA who was in there cold; without having seen anything but my resume). He and I hit it off pretty well. I didn't kiss ass at either interview; just talked about my background and why I chose to get my MBA right out of college with a low GPA and no post-undergrad work experience. Next up are Columbia and New York University, but they might or might not request interviews. I'd love to hit Manhattan again, but the airfares and lodging are taking a chunk out of my tax return anyway, so I'd be happy either way. I hope like hell I get in someplace. I'll surprise myself, because given my GPA and work experience, I have roughly a ice cube's chance in hell. But if I don't make it, I'll build my candidacy and apply again next year. Davis is a nice town to go to school in, spend a couple of years kicking back a few beers at Sophia's and G Street, playing HALO, poker on the weekends and Sudwerks on Wednesdays, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life here. Plus the average post-MBA salary of $60k-$80k sounds pretty good to me. This will open doors. Almost at the end of the ten minutes. My dad told me when I was about eight years old that life was all about choices, opportunities, doors that your choices opened. I dismissed it at the time as fatherly bullshit, but after a quarter of academic probation, a resulting low GPA, and years out of my life lost to what amounts to fucking around, I think he actually had it right. It's too late to fix a lot of those mistakes, but that doesn't really excuse me continuing to fuck around at this late date. I don't have experience, so fine, I'll take the talents I have and use them. Freelance articles, mechanical assistance on Pilates equipment, and of course the current job I have, all those help. Even if they don't, they provide a few much-needed bucks. My GPA is low, so I'll keep my quarterly above 3.5 for my last year, which I've done. I'll offset it with a stellar GMAT, which I've also done. Yeah, I might make it, or I might not, but I decided over the summer to do everything in my power. Which, I suppose, means stop procrastinating and start reading my Econ 1A textbook, or something along those lines. | | Wednesday, November 30th, 2005 | | 12:42 am |
You know, I think that the "current music" option on this whole livejournal thing is over-rated. I don't listen to nearly enough music to make it worthwhile. Instead, I want a "currently eating" or "currently cooking" option. Okay, quick disclaimer, because I know that the vast majority of us are music lovers (which I respect and often emulate, just not to the same degree): I'm talking about my journal only, for me. Because of several reasons really - I like to cook, and this would pressure me to cook something interesting more often than I do. I've been losing weight, not in a good way, and my girlfriend has noticed (one benefit of having a long distance relationship is that if your appearance changes even slightly, your lady really notices the next time she sees you), so I'd be inclined to eat more often too. I wouldn't be as lazy about it as I am now. Plus - and yeah, this is selfish - I'm not the greatest cook in the world, so if I make something and it turns out well, I'm usually pretty proud of it. This actually might not be a bad idea for mass introduction. I mean, you can send just as clear a message with your choice of food as you can with your choice of music. If you're female and you're eating Godiva bon-bons, we know you're all emo and stuff. How cool is that? Think about it. Currently Eating: chicken breast covered in flour, pepper, and rosemary; then rolled in beaten eggs and fried. Served on top of angel hair pasta, with a steaming mug of hot chocolate. It's my journal, damn it. Current Music: Stone Temple Pilots - I Got You | | Tuesday, November 22nd, 2005 | | 11:55 pm |
Warning: Rant Ahead
You know what pisses me off about supporting our troops, my son defends your freedom, america: love it or leave it, and all the rest of it? It's empty. Phrases like those are demonstrably difficult to argue against. Check this out: Do you support America? Well, hell yes you do, otherwise you shouldn't be here, right? Now let's think about it a little bit more. Do you support America's fight to bring democracy to the downtrodden? Well, probably, because after all democracy is the shining beacon of light and hope and freedom. ( Read more... ) Current Mood:  exanimateCurrent Music: Tenacious D - The Greatest Song in the World Tribute (HBO) | | Saturday, October 8th, 2005 | | 7:05 pm |
Quizzing.
 | You scored as Capt. Mal Reynolds. The Captain. You are the captain of the ship, so the crew are your responsibility. You just want to do the job, get paid and keep flying. Why is that always so hard?
Capt. Mal Reynolds | | 75% | Simon Tam | | 69% | The Operative | | 69% | Inara Serra | | 63% | Zoe Alleyne Washburne | | 56% | Shepherd Derrial Book | | 56% | Hoban 'Wash' Washburne | | 56% | Kaylee Frye | | 56% | River Tam | | 38% | Jayne Cobb | | 31% | </td>
Which Serenity character are you?
created with QuizFarm.com |
Current Mood:  cheerfulCurrent Music: Dralien, Cirque du Soleil | | Monday, September 12th, 2005 | | 7:15 pm |
 | You scored as D'Artagnan. You are D'Artagnan, the brash Gascon who embodies the high ideals of the Musketeer. You are sometime your own worst enemy, but your motives are pure and your character is unimpeachable. You are destined for great things and passionate (though often ill-fated) love.
D'Artagnan | | 85% | Richelieu | | 65% | Edmund Dantes | | 60% | Mercedes | | 55% | Aramis | | 45% | Porthos | | 40% | Athos | | 25% | Rochefort | | 10% | </td>
Which Dumas character are you?
created with QuizFarm.com |
Current Mood:  mischievousCurrent Music: The Mexican downstairs playing guitar | | Saturday, September 11th, 2004 | | 6:08 pm |
On Writing
When I graduated from a Cub Scout to a Boy Scout, around age 10, there was a simple ceremony. There were twelve kids in my "den," and while we were going to different troops, our pack wanted to hold us up as examples. We were each given a virtue of the Boy Scout Law and a few short sentences to read as we lit a candle. Mine - I still remember it - was Brave. "Being brave doesn't mean you are not afraid. Being brave is doing what is right despite your fear." I've always been so impressed with the idea of suffering for a cause greater than myself. "If blood is what is required to change this, then bleed we will," and "The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time by the blood of patriots and tyrants." The Revolutionary War, the Holocaust, the American Civil Rights movement. Burning buildings with people trapped inside, war zones where wounded men are bleeding and there are bullets flying overhead. Those times when people knew that standing and being true could (and probably would) mean their own deaths, and they were scared shitless but suffused with the knowledge that doing so was good, was right, undeniably. I was listening to an NPR program on the history of jazz a few years ago, and one of the greats was talking about when his band was engaged to play at a (mostly white) school dance for the first time, in the early sixties. When they were on stage and tuning up, someone ran up and told them that the KKK had surrounded the school and meant to kill them all when they came out. According to this jazzman, whose name I still can't remember, a wall of white students surrounded his band as they prepared to leave the school, and these scared young students walked between them and the Klukkers, escorting the band out to their car. Looking out at the torch-bearing men with faces filled with hate. What courage must that take? What incredible, steely resolve, to defy men who hate you and will likely kill you? A normal person faces so few situations now where any courage at all is required. There isn't much danger left now in this country of that sort, no men with guns menacing your liberty or your faith or your right to live. There is very little room left for simple courage, and I think I crave the feeling or idea of it. I find it in books, in documentaries and in movies. I love reading about World War II because I see men and women suffering and dying for a cause they believe in, doing things they shouldn't ever have to do, enduring things they shouldn't ever have to endure, simply because they know that now they must. Every time I start to write a story, I visualize that. That's what I want to get out on the page, into the minds of my friends and of people I don't know. I want to write about heroes, because in real life, their time has all but passed. Current Mood:  contemplative | | 4:15 pm |
There's something elementally satisfying about working with my hands, whether it's whittling or home repair or drawing. Fifteen minutes ago, I was standing in the sun in the Kraken Auto Parts parking lot, installing a car battery. Not a demanding job, but I'd never done this particular job on my car before, and forty-five minutes before that I was getting a jumpstart for the fourth time in as many months. It was time to get a new battery, and my Jewish code of honor wouldn't let me pay the dudes at Asian Automotive (actual name) fifteen bucks to do it for me. It took me two or three minutes to figure out how to take out the old one and put the new one in, and five or six more to charm the tools out of the girl at Kraken and actually do the job. Fifteen bucks for ten minutes...$75 an hour. I should be an auto mechanic. Anyway, now I'm home, and I know from experience that the grease on my fingers isn't going to come off completely until tonight or tomorrow night. No worries. It feels pretty good there. | | Thursday, July 29th, 2004 | | 11:39 pm |
Going through my old crap
So I went to Golfland Sunsplash today with my bro and some guys from work, and we had an amazing time...when I took him home, my mom asked me to go through a huge pile of my old stuff to seperate it into things to take home with me and things that she could get rid of. Man. Talk about a trip down memory lane. I looked through old photos of school dances long past, scouting memorabilia from the days when I was a tenderfoot, citation letters and debate trophies and all sorts of stuff. I was happily tossing things into boxes, when I came across my old stuffed tiger Hobbes that my parents gave me for Christmas a long time ago. I tangled my fingers in his mane like I used to (the fur seemed shorter than I remembered), and without even thinking about it, I raised him up to my face and smelled his fur. He smelled like slightly musty, comfortable old fur, like my bed used to. Like the detergent my mom uses to wash, like sweat from the pillowfights where Hobbes was my weapon and trusted guardian, like my tears from when I'd pour out my fears and worries late at night when I wasn't even six years old. He smelled like youth. I smelled his fur, and for a moment I was a little kid, ready to run downstairs on Christmas morning or delightedly waste a Saturday afternoon watching cartoons. I wondered what to do with him - I knew instantly that I couldn't just throw him away. Give him away to Goodwill, where he can comfort some other nutball kid for a decade? Try to convince my mom to let me leave him here? She'd probably go for it. In the end, I decided to take him back to my place, and stick him up on my closet shelf where he can guard my sleep at night. A slightly dusty old soldier and faithful companion deserves a slightly dusty place of honor, above the computer parts and old boardgames. I'll know he's there...and if things ever get drastically wrong, and I start to lose it, his smell will be a comfort like it was when I was small. | | Saturday, June 26th, 2004 | | 12:48 am |
Ninja Monkeys
It's been pointed out to me that I have written basically nothing in this livejournal recently. Therefore, I am transcribing a completely brilliant idea that occured to me at work last week during a conversation with the guys in the cubicles around me. First, some background. I work in customer service/sales. It's a really good job, and usually pretty fun. People call 1-800-PILATES, and they get me or one of my coworkers. When we get calls, we don't know whether we're going to be selling $10K worth of equipment, or answering a geriatric's questions about the dimensions of a foam roller. But every once in a while, we get a genuinely shitty customer. One who pushes the bounds of decency, either through sheer rudeness or just a propensity to push for some sort of discount or special treatment for 30 to 40 minutes. Someone who really, truly pisses us off. We got to thinking, how cool would it be if we could dispatch some ninja monkeys anywhere on Earth in a matter of hours? If the guy in Singapore who's burning up our phone lines cursing our ancestry and personal hygiene because UPS is charging him $10.50 for taxes and duties could look out his window and have his last sight on earth be the shining arc of a katana as it crashes through his window and pins him to the wall of his mud hut? That would be badass. But really, this idea (of having elite clans of ninja monkeys to wreak bloody justice upon one's enemies) isn't just limited to corporations. The good old US of A could have high-altitude, high-velocity planes fly over upstart nations. Inside the planes would be rows of 1,000-lb bomb casings. The bombs would fall towards the earth, and inside them would be highly trained and highly sedated primates with arsenals of martial-arts weaponry. When the bombs reached a certain altitude, about a thousand feet, they would inject a potent mixture of LSD and other stimulants, waking the monkeys and rousing them into battle frenzy. When the bombs reach 500 feet, they would burst apart, sending an entire clan of freaked-out, heavily armed monkeys into free-fall towards the soil of a hostile nation-state. Parachutes would deploy and the primate operatives would hit the ground in absolute fury, making short work of the beleagured hostile forces. Because let's face it. If several platoons of hopped-up monkeys are rushing at you with samurai swords, you can't be anything BUT beleagured. Unless you're Ed Harris or Sean Connery I guess. Current Mood: cheerful | | Friday, March 19th, 2004 | | 1:36 am |
I was thinking about this today. I really lucked the hell out, as far as family goes. My parents are both well-educated, both highly intelligent and morally upright. I was never hungry growing up, always provided for. They trusted me. They never hit me. They raised me extremely well, and of course when I was younger I didn't even think about it. I was pissed off at them sometimes, and frustrated other times. But I don't think I could have had better. I know, down to the depths of my heart, that no matter what happens to me or what mistakes I make, I'll always have a place to go, and people who love me. I'm sort of sad it took me until I was out of the house to realize this - I probably missed some opportunities when I was younger to spend time with them. But I think that's how it goes with most people. I would take a bullet for my parents or my brother; I'd do anything for them and consider it an honor. I used to bitch and moan sometimes, when they'd ask me to do chores. Now I offer my help whenever possible around the house. I guess living away from them puts things in perspective. I mean, now I work at my dad's company, and I see from the inside what it is that he's spent the last 28 years building. How many people that business supports, and how many lives it's bettered. We got a letter today from this little girl's mother. The girl - I think her name is Marsha - was born with slight oxygen deprivation, with the result that some of her nerves didn't properly develop. She's fully conscious and communicates well, evidently, but she has pain in her muscles and has trouble moving sometimes. Her parents bought her one of our machines. The girl absolutely loves it; her mom wrote that she could see the look of happiness on the girl's face when she was working on the machine, that Marsha wanted to spend hours on it every day. The girl drew a picture of herself on the machine with her dog, in crayon, and wrote a little thank-you note to us on it. It just blew my mind. I felt so unbelievably good, so proud of my dad that he made these things happen, that he made this little girl's life better. We were all walking around with these huge sloppy grins on our faces. I mean, can you blame us? Each one of us wants to feel like we're doing something productive with our lives, and making a child happy...well, you can't really get much better than that. That night, I asked my mom for some help with my take-home final exam essay. She's a librarian at CSUS, so I figured she might have some guidance. That night, we went to the library after hours - she let us in with her faculty key - and she helped me grab four or five books that had been checked out at the UCD library, and a few more that I hadn't known existed. Then she hugged me goodbye and told me she loved me, and I told her I loved her back, and I got into my car and drove home to start working. My parents don't read this journal; I haven't shown it to them. I'll probably print this out eventually and read it to them, but for some reason it's hard to tell people things like this to their face. It's really easy to tell someone else, "Yeah, man, Professor Roddy is an amazing guy; he just seems to be always there for you to talk to about stuff." Or "those councilors at Jesuit really saved my ass a few times. I don't know how I can make it up to them." But somehow it's more difficult to really tell them to their faces how good of people they are. Anyway, I'm rambling. If I die in a car wreck or something before I work up the ganas to tell them, can someone please print this out and give it to my folks? I'd appreciate it. Thanks. Current Mood:  good | | Saturday, February 7th, 2004 | | 2:04 pm |
Weird Dream
I had the weirdest dream last night. I was hanging out with a group of mostly new folks at my parents' house (my dad wasn't there, just my mom), and I knew and liked some of these people but not all of them. I think I said something that pissed one of them off, because he jumped to his feet and started spitting obscenities at me. This guy looks like a dirty hobo, greasy shoulder-length stringy hair and a gaunt face. Like the villain dude in the Dennis the Menace movie. So I got to my feet too, and someone whispered to me, "It's the ritual challenge...you have to defend yourself." The evil guy had pulled out a wicked looking knife, and I reached into my pocket to pull out mine too, but it wasn't there. So I looked around to all the folks watching and I said, "Who can loan me a weapon?" Someone reached out and pressed a ten-inch long serrated blade into my hand - sharp enough to shave with; I could tell just by looking at it. I have no memory of taking off my shirt or my shoes, but they were suddenly off and all the folks had formed a circle around us, and the evil guy shuffled towards me with his knife held out in front of him. Now, looking at him, I knew that I could beat him easily (don't ask me how - I've never been in a knife fight before in my life). But at the same time I knew that I didn't want to risk letting him get close to me and I didn't want to kill him, so I reached out and slashed him across the wrist on his knife hand. He made no noise, and my blade barely cut him. It looked like a kitten scratch. He looked a little uncertain and thrust at me, but I'd dodged back out of his range, and I came around again to stab the point of my knife into the other side of his wrist. That one seemed to do some damage, but he still wasn't making any noise. He pushed forward, crowding me, and I banged up against my parents' front door (although it was open, so there was only a screen door there - strange because my parents don't have a screen covering the front door of their house). I shifted my weight slightly and kept attacking his knife hand, like a pissed-off cat, while my off-hand was scrabbling around behind me trying to open up the screen door. I remember being afraid that I might actually die here, before I got the damn thing open and leapt backwards out into the front yard. He jumped out after me, and I stabbed with my blade, carving a long bloody slash all the way up his wrist. He finally did make a sound, kind of a pained whimper, and I suddenly felt really goddamn guilty. He dropped his knife, and curled up on the ground next to the tree (there actually is a tree in front of my parents' house), and laid there for a moment. Then he reached up, took a huge, broadhead spear down off the tree (I have no idea where this came from), and impaled himself in the shoulder with it. It wasn't a mortal wound, but it seemed to kill him. I forgot to clean my blade, so I just went back inside. My mom was in the kitchen making food, and there was a huge tent pitched in the backyard with sounds of revelry coming from it. My mom looked over at me, oddly proud (which makes no sense; even verbal argument makes my mother nauseous, and she can't stand it when me and my brother brawl), and said"They are all in there celebrating your victory." So I went out there, and then I woke up because Bernie was calling my cell phone. No clue what this means, except that it bears odd parallels to the scene in Dune where Paul and Jessica are getting accepted into the Fremen tribe and Jamis challenges Paul. I've been thinking about watching Dune again lately, but I dunno how this relates. Also, the knife that someone gave me was exactly the same as the knife my friend Dan showed me on his computer. He had modeled it for a his 3-D animation class, and it looked badass. So yeah. I remember this vividly. Any ideas? Current Mood:  curious | | Thursday, October 23rd, 2003 | | 2:44 pm |
 Bastet What Changing Breed are you? brought to you by QuizillaSorry I haven't updated lately. Been slammed with work, school, and all kinds of stuff. I'm about to take a midterm, but I'll update afterwards. Really. | | Friday, September 12th, 2003 | | 8:23 pm |
It's been days and days since I updated, so here goes. First, I got a new job. Yes, it's working for my dad, in Sales, and no, I'm not a telemarketer. People call in because they see our website or they hear by word of mouth, and I answer questions about the fitness equipment (Pilates method) and take orders and stuff. If any of you wanna see, check out the website for yourself. This is working out pretty well. I'm making money, and it's a good corporate-style job. Plus as a Communications major it's the kind of thing I'd like to get experience in for my resume. In general, it rocks. We also got a new place in Davis, at Cranbrook apartments. It's very nice. While the DSL should have been hooked up this morning, my computer is still set up at my parents' house (which has had active DSL for a while now). So I've just been coming here after work and then going back out to Davis for sleep and social occasions. Since I get free dinner every night, this is really just about the best idea ever. Tristan's been in London (or some other such place) for a while, and he should be getting back soon. In the meantime I have the place to myself, and it's been cool. Shannon came down from Merced to spend the weekend, and we managed to rope BJ, Joel, Libby, and Greg (since he had just turned 17) into a heroic series of Caps rounds. Greg is MVP. That dude plays like a champ, and drinks like a champ. He's party-eligible. Must be the Jewish blood. It rocked having Shannon up here, and allowed us to see her before she and BJ leave for France on the 25th. I am going to go out and visit them. Just wait. In other news, my brother has kicked me in the ass. Literally. Excuse me a moment. I chased him down, held him, sat on his face and farted. It was raunchy, really. I'm sorry to all you girls who read this, but the kid deserved it. We'd been playing Fart Tag all day, and this really was just Point Set and Match to me. That'll teach him to kick his older and more wily -- weaselly -- brother in the ass. Now, where was I? There was free food at work today, which rocked. Lasagna. Which further rocked. And there is also an amazingly large surfeit of cheap and nasty beer at my house, which will have to be consumed. For Justice. Current Mood: satisfied | | Wednesday, September 3rd, 2003 | | 4:03 pm |
| | Sunday, August 17th, 2003 | | 2:09 pm |
Justice Bits - The Breakfast of Champions
So after game last night, I stopped by BJ's and we watched some excellent anime. Initial D - Street Racing of an old-school, shitty car (driven by a true artist) against the most modern piece of horsepower-laden automobile on the streets. Needless to say, I loved it. BJ, I'm going to be pissed off when you go to Paris. Then, I got home. Now, as I'm on approach, I notice something. There are rolls of toilet paper hanging from the branches of the tree in front of our house. They weren't there when I left at 5:00. My Doom-sense tingles. I slam the van into park, turn off the engine, and get out of the car. Dead silence. I walk up to the toilet paper, and feel it...dry, straight, crisp and quilted. This job was fresh; no time for condensation from the fairly cool night to seep into it. Then I hear someone whispering to someone else, close by, and I turn and pelt towards the station wagon parked in front of the house. The two fuckers don't even try to run, just break into hysterical giggling that stopped when they saw that it was me and not my mom. Two kids, maybe 15 years old. I recognized one of them; I'd see him before and I knew where he lived. His face said he remembered this too. So I turn to the one I don't recognize (keep in mind I'd just gotten home from playing a Brujah, my fellow gamers). "I recognize him. Who are you?" "I, uh..." " Who the -fuck- are you!" I'm not quite in his face, but I'm leaning toward him. The other kid, the one I know, speaks up timidly after a pause. "He's my friend Jonathan." "All right." I go calm again, and motion towards the toilet paper. "So you guys did this, huh?" His tone is that of a kid who recognizes that he's in deep shit. "...yeah." "That's cool of you. I imagine you'll clean it up then, huh? Like tomorrow?" Their faces brighten, like they had thought I was going to pound the shit out of them. "Yeah! We were just trying to get your little brother, you know, didn't really wanna--" "That's good. I'm gonna go to bed now. See you guys tomorrow." And I walk into the house and go to bed. Cut to this morning, when I crawl out of bed at 2 pm. I open the window, and guess what? Not a trace of toilet paper for miles around. Current Mood:  amused | | Saturday, August 9th, 2003 | | 7:13 pm |
Back to the Present Time
Ramirez at World's End, Interlude In the church, the Lady seems to have been speaking for hours or days. As the timeless music of her voice draws to a close, she and the two fae reach an altar that Ramirez remembers, and he suddenly feels a pull towards it stronger than any childhood memories. Filled with certainty, he reaches down and gently moves aside a stone, and reaches inside. He draws out a piece of steel, giving off a golden sheen, and from somewhere in the church comes the ringing of bells. The attention of both Ramirez and Theo is focused on the brilliant sword, so it happens that neither of them are watching the Lady Fate as she smiles a mysterious little smile. | | 7:05 pm |
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