dr manhattan on life

Laurie: "Humanity is about to be become extinct. Doesn't it bother you"

Dr. Manhattan: "All that pain and conflict done with? All that needless suffering over at last? No, that doesn't bother me."

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Laurie: "Jon, what about the war? You've got to prevent it! Everyone will die."

Dr. Manhattan: "...And the universe will not even notice."

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"In my opinion, [life's] a highly overrated phenomenon. Mars gets along perfectly without so much as a micro-organism."

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(Talking about Mars) "...Giant steps, ninety feet high...A constantly changing topographical map, flowing and shifting...Tell me...would it be greatly improved by an oil pipeline?"

I agree with what he says. But then I read the second portion of To the Lighthouse and it depressed the fuck out of me. The empty house made me want to cry. I am so confused. I thought, well, maybe life is something after all.

But then I remembered Virginia Woolf killed herself. 

There is chaos in my head right now. Every time I try to think about this I have to distract myself because I feel that there is no answer, that any estimation of the worth of life is rooted somehow in sentimentality or instinct and that the opposite is perhaps hence rooted in cold rationalism and fatalism. I don't know. 

Dr Manhattan later remarks that perhaps life is awesome because it's "rarer than a quark", but I don't buy that. 

Sharing: Toba Tek Singh by Manto

Toba Tek Singh
by Sadat Hasan Manto

Two or three years after the 1947 Partition, it occurred to the governments of India and Pakistan to exchange their lunatics in the same manner as they had exchanged their criminals. The Muslim lunatics in India were to be sent over to Pakistan and the Hindu and Sikh lunatics in Pakistani asylums were to be handed over to India.

It was difficult to say whether the proposal made any sense or not. However, the decision had been taken at the topmost level on both sides. After high-level conferences were held a day was fixed for exchange of the lunatics. It was agreed that those Muslims who had families in India would be permitted to stay back while the rest would be escorted to the border. Since almost all the Hindus and Sikhs had migrated from Pakistan, the question of retaining non-Muslim lunatics in Pakistan did not arise. All of them were to be taken to India.

Nobody knew what transpired in India, but so far as Pakistan was concerned this news created quite a stir in the lunatic asylum at Lahore, leading to all sorts of funny developments. A Muslim lunatic, a regular reader of the fiery Urdu daily Zamindar, when asked what Pakistan was, reflected for a while and then replied, "Don't you know? A place in India known for manufacturing cut-throat razors." Apparently satisfied, the friend asked no more questions.

Likewise, a Sikh lunatic asked another Sikh, "Sardarji, why are we being deported to India? We don't even know their language." The Sikh gave a knowing smile. "But I know the language of Hindostoras" he replied. "These bloody Indians, the way they strut about!"

One day while taking his bath, a Muslim lunatic yelled, "Pakistan Zindabad!" with such force that he slipped, fell down on the floor and was knocked unconscious.

Not all the inmates were insane. Quite a few were murderers. To escape the gallows, their relatives had gotten them in by bribing the officials. They had only a vague idea about the division of India or what Pakistan was. They were utterly ignorant of the present situation. Newspapers hardly ever gave the true picture and the asylum warders were illiterates from whose conversation they could not glean anything. All that these inmates knew was that there was a man by the name of Quaid-e-Azam who had set up a separate state for Muslims, called Pakistan. But they had no idea where Pakistan was. That was why they were all at a loss whether they were now in India or in Pakistan. If they were in India, then where was Pakistan? If they were in Pakistan, how come that only a short while ago they were in India? How could they be in India a short while ago and now suddenly in Pakistan?

One of the lunatics got so bewildered with this India-Pakistan-Pakistan-India rigmarole that one day while sweeping the floor he climbed up a tree, and sitting on a branch, harangued the people below for two hours on end about the delicate problems of India and Pakistan. When the guards asked him to come down he climbed up still higher and said, "I don't want to live in India and Pakistan. I'm going to make my home right here on this tree."

All this hubbub affected a radio engineer with an MSc degree, a Muslim, a quiet man who took long walks by himself. One day he stripped off all his clothes, gave them to a guard and ran in the garden stark naked.

Another Muslim inmate from Chiniot, an erstwhile adherent of the Muslim League who bathed fifteen or sixteen times a day, suddenly gave up bathing. As his name was Mohammed Ali, he one day proclaimed that he was none other than Quaid-e-Azam Mohammed Ali Jinnah. Taking a cue from him a Sikh announced that he was Master Tara Singh, the leader of the Sikhs. This could have led to open violence. But before any harm could be done the two lunatics were declared dangerous and locked up in separate cells.

Among the inmates of the asylum was a Hindu lawyer from Lahore who had gone mad because of unrequited love. He was deeply pained when he learnt that Amritsar, where the girl lived, would form part of India. He roundly abused all the Hindu and Muslim leaders who had conspired to divide India into two, thus making his beloved an Indian and him a Pakistani. When the talks on the exchange were finalized his mad friends asked him to take heart since now he could go to India. But the young lawyer did not want to leave Lahore, for he feared for his legal practice in Amritsar.

There were two Anglo-Indians in the European ward. When informed the British were leaving, they spent hours together discussing the problems they would be faced with: Would the European ward be abolished? Would they get breakfast? Instead of bread, would they have to make do with measly Indian chapattis?

There was a Sikh who had been admitted into the asylum fifteen years ago. Whenever he spoke it was the same mysterious gibberish: "Uper the gur gur the annexe the bay dhayana the mung the dal of the laltain." The guards said that he had not slept a wink in all this time. He would not even lie down to rest. His feet were swollen with constant standing and his calves had puffed out in the middle, but in spite of this agony he never cared to lie down. He listened with rapt attention to all discussions about the exchange of lunatics between India and Pakistan. If someone asked his views on the subject he would reply in a grave tone: "Uper the gur gur the annexe the bay dhayana the mung the dal of the Government of Pakistan." But later on he started substituting "the Government of Pakistan" with "Tobak Tek Singh," which was his home town. Now he begun asking where Toba Tek Singh was to go. But nobody seemed to know where it was. Those who tried to explain themselves got bogged down in another enigma: Sialkot, which used to be in India, now was in Pakistan. At this rate, it seemed as if Lahore, which was now in Pakistan, would slide over to India. Perhaps the whole of India might become Pakistan. It was all so confusing! And who could say if both India and Pakistan might not entirely disappear from the face of the earth one day?

The hair on the Sikh lunatic's head had thinned and his beard had matted, making him look wild and ferocious. But he was a harmless creature. In fifteen years he had not even once had a row with anyone. The older employees of the asylum knew that he had been a well-to-do fellow who had owned considerable land in Toba Tek Singh. Then he had suddenly gone mad. His family had brought him to the asylum in chains and left him there. They came to meet him once a month but ever since the communal riots had begun, his relatives had stopped visiting him.

His name was Bishan Singh but everybody called him Toba Tek Singh. He did not know what day it was, what month it was and how many years he had spent in the asylum. Yet as if by instinct he knew when his relatives were going to visit, and on that day he would take a long bath, scrub his body with soap, put oil in his hair, comb it and put on clean clothes. If his relatives asked him anything he would keep silent or burst out with ìUper the gur gur the annexe the bay dhayana the mung the dal of the laltain."

When he had been brought to the asylum, he had left behind an infant daughter. She was now a comely and striking young girl of fifteen, who Bishan Singh failed to recognize. She would come to visit him, and not be able to hold back her tears.

When the India-Pakistan caboodle started Bishan Singh often asked the other inmates where Toba Tek Singh was. Nobody could tell him. Now even the visitors had stopped coming. Previously his sixth sense would tell him when the visitors were due to come. But not anymore. His inner voice seemed to have stilled. He missed his family, the gifts they used to bring and the concern with which they used to speak to him. He was sure they would have told him whether Toba Tek Singh was in India or Pakistan. He also had the feeling that they came from Toba Tek Singh, his old home.

One of the lunatics had declared himself God. One day Bishan Singh asked him where Toba Tek Singh was. As was his habit the man greeted Bishan Singh's question with a loud laugh and then said, "It's neither in India nor in Pakistan. In fact, it is nowhere because till now I have not taken any decision about its location."

Bishan begged the man who called himself God to pass the necessary orders and solve the problem. But 'God' seemed to be very busy other matters. At last Bishan Singh's patience ran out and he cried out: "Uper the gur gur the annexe the mung the dal of Guruji da Khalsa and Guruji ki fatehÖjo boley so nihal sat sri akal."

What he wanted to say was: "You don't answer my prayers because you a Muslim God. Had you been a Sikh God, you would have surely helped me out."

A few days before the exchange was due to take place, a Muslim from Toba Tek Singh who happened to be a friend of Bishan Singh came to meet him. He had never visited him before. On seeing him, Bishan Singh tried to slink away, but the warder barred his way. "Don't you recognize your friend Fazal Din?" he said. "He has come to meet you." Bishan Singh looked furtively at Fazal Din, then started to mumble something. Fazal Din placed his hand on Bishan Singh's shoulder. "I have been thinking of visiting you for a long time," he said. "But I couldn't get the time. Your family is well and has gone to India safely. I did what I could to help. As for your daughter, Roop KaurÖ" --he hesitated--'She is safe tooÖin India."

Bishan Singh kept quiet. Fazal Din continued: "Your family wanted me to make sure you were well. Soon you'll be moving to India. Please give my salaam to bhai Balbir Singh and bhai Raghbir Singh and bahain Amrit Kaur. Tell Balbir that Fazal Din is well. The two brown buffaloes he left behind are well too. Both of them gave birth to calves, but, unfortunately, one of them died. Say I think of them often and to write to me if there is anything I can do."

Then he added "Here, I've brought some plums for you."

Bishan Singh took the gift from Fazal Din and handed it to the guard. "Where is Toba Tek Singh?" he asked.

"Where? Why, it is where it has always been."

"In India or Pakistan?î

"In IndiaÖno, in Pakistan."

Without saying another word, Bishan Singh walked away, muttering "Uper the gur gur the annexe the bay dhyana the mung the dal of the Pakistan and India dur fittey moun."

At long last the arrangements for the exchange were complete. The lists of lunatics who were to be sent over from either side were exchanged and the date fixed.

On a cold winter evening truckloads of Hindu and Sikh lunatics from the Lahore asylum were moved out to the Indian border under police escort. Senior officials went with them to ensure a smooth exchange. The two sides met at the Wagah border check-post, signed documents and the transfer got underway.

Getting the lunatics out of the trucks and handing them over to the opposite side proved to be a tough job. Some refused to get down from the trucks. Those who could be persuaded to do so began to run in all directions. Some were stark naked. As soon as they were dressed they tore off their clothes again. They swore, they sang, they fought with each other. Others wept. Female lunatics, who were also being exchanged, were even noisier. It was pure bedlam. Their teeth chattered in the bitter cold.

Most of the inmates appeared to be dead set against the entire operation. They simply could not understand why they were being forcibly removed to a strange place. Slogans of 'Pakistan Zindabad' and 'Pakistan Murdabad' were raised, and only timely intervention prevented serious clashes.

When Bishan Singh's turn came to give his personal details to be recorded in the register, he asked the official "Where's Toba Tek Singh? In India or Pakistan?"

The officer laughed loudly, "In Pakistan, of course."

Hearing that Bishan Singh turned and ran back to join his companions. The Pakistani guards caught hold of him and tried to push him across the line to India. Bishan Singh wouldn't move. "This is Toba Tek Singh," he announced. "Uper the gur gur the annexe the be dyhana mung the dal of Toba Tek Singh and Pakistan."

It was explained to him over and over again that Toba Tek Singh was in India, or very soon would be, but all this persuasion had no effect.

They even tried to drag him to the other side, but it was no use. There he stood on his swollen legs as if no power on earth could dislodge him. Soon, since he was a harmless old man, the officials left him alone for the time being and proceeded with the rest of the exchange.

Just before sunrise, Bishan Singh let out a horrible scream. As everybody rushed towards him, the man who had stood erect on his legs for fifteen years, now pitched face-forward on to the ground. On one side, behind barbed wire, stood together the lunatics of India and on the other side, behind more barbed wire, stood the lunatics of Pakistan. In between, on a bit of earth which had no name, lay Toba Tek Singh.

source

one of my favourite stories.

That morning I thought: if you're patient, and if you listen, some of the answers just come to you.

That afternoon (as I listened) I was confused again. Things I thought were settled were scattered about like sand is when the waves roll back to the sea. Have you ever felt the pull of the sea? It takes time getting to get used to and even then...even then there's something devious about it.

So I dug in my heels and waited for the sand to settle again.

SHE'S DONE IT!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA SO MANY FEELINGS!!!!!!!!! 

I AM SO SO SO SO RIDICULOUSLY PROUD OF SHARMEEN. SHE HAS BEEN A PERSONAL HERO FOR A WHILE NOW AND I WAS ALL LIKE OMGGGGGGG WHEN SHE GOT NOMINATED AND NOW SHE'S WON IT AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. SHE IS SO AWESOME. ALSO, I SAW HER AT KLF.

SHE'S WON IT SHE'S WON IT SHE'S WON IT

IT HAPPENED AND NOBODY CAN TAKE IT AWAY FROM HER OR FROM US

HER SPEECH, YOU GUYS

HER SPEECH

...

and can I just say that you can find all the cool pakistanis on tumblr by searching for "saving face" :D

relapse/recovery

Last month I was 'feeling blue' and went on tumblr. Um...as some of you would know I've been depressed for large and significant chunks of my life. I have been feeling better lately (since about the start of this year), and have somehow managed to keep it up. I didn't talk about it in detail here or to anyone because I can't explain it and for all I know it's the product of magic. I've been feeling not-bad for about two solid months. I have not been depressed. I get the feeling that this isn't going to last, and it probably isn't, but it's nice to have calm periods. It literally feels good.

So anyhow one day in January I was feeling a bit down so I freaked out and went to tumblr. This was not only because tumblr makes me happy, but this was also because after the good streak I'd been having I did not WANT to be depressed again -- and this was remarkable in itself too. I'd worked my way out of a mindset, a framework, and as I felt myself getting gloomy I thought, Oh god, I must stop this. I can't be depressed again.  And just then (the birds of fortuity came and settled), I saw a post that said 'Relapse is part of recovery.' Today I tried to find it again and saw the title of a site that says Relapse is not part of recovery (I did not click on the link), so yeah. What I'm saying here is probably not science. It is probably not based on a study with findings that apply to everybody. So do not try this 'how the fuck do I get myself out of a hole?' at home. But anyway, when I saw that post I felt better. I believed it. And I still do. Because then I kind of realized that obviously, I can't be happy all the time. That's not possible and might actually be creepy/weird, even for me. And so, yes, it's okay for me to be upset sometimes. I know this sounds like no-shit-sherlock, but...I'm still figuring this out.

So, I relapsed. But I recognized it was a moment of weakness. Maybe relapse is not part of your recovery if you're an alcoholic or something. But what if you're depressed or emotionally unbalanced or whatever the fuck is/was wrong with me? I suppose relapse is inevitable at some point and you've just got to come to terms with it, recognize it, and move on. So far (this year) I've only been sad sad like three times and I've freaked out each time about the possibility of being depressed again. But I'm okay so far. Just lonely at times, because I have nobody to talk to talk to at school. Whenever I get upset I don't know how to explain it because the things I get upset about, nobody gets upset about. And when you have to explain it it means that there is a gap already between yourself and the other person. Explaining usually doesn't help. It just makes the other person go all "Ok" rather than "Oh, this makes me upset too, then." I've tried.

Like today, we were studying rape in socio and this one boy just sat there smiling. The teacher noticed it. Pretty much everyone noticed it. But it upset nobody. Nobody said, 'What is wrong with you?' and nobody told him to not laugh when he was laughing at the explanations. I don't know, maybe I'm nuts, but this whole thing (among other things that happened in the class) upset me and all I could think of was how I wanted to get away from everybody in that class. Like I can't even...

At first I was angry, then I felt like crying. I felt violent at some point too, genuinely violent, though I don't believe in violence. But towards a man, a privileged one, sitting there smiling during a class about rape? Why don't you make an educated guess. Though, perhaps, I use the word educated ironically.

Being sick, being unhappy, for me has had a lot (if not everything) to do with where I am. That's why I think this recovery is short-lived. Nevertheless, I am happy that I am happy. I am happy that I have, seemingly, sorted some of my issues out. For a couple of years some things that have been on my mind all the time are not on my mind all the time now. I am beginning to get better. I am able to look back at them instead of carrying them all the time. Do you know how that feels? It feels like you've climbed a friggin mountain. As you stand on top of it you can look down (finally) and see how far you've come. Then you can sit down on the top of the mountain and chill (ah! couldn't resist) and...enjoy the view, really. Eventually you'll have to come down, but...for now, you enjoy the view, and savour your success.

change of URL

If you're here, congratulations, you've found me!

I've changed the URL and hopefully this way I'll be able to keep the blog open.

The posts on why I shut down/wanted to shut down the blog still stand.

I'm going to go through all of my posts and will probably cut out my name or pictures or whatever. Usually I am pretty careful, but...who knows.

Um, yup.

Also going to be hiding from search engines for a bit. So goodbye to googling Kamila Shamsie and finding me.

I'm sorry for the inconvenience. I'm still trying to figure things out.

N

a morning

Today (I wrote this yesterday, btw) I got to school early. For the past couple of years I've been coming to school by a van service which I've just quit. Now I'll be coming to school with my mother, who wasn't dropping me to begin with because she has to get to school too and it's on the other side of Defence and as a result we'll both have to leave early and get home late. But that's not the point.

The point is that I got in early today. It's still wintery in Karachi, and the sun takes its sweet time rising; and today as I walked up to the building (we have a nice long walk from the gate to the main building), I thought: I love this place. That didn't seem quite right, but with the brownish silhouette against the ambiguously blue sky, it wasn't a complete falsehood. It was empty, save for the domestic staff; I was free to walk as slowly as I pleased, free to savour my walk, free to think, free to get lost in the sight. I looked over to the ugly matti waala ground where there were still a couple of barricades and a few odd bottles and some trash from sports day  — why don't they put grass on it? I thought. The image of the Saddar school came to mind, with its amazing green ground. When I was a kid one of my mamoo-families lived in the building right next to the Saddar school. I would often look down at (hah! Imagine that) the school and wonder about the lives of the kids playing baseball on it. Now, I guess I know, and am no better for it. But that, of course, takes nothing away from the ground or the building itself. The building! It is beautiful. If I could exchange knowledge of these lives for a single walk about that building, I would do it, no regrets. The building is too beautiful.

And that's what I was thinking of: beautiful buildings; architecture; I thought, I love nice buildings. Maybe I should do that for a living. But then I remembered it takes math and physics more than an understanding of beauty, perhaps. The thought unsettled me, But you can't always just decide to jump into making anything you like, I thought, and it made sense.

As I entered the building, I don't really love this place, I thought as I looked at the tiles. The tiles put me off. I corrected: I only like the outside. I only love the façade! How's that for metaphor? The metaphor delighted me, and I turned it over in my head, checked it for cracks, brooded over it. Let's talk about the façade for a bit. The old Saddar building is actually, well, old — the school's founding date is 1847 (picture).

But the one I go to is in Clifton and less than twenty years old. They've actually made the façade to look like the one of the original; so on the outside it's all artificially aged or whatever and on the inside it's all modern and purpose-built and shit with the stupid tiles. At one point, as I thought of the building, I wondered: is it possible to love a building? I even noted this thought down. Well, it is possible. I love the Mama Parsi building don't I? And I fucking hate Mama Parsi. (I went to Mama Parsi for eleven years). And then I thought of Karachi, all cleared out: would I still love it? Is the city its buildings?

I went to class, put my bag down, and then wondered about what I was going to do. Initially I'd thought I'd go into the courtyard, but there was nobody there (except for the odd person coming in) and I thought I might as well stay in class. I walked to the back, where it was dark; in the morning they leave the back lights off (to save energy, I suppose). It was empty — it was all empty! It felt really great. Yes, I decided, at the very least I like this place a whole lot better when there's nobody in it. Even with the stupid, ugly, green desks. I walked about for a bit, then whipped out To the Lighthouse and read a couple of paragraphs. It was very nice to be reading, pacing, with no distractions (at least for a bit). I walked easily in the lines of space that were there simply because the chairs had not yet been pulled back from the desks; I walked under the light, reading, joining the Ramsays at their dinner party. It was peace. And even as students began to trickle in I read leisurely, enjoying the words as you would enjoy dessert: bit by bit, taking my time to taste and to savour. I knew I had the whole day ahead of me, but the thought did not frustrate me. I found I was actually less agitated than I usually am, more willing to take on the day ahead than if I rush in ten minutes before the bell.

An acquaintance came into the class. I said hi and then decided it was time to go to the courtyard. There I stood near a coniferous tree (fir? spruce? deodar? I didn't know which) and watched the school come to life (for lack of a better phrase). I studied the flowers and I studied some of the people. I noticed that one girl has a very distinctive, swaggerish walk. I then tried to see if any of the boys walk like that but didn't see any who do. I noticed that the peons use a scissor that resembles pliers to prune the plants. I think some people smiled at me but I didn't smile back at them because I don't smile at First Years, I don't know them and I don't smile at people to begin with, unless they fucking light my world up or something.

Then a friend of mine came in with an envelope (I freaked out when I saw it, but then she told me it's for UBC and I was like ok), I made my No, U BC joke, and quiet time went up in a laugh.

why this blog is on invite-only

I have put the blog on invite-only because I have stalkers! Some of these stalkers are actually "friends."

I haven't put my full name on my blog, though I do use my initials. Most of the time I just use my first initial, especially when I'm commenting. This is because I don't want people to google me and find this blog.

This paranoia is not without justification. I have at least one acquaintance reading this blog. I am really not comfortable with that.

Of course, this brings up the question of "if you don't want your blog to be read, why did you put it up on the internet?" Well, I put it up on the internet for strangers to read. This blog at least the way it is, with the honesty that I have put into it, cannot be continued if people I know are reading it. I would either have to be dishonest or stop writing. This is because in many places I allude to people, places, ideas and life experiences that somebody I know will be able to decipher. Again, I am not comfortable with that. Yes, I did put this blog on the internet so that people would read it. I still want that, and I don't want to lose potential readers. I did not want to put it on invite-only but I have to. "Have to" seems kind of strong — couldn't I just be open with the people in my life? With the stalkers? No. They don't deserve it, plain and simple.

Why do I write on this blog? It used to be exercise, a way to talk about my opinions. But then it also became a log and a place where I could write about my life experiences (snapshots, really), feelings and thoughts. It became less of a novelty type thing and more of an expression thing. I still write really random posts, like that 90210 one, but ultimately I am aiming for honesty. And, really, while we're on the subject, on a scale of one (barely scratching the surface) to ten (full disclosure), I am at a five or six on this blog. A seven or eight is the maximum I would want to go to anyway. I can't do that if this is being read by people I know, because then I'll have to come down to a one, which is the level I'm at with most of the people I know.

What is the big deal with people I know reading this? Imagine sitting in a classroom knowing (or not knowing!) that one of the random people in the corner knows all about your issues, your depression, your life, things you feel towards people. You don't know if they've given you a fair shot, if they've just skimmed over the boring parts and read more of the juicy parts, if they are going to talk to other people about it. And with the gossip culture in my school, I really don't want to have a whole blog on offer (keeping it open for me is like making my facebook profile public). And so I'm sure you understand why I only have the choices of putting the blog on 'invite only' or shutting it down completely. I don't want to shut it down completely. Writing here has, at times, really been therapeutic for me. Like that time I went mental when MoHo deferred me — I'm sure if I would have just been writing all of these things down on a piece of paper it wouldn't have been the same.

And so, finally, you guys. The ones who still want to read this crap. The ones who have been inexplicably nice to me, the ones who have linked to me, the ones I am kinda-sorta friends with, the ones who stalk me from a distance (it's cool), the ones I respect, the ones I trust. Thank you for being here for me and thank you for wanting to read this blog. I wish I had all of you as classmates instead, because then my life would be 110% awesome and I wouldn't have to hide my blog from assholes.




IS this blog ever going to be open to the awaam again? Yes, probably. I'm estimating a loss of stalker interest in three months? Anyway in three months I not only will I be out of school, I will also know if I got into college and hence will have Plans for the Future and all of this shit will not be able to get to me or harm me.

i'm putting the blog on invite-only

Hi, I'm putting this blog on invite-only. Please send me your email addresses on cecily_fromthecountry@hotmail.com* along with your name or blog link or something so I know who you are.

I'm also considering putting my other blog on invite-only, so let me know if you want an invite for it too.

*For real. The email address is a reference to The Importance of Being Earnest and I made it when I put a fake ad in Yello.

i'm famous (kind of)

SO THE AWESOMEST/FUNNIEST THING HAS HAPPENED. Are you ready? This:

YA RLY. Can you believe it? KLF IS PROMOTING ME. I freaked out and am still freaking out. It's like KS telling you she likes your sentences.

Speaking of whom, the game is up, because now the whole world will know what a KS stalker I am. Whatever. Writers need stalkers, right? (That's what I keep telling myself)

So, thank you, KLF. I will use my newfound fame and glory for good: that is, to promote you. Wait, that's right, I already do, because I love you so much and because you're so awesome.

And, really, I will write my Day Two review real soon.