ad utrumque paratus

the heinous heat

Tue, 04 Sep 2012 20:09:24 -0400

i am so tired of the humidity. it is september…though i ‘m not surprised that rochester balks at adhering to typical seasonal expectations. what else is new. i don’t do well in the heat, i hate summer (YES I SAID IT. AND I MEAN IT) and i make a miserable cold person (I just complain all the time) but it’s easier to get warmer than to get cooler and who doesn’t like sweaters and cuddling? i already know i’m right, i’m not really asking. so of course my car (the car my parents let me drive) doesn’t have air conditioning, so basically i look like i’m melting all the time and i feel like that in-between sort of melty-solid, like when a candle melts and then sits there for a little bit and it looks like it’s cooled and then you poke it with your finger and it burns you and then you get the wax stuck to your finger tip. it’s like that ALL THE TIME and silly me, i actually expected Brockport to have air-conditioned buildings, but NO, the inside is actually worse than the outside, so i end up sitting there, dressed inappropriately in jeans, because, i love jeans and hate shorts, because i hate summer, so i’m just surly and sweaty and miserable, all the while trying to make sure my eyeliner hasn’t smudged into a shiner and attempting to nonchalantly waft my under-arm scent in hopes that it isn’t as musty as i think it has become.

in other news, i was trying to cook myself a decent meal last tuesday (which ended up delicious actually), when i realized i forgot to bring a proper cutting utensil…and so i proceeded to hack at my red pepper with a butter knife until i had enough to eat. the whole process took about 15 minutes longer than it should have, and i wanted to chop a shallot as well…that ended up a lot less happy.

don’t cut your shallots with a butter knife, children.

something i wrote long ago...

Thu, 09 Aug 2012 12:03:37 -0400

I was stuck inside, doing my job. The computer lab was cold, temperature wise but also in the sense that computers rarely love you back. And why should they, since we use them for our own purposes? No matter how much you love them, they can’t love you back. Yet. Most of the time they just screw you over when your term paper is due or you are lured in to unwittingly clicking a link that injects your computer with a virus. Unless you have a Mac, which almost makes up for its outrageously priced beauty by being nigh impervious to such illness.
    It’s four-thirty on a Friday afternoon, it’s the first time in months that the day has been sunny and warm simultaneously, and there are still people wasting their lives on Facebook in the computer lab. It disgusts me. Get a life. I don’t care how you do it, get a life. Granted, there are one or two actually working on assignments, but, seeing as it’s the third to last day of the semester, I am starting to lack understanding, which seems opposite than what it should be, but, I am.
    I go into a lab to shut off the computers and wipe them down, because lord knows how many filthy fingertips have used these keyboards, and where the hands have roamed that hug the mouses. One thing I never will get is why the computer mouse is called a mouse. I mean obviously it resembles a mouse, but why don’t we say “computer mice.” Or maybe we do and I just never noticed, but, in any case, yes, I did just say mouses. And of course one girl comes in and asks me if I have scissors. NO. I do not have scissors that I want to let you use, but yes, I do have scissors that I have to let you use. So I stop what I am doing to let her have access to some scissors. Oh, and tape too? Yes, we have that. Here you go. No, take your time, I will just sit here and do nothing until you’ve decided that you’ve used our office supplies enough. No, don’t worry about it, really, your money pays for this tape, so you should get to use it. Have a good weekend, enjoy yourself, blah blah blah.
    I hate them for procrastinating but I procrastinate, too. I hate myself for procrastinating, I wish I was That Person who always had her work done, but truth be told, I hate that person too, for her smug smile when she’s the only one stress free, and for having the time to get it done. So there really is no way to win.
    The worst part about the computer lab is being stuck with my own thoughts while I clean. That, and having Ob La Di Ob La Da looping through my head, life goes on BRAH, take some deep breaths and maybe that creep checking out my butt while I bend over to pick someone’s chewed gum off the floor won’t bother me so much.
    Right.
    So, anyways, Rochester finally decides not to let on that it suffers from bi-polar and/or depression and has graced us with a sunny, warm day. Someone somewhere must have sacrificed a pyre of virgins because this never happens in May. I’d knock on wood to ward off the voodoo of the universe to come back and bite me for my hopeful words, but Rochester defies all superstition.

she does the stepford

Wed, 18 Jul 2012 10:26:00 -0400

So i’ve told you about my love of white bread and yogurt and my megatron tv. since it’s nearing an hour that is sleep-reasonable, obviously i must tell you about where i live while a Seinfeld rerun softly lulls my creativity in the frontground (i don’t care that it’s foreground, i know what i’m doing, fore is stupid, is it like forehead and backhead? no, there’s no such things as backheads, there’s back OF heads though and so there should be front of heads and front of grounds. oh english, the way you peeve me off just gets me so hot and bothered).

Before i proceed, however, it is essential that i tell you about my love of prepositions. my emphatic capitalized ‘of’ is what reminded me, how essential (and i cannot stress this enough) (so i’ll use more caps) HOW ESSENTIAL (do you hear me yelling?) it is to use the right preposition in a sentence! one cannot toss them about willy-nilly! there will be none of that! and this is why:

it’s the difference between playing by yourself, and playing with yourself—one sounds dirty and one sounds lonely. drinking by yourself and drinking with yourself—one sounds lonely and one sounds like you have multiple personalities (which typically is a symptom of drinking in the first place for everyone). cuddling with your body pillow or cuddling across your body pillow—one sounds like you are, once again, lonely, the other as though perhaps you are finally gettin’ some and the pillow just so happens to be in the way. should i keep going? even the subtle differences between the little prepositions makes me marvel at this awesome part of speech. from implies leaving and of implies belonging and in implies amidst and by implies deadline and on and on and on i could go but i can see your eyes glazing over and i haven’t even gotten to the handfuls of BOOB or mostly NAKED men or little PUFF ball dogs which are the really real part of this story. prepositions just get me so excited!

Gushing d.o.n.e. for now. i blame homeschooling.

So i wasn’t teasing when i used words like boob and naked and puff (previously capitalized to get you excited). i live in a nice little community, a strange version of Stepford, where the streets look the same, every meticulous 1” mowed lawn has a tree and lamppost, and an overwhelmingly large amount of distinct elderly people. distinct for the following reasons: they all have little floppy puff-ball dogs that only ever grow to the height of an ankle, they quite often wear all-too revealing bathing suits, and they are just quite frankly hilarious. All the little old ladies wear the loose capris with their socks pulled up so you can only see 2.4 inches of their shin, and all the little old men have rider mowers for a lawn the size of which you could clip with scissors in less than a half hour. And then there is the jogger who is really tan and really skinny and he wears these INCREDIBLY tiny red loose jogging shorts and he runs all around the streets with nothing but the shorts on. It is terrible. i think the worst part is that from far away you get a little excited, thinking it’s some youthful tan guy running your way, and then he gets closer…and you instantly regret the roaming eye. No one wants to see that. i mean yeah good for him that he is still in shape or whatever…but i don’t want to look at it. Or be fooled by it. Wear long socks or something so people can tell what age you are from farther away. Jeesh.

Oh how i wish the neighborhood shenanigans ended there.

Instead, they get even more scandalous. Picture this: lovely summer afternoon, slight breeze, not too hot, not too breezy, tranquil community pool-side setting, the pool’s little waterfalls creating the perfect amount of “babbling brook” noise needed to get your zen tan on. Add normal swimming man. Add adorable child with floaties. None of this is bad yet. Now what i’m about to describe is graphic. If there are children reading this, please cover their eyes. Enter scraggly-haired over-weight woman of late sixties, wearing a one-piece that could barely contain her. Not only was she a cup size of double J (an educated guess), she was more tan than a Puerto Rican.

And she was intent on becoming even more tan. She heaved her heft onto one of the lounge chairs and proceeded to splurk (onomatopoeia!) (lit terms!) (english major!) the better half of a handful (as opposed to the worse half? in this case either half was equally bad) of tanning oil into her palm, and then to slather it all over her ample chestal area. And then after she decided she was slick enough to repose in all her shining glory, she realized just how scantily she was clad. And then grabbed handful upon handful of boob and shoveled it back into her swim suit. Which she was holding away from her with the other hand.

So let’s just recap: heft, oil, boobs, sausage casing.

i never saw her ever again, but the mental image i shall carry with me for most of my life i’m assuming, and so, she will live on.

bean head

Thu, 12 Jul 2012 11:14:00 -0400

well, i’m just going to tell you right now, this is all going to be about coffee and the erotic relationship i share with it.

i want to start off by saying i didn’t used to be this way. honestly, i can’t even remember my first cup of coffee. i know it’s like some strange cultural coming-of-age (teenie boppers bein all coo’ goin to starbucks to get their caps and fraps) and lotsa people get that dopey glazed look in their eye as if they can see that first cup on the counter waiting for them, like seeing the love of your life across a crowded room, yada yada yada, and now they have four cups a day (Seinfeld!). There was no such defining moment for me…coffee is all there has ever been. i think i’ve blocked out my life previous to coffee because it clearly wasn’t worth living. or maybe i’m just depressed i could make it through a morning without Jamaican Me Crazy back then. it’s probably the first one.

what’s fun is making little kids drink coffee. i tricked my nephew sam into drinking some because he is little (he is two!) and always wants what the adults have (i’m calling myself an adult here, go with it) so he thought he was getting something really good man, and you should have seen his face. hilarious. (i’ve done it to him two other times. never gets old. little kids are fun. make them eat lemons.)

anyways, this thing, this thing i have with coffee…people just don’t understand our love. we’re star-crossed lovers. our love is doomed. i mean, this is really a one-way relationship here, coffee doesn’t need me, it has plenty of other options (though i like to think it enjoys my company), but i would become catatonic if i could never drink another sip of coffee ever again. if you asked me to shave my head for a year or give up coffee forever i would shave my head. it works for natalie portman, brit spears and anne frank (is that inapropro? i told you i make un-politically correct jokes, we’re moving on), i’m sure i can figure something out.

the problem with being this in love with coffee is that i have become a bit of a “coffee snob.” but what some people call “pretentious” i just consider knowledgeable. is it my fault coffee tastes sooo much better when you grind the beans yourself and use a french press while crooning the beans a lullaby? heck no, errybody else is just jealous i have this level of dedication and commitment. when it’s late at night and i’m trying to finish a paper, or use flowry speech to conveyth what lies in mine bosom through penned lines, coffee is there beside me, supporting me the whole way. as an english major it’s important that i cultivate my coffee consumption into something educated, refined, and distinguished (i’m trying to sound pretentious). therefore i will NOT stand for half-caff or this “decaff” malarkie. what the hell is even the point if there’s no perk, no pep, at the bottom of your cup?! (that was not being pretentious, that was being straight up. if you can’t stand the caffeine, don’t make a scene. i just made that up right now.)

and it’s not just the caffeine i like. (the next part should have Billie Holiday singing “You Go To My Head” in the background.) it’s the whole experience. the toasty mug (i have a mug fetish…it’s similar to my sock fetish only worse, because i compulsively purchase mugs on a regular basis. it’s the only type of dishware i own. i love mugs. someday, if i never make it as a successful writer/poised publisher/angry editor/disturbed poet/connoisseur of the literary realm i’m going to open a coffee shop and call it Mug Shots. Get it? Mug shots? shots of espresso? mugs? jail photos? haaaahahaha. it will be awesome, and you will come and you will like it. there will be a french press on every table and fair trade beans for all!!! USE ALL THE BEANS), the way the half-and-half plumes up from the bottom (i used to be a purist when my cousin jon made my coffee and refused to give me any cream, but he moved away and i’ve since reverted to turning my coffee a nice, camel colour. not caramel, not taupe, not beyonce, but camel. because coffee helps you get over the hump. man am i on a roll today), the rich way it smells, how i smell after i spill it on myself, just the anticipation of holding this beautiful liquid in a favourite mug in my hands (all my mugs are my favourite) and knowing that in a few minutes our symbiosis will be actualized when i put my lips to the rim and take that first, luxurious sip…oh coffee! the way you make me feel…

i told you it was erotic.

what amazes me is how universal coffee is. and how it can mean so many things and nothing at all. it’s almost a colloquialism. you have guests over and offer them coffee, or to make up for something someone says “lemme buy you a cup of coffee.” “let’s grab some coffee” can really mean getting coffee or a slew of other things, but basically it’s the same as saying hang out. only better, because you might get a free cup of coffee out of the deal. it’s ambiguous enough that it can’t quite be considered a date (which is good if you get uncomfortable on dinner dates like i do…what the hell are you supposed to do on a first date anyways? what if i end up hating you because i didn’t know you well enough before i said yes and now it’s too late and i’m really just invested in the meal at this point and not really your company because i’m hungry? i don’t want you to watch me eating! i hardly know you! this is moving too fast! i’m all dressed up and worried my makeup is smudgie and chances are i’m a bit grumpy because my blood sugar gets low when i’m hungry and then i haven’t made you think i’m awesome and the whole thing is just a big ball of sketch, so if you ever get me on a dinner date consider yourself lucky. i always counter such a request with “um, how about we get coffee first?” because that is safe and not uncomfortable, pretty much anyone looks awesome at starbucks surrounded by all those yuppies, i mean i’m one of those yuppies but that’s not important, and if you aren’t worth the two dollars i spent on the coffee to talk to you then i know it’s not meant to be and i can just say, welp, this was fun, but i gotta go, and it’s no pressure. and i can wear a cardigan. and if the person says they don’t drink coffee then…why are we even talking still) (yes all of that was just contained by parentheses, now you have to find where it all started to get back to the actual sentence haaa ha) but it’s enough alone time to make you feel good plus you get to talk. it’s great bonding.

and occasionally i will branch out, have some tea, because i do understand that tea is “better” for you (it doesn’t meet my personal emotional needs, but whatevs) and all it does is solidify what i know in my heart: that coffee is the only one for me.

i'm not picking my nose.

Wed, 11 Jul 2012 15:28:13 -0400

so, i got my nose pierced a couple months ago (not to be rebellious, i mean my dad’s a preacher and a couple people had scandalized conniptions, which was really fun, let me tell you, but this was a personal pursuit. i wanted that needle through my nose SO BADLY) and i’ve already told you about my olfactory sense being quite keen, so clearly i’m a bit preoccupied with my nose on a regular basis (and other people’s…). obviously i’ve never had a bit of twisty metal in my nostril until this time, it felt i stuffed a nub of play-dough up there and it took a while to get used to. and sometimes the ring would slip a little and i’d have to fix it by poking it back into position.

now when i say poke, i do not mean pick. there was never any sweeping of the fingertip in a downward motion, only upward thrusting! and yet. so many looks are sent my direction. a girl can’t even fix her nose at a red light without getting oogled, it’s ridiculous, what good are piercings if you can’t play with them a little bit? i once saw a man clipping his freaking toe nails out his car window at a red light, and my window was down, and i was staring, because it’s weird, and he laughs and says to me “sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do” and kept clipping, and then everything was all better and i didn’t think he was weird anymore.

that last part was a lie, i totally thought he was still weird and don’t ever clip your nails in the car, that’s gross. bite it off like a normal person.

seriously, my life is Seinfeld, so many things happen that seem inconsequential but actually take up so much brain power, like when Jerry is driving and the model sees him itching his nose and thinks he’s picking. horrifying. (The episode is called The Pick, i love it, Jerry’s nose is so big it totes looks like he’s digging but mine is more button-esque, so my finger wouldn’t fit as well.)

sometimes if i really want to freak people i will pull the ring out until it’s hanging down and looks like i stuffed a safety pin in there. life is fun.

olfactory is a fancy word for nose-usage

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 14:43:00 -0400

since i spent the better part of the morning sitting here at my job chipping the nail polish off my fingers (time to repaint with essie’s Bordeux…i want to name nail polishes. give me that job. the world has had enough of hum-drum colours like melancholy maroon and cheap cherry cherry) i figured i might as well be “productive” and write. i am about ready for a nap however. i’ve often tried to convince my boss that below the counter in our office could be converted into a napnook (like George Costanza’s with more leg room) but i don’t think they know i’m serious, so it hasn’t panned out…

anyway, when it was no longer the better part of the morning it was time for me to go do orientation/registration which meant leaving my nice dark desk area and having to talk at people (which, if you know me, typically isn’t an issue, i love people, i love talking, i love talking to people, but i switched my coffee for tea this morning and good lord it just isn’t the same at all, i never really acclimated to consciousness). basically i wanted to mutilate a rutabaga when it was all said and done. no one listens. that’s why i said i was talking at people. they just sat there and let my words drift over their little freshmen heads and i am cute and give good directions, so that was stupid. and then they sass me when i tell them to write the password down for their account. no, okay, you’re right, you’ll TOTALLY remember two months from now what password you pulled out of your butt if you don’t write it down. HA.

meanwhile all i could really think about was getting back up to my desk where i still planned on painting my nails (i have not yet, since i’m typing this) (i knew you were wondering) and eating the bar of chocolate i was nibbling while i pondered how i want to cut my hair. and please believe me when i tell you i try not to be this girlie, i realize how absolutely froofie this whole thing sounds, but at least i don’t bedazzle myself with lisa frank. and hair cuts are über important.

so i’m in the home stretch, finishing up the last group for registration, and then i smell it. so much B.O. coming from this music major. i understand he’s “artsy” and can’t be bothered but my olfactory sense is top-of-the-line and everything about the scenario was going downhill. even artists smell better. how does someone who looks so clean smell like so much armpit? i just don’t understand. i mean yeah, we’ve all been through our own bouts of personal odor problems (just this past sunday i smelled like bengay and cilantro because my neck hurt and we made salsa at my house, and that’s weird enough for me) but then he got even closer to me and i stopped breathing.

it is immense

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 00:14:33 -0400

her voice is young and light.

i have no time

for any of that she says.

he chuckles for what.

mushy nonsense she says.

he tips his head back, closes

his eyes (they frustrate him

so, they don’t work as they should)

arms on each rest

in his chair.

i sit here alone

for weeks and weeks (eyes

still closed) and i

am glad when someone walks through

the door he says.

his voice is old and quiet.

summer: take two (or three, or four...)

Mon, 09 Jul 2012 17:27:08 -0400

So, there down below (my first post, my lack-of-motivation-but-motivated-enough-to-sound-relatively-intelligent post) is an example of how last summer was going. It’s not a good example by any means. Last summer was absolute shit. I don’t really think the shit gets conveyed quite right. My summers aren’t really all that great, I’ve been on a solid four-year run of poop. Lemme break down the past couple:

Summer 2o1o: broke up with first-ever-really-real boyfriend. (not terrible, but, at the time, trauma-inducing.)

Summer 2o11: cousin dies. worst job of life (pseudo-best thing EVAR) (WORK ALL THE HOURS! {insert meme}). bout of depression. tv breaks. car dies. nana dies week before fall semester classes start.

i shall take this opportunity to expand a little on the above airing of grievances (i will also point out every Seinfeld reference to better you…airing of grievances is a Seinfeld reference. A Festivus for the rest of us!). About the tv: while this is not technically that catastrophic, proper television function is crucial to household happiness where i live. What would the day be without at least one episode of Gilmore Girls or Seinfeld? i’ll just answer that for you, it would be poop! Upon realizing our television was broken (it made this fantastic popping noise and a little bit of a static crackle and then it got all fuzzie and we got really scared) we found a replacement stat: Megatron. And no, that was not our awesome attempt at naming our little tv after a transformer, that was what it was really called. it said megatron. on the front. in letters. that was the awesome part. the not-so-awesome part was its teensie stature. it did what it could, but all in all it was basically the size of a very square bulky laptop and if i sat all the way across the room on the short couch (the short couch is awesome, it’s not like a short bus) (i make politically un-correct jokes a lot) i had to wear my glasses.

i know you’re just dying to hear how our television perils resolved, and so i will summarize with: we bought a flat-screen and i get megatron when i move out in a month. totes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BiER5pncgw

Mon, 09 Jul 2012 15:33:00 -0400

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BiER5pncgw:

i’ve been in a white stripes/the raconteurs/weezer phase. dig it.

little spleens.

Mon, 09 Jul 2012 15:12:32 -0400

so i’m sitting here in the dark at my job picking around the lettuce in my salad to get to the apricot slices. they’ve steeped in the dressing so they’re squishy again. i’m pretending i’m eating little spleens. (i’ve never eaten a spleen and i don’t plan on eating a spleen, no worries.) it was a big salad (Seinfeld reference).

now would be a good time to tell you all about my lifetime dietary history, i mean what could be more interesting? i’m absolutely positive you have bunn loads of better things to do, but i don’t so here it is:

as a small child (read as: tubby girl of ten) i was basically allergic to everything on the planet. while that is obviously an exaggeration…here’s everything off the top of my head that i can remember caused me physical angst:

wheat, gluten, barley, oats, apple skin, watermelon, cherries, dairy, lactose (they’re different!), sugar, chocolate, artificial anything (preservatives, colours, flavours) cottonwood, cedar mulch, basically all nature (my spring allergies are still unwieldy), perfume, corn, fresh cut grass, dust, mold, cats, dogs, camels, certain poly-cotton blends, eggs, pretty much anything processed (frozen foods, packaged foods) and a hoard of other things but this was just off the top of my head.

this left me with seafood and quinoa. i kid you not. we ate salmon about every five days (i was on a five-day food rotation plan…every meal meticulously plotted and eradicated of interest after three cycles) and mom made quinoa bread. and contrary to apparently just my belief, it isn’t pronounced “quin-oh-ah” either, it’s “keen-wah” (wtf?). also i wasn’t really allergic to camels, i road one once when i visited my grandparents in florida, that was a test.

so of course a decade later everyone is being all vegan and vegetarian and basically a gluten allergy is the equivalent of getting your ears pierced when you’re nine, everybody has them, you really want them, no biggie (even though it’s a big deal when you’re nine), so you’re probably wondering if i’ve even seen the nature’s marketplace section of Wegmans (yes i have thanks). but let me tell you. ten years ago, NOTHING was gluten-free, or wheat-free, or vegan-friendly, or any of that poop. it was so damn hard! now even pizza places have gluten free crust! what the hell man. i lament because i have since had my allergies cured. so i can’t even be happy, i’ve been re-assimilated into our crappy food culture and love love love bread and yogurt and everything bad for me, so why would i even want vegan food now huh? i still have a lot of eating to catch up on.

don’t underestimate how awesome it is to be able to open up your refrigerator and just eat whatever you want. i couldn’t do that growing up. i had to bring weird lunches to school and got allergy shots every other day (i sound like a disaster, i know, i read books and was homeschooled too, mental picture yet? no worries, i didn’t do the whole socks with sandals/jean jumper/knee-length shorts/long teeshirt/fanny pack uniform that so many homeschoolers sport) and when my mom would leave me alone i used to sneak a piece of white bread and go hide in my closet while i ate it like an orgasm. seriously. white bread vs. quinoa bread? given the comparison, the above scenario is perfectly normal.

so you may be wondering, how did i rid myself of this pestilence ?

voodoo.

okay, not really voodoo, but close man. it works like this: a combination of chinese vibrational medicine and pressure points. it has to do with the energy flow in your body, the chakras, all that eastern medicine jazz. i was entirely skeptical that it would work. no needles? pft, can’t be legit. well guess what. even though it felt like she was tickling me, in a very inapropro way (the groinal chakras get me every time), this lady knew what she was doing. i can eat my white bread in the open, it’s lost the orgasm effect. she would do muscle-response testing too (you stick your arm out and she tries to push it down while you hold the suspected allergen. if the arm goes down it’s because the muscle is weakened by the allergen, if the arm can resist, then go crazy) and she would even ASK MY BODY QUESTIONS. it was creepy. that was the voodoo part. and she told me in my past life i was a blind european male, but that’s not pertinent.

Waste Not, Want Not

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 13:35:17 -0400

I can’t stir myself to be productive today; it’s the start of my last two weeks of summer (and ultimately my only two weeks of summer) and here I lie, watching season 1 episode 20 of Bones. All I can say I really accomplished thus far, after almost six hours of consciousness, is completing my personal hygiene routine. Aka I’m still in my towel as I type this. I’m feeling pretty bummed out about my summer, I feel like I have to get lots done in such a short amount of time, and that’s when I really freak out, because then I need an agenda and schedule and my nemesis, a plan. I have a bucket list (and I love lists), but to complete the bucket list I must facilitate plans, and so, I think that perhaps the vast majority of bullets will not get stricken in successful triumph; nay, I will indeed end up lamenting this summer for years to come, disappointed in myself and my circumstances.

Now in theory, I could sieze this time to do what I want to do, cool stuff and passion-pursuit. In theory. Regardless of my awareness, I shall continue to sabotage myself and squander time.

What’s not to mind about bokeh.

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 12:19:40 -0400

What’s not to mind about bokeh.

derekwood: Wye Oak - The Altar

Mon, 15 Aug 2011 00:08:06 -0400

derekwood:

Wye Oak - The Altar