Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Man Stuff...

I found this piece by Tom Chiarella (ella-ella) yesterday whilst browsing the wide world of the Internet. I was troubled. Apparently, I'm not a man. I thought it might be interesting to share it with y'all and see what your thoughts were on the matter.


A man carries cash. A man looks out for those around him — woman, friend, stranger. A man can cook eggs. A man can always find something good to watch on television. A man makes things — a rock wall, a table, the tuition money. Or he rebuilds — engines, watches, fortunes. He passes along expertise, one man to the next. Know-how survives him. This is immortality. A man can speak to dogs. A man fantasizes that kung fu lives deep inside him somewhere. A man knows how to sneak a look at cleavage and doesn't care if he gets busted once in a while. A man is good at his job. Not his work, not his avocation, not his hobby. Not his career. His job. It doesn't matter what his job is, because if a man doesn't like his job, he gets a new one.

A man can look you up and down and figure some things out. Before you say a word, he makes you. From your suitcase, from your watch, from your posture. A man infers.

A man owns up. That's why Mark McGwire is not a man. A man grasps his mistakes. He lays claim to who he is, and what he was, whether he likes them or not.

Some mistakes, though, he lets pass if no one notices. Like dropping the steak in the dirt.

A man loves the human body, the revelation of nakedness. He loves the sight of the pale breast, the physics of the human skeleton, the alternating current of the flesh. He is thrilled by the snatch, by the wrist, the sight of a bare shoulder. He likes the crease of a bent knee. When his woman bends to pick up her underwear, he feels that thrum that only a man can feel.

A man doesn't point out that he did the dishes.

A man looks out for children. Makes them stand behind him.

A man knows how to bust balls.

A man has had liquor enough in his life that he can order a drink without sounding breathless, clueless, or obtuse. When he doesn't want to think, he orders bourbon or something on tap.

Never the sauvignon blanc.

A man welcomes the coming of age. It frees him. It allows him to assume the upper hand and teaches him when to step aside.

Maybe he never has, and maybe he never will, but a man figures he can knock someone, somewhere, on his ass.

He does not rely on rationalizations or explanations. He doesn't winnow, winnow, winnow until truths can be humbly categorized, or intellectualized, until behavior can be written off with an explanation. He doesn't see himself lost in some great maw of humanity, some grand sweep. That's the liberal thread; it's why men won't line up as liberals.

A man gets the door. Without thinking.

He stops traffic when he must.

A man resists formulations, questions belief, embraces ambiguity without making a fetish out of it. A man revisits his beliefs. Continually. That's why men won't forever line up with conservatives, either.

A man knows his tools and how to use them — just the ones he needs. Knows which saw is for what, how to find the stud, when to use galvanized nails.

A miter saw, incidentally, is the kind that sits on a table, has a circular blade, and is used for cutting at precise angles. Very satisfying saw.

A man knows how to lose an afternoon. Drinking, playing Grand Theft Auto, driving aimlessly, shooting pool.

He knows how to lose a month, also.

A man listens, and that's how he argues. He crafts opinions. He can pound the table, take the floor. It's not that he must. It's that he can.

A man is comfortable being alone. Loves being alone, actually. He sleeps.

Or he stands watch. He interrupts trouble. This is the state policeman. This is the poet. Men, both of them.

A man loves driving alone most of all.

Style — a man has that. No matter how eccentric that style is, it is uncontrived. It's a set of rules.

He understands the basic mechanics of the planet. Or he can close one eye, look up at the sun, and tell you what time of day it is. Or where north is. He can tell you where you might find something to eat or where the fish run. He understands electricity or the internal-combustion engine, the mechanics of flight or how to figure a pitcher's ERA.

A man does not know everything. He doesn't try. He likes what other men know.

A man can tell you he was wrong. That he did wrong. That he planned to. He can tell you when he is lost. He can apologize, even if sometimes it's just to put an end to the bickering.

A man does not wither at the thought of dancing. But it is generally to be avoided.

A man watches. Sometimes he goes and sits at an auction knowing he won't spend a dime, witnessing the temptation and the maneuvering of others. Sometimes he stands on the street corner watching stuff. This is not about quietude so much as collection. It is not about meditation so much as considering. A man refracts his vision and gains acuity. This serves him in every way. No one taught him this — to be quiet, to cipher, to watch. In this way, in these moments, the man is like a zoo animal: both captive and free. You cannot take your eyes off a man when he is like that. You shouldn't. The hell if you know what he is thinking, who he is, or what he will do next.


How do you feel about that? Are you a man?


Monday, April 27, 2009


Seriously, people. Don't talk to me about the swine flu. I want no part in the discussion about pandemics and pandemonium. Please. It's not going to balloon and kill millions. You won't get it and your neighbor won't get it. CNN will stop talking about it in two months at the most and then no one will think anything of it ever again.

First it was mad cow. No one got that.

Then SARS. No one got that.

Then West Nile. Some people got that but almost no one died.

And then the bird flu. No one got that, either.

And now this. And you know what? No one's going to get it.

So please. The sooner we all stop freaking out about this, the sooner the media will stop selling it to us. And then it will go away, because it's not actually a big deal.

In other news...I am having dental trouble yet again. Damn my inheritance of my mother's bad teeth!

I need a cavity filled. Does anyone know how much that costs?


Friday, April 24, 2009

Rude Awakening...

I promise I'm not going to turn in to one of those blogs that's only story after story about my cat, not that there's anything wrong with that. Frankly, I find those blogs HIGHLY entertaining. But, I digress...

Sort of...

Anywho, this morning at promptly 5 AM there was a huge crash in the kitchen. I woke up and instantly thought, "Marbles!" Much like how Jerry says, "Newman!" in Seinfeld. I turned to Robb and said, "What the hell was that? It sounded like our nice big vase. But that's on top of the cupboards."

I swung my feet out and put them on the floor, stepping on the cat. He meowed at me and gave me those big eyes like, "What was that, guys? You'd better go make sure no one broke in! It sure wasn't me!"

And we all three went into the kitchen and flipped on the light, squinting at what I expected would be a major disaster zone.

Nothing. There was nothing around, and I started thinking we might all three be insane. And then I looked around some more and found one little metal thermos had been knocked off of the top of the fridge and onto the table where we keep our metal toaster oven and the metal Foreman grill and the metal crumb tray for said oven.

The damn cat was on TOP of the fridge. I just keep thinking about him running for his life when the thermos made a huge crashing noise as it landed on everything down there, and it makes me laugh every time. And there he was, sitting by the bed like he hadn't ever even THOUGHT about getting on top of the fridge. Little turd.

Cracks me up.

And then we couldn't get to sleep again...since Marbles was wide awake and intent on climbing on the headboard and knocking over the lamp and walking over us and just being a general ding-a-ling. A cute ding-a-ling.

I love this cat.


Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Settling In...

So, I think we've got a routine.

In the morning we get up and find Marbles under my bed, the one we don't sleep in. Robb tries to get him out from under the bed and he lays there. After I start doing my crunches, he comes out to see what I'm doing. And then we love on him until it's time for someone to leave for work, ignoring his meows and his constant herding us towards the front door.

He's still obsessed with the front door. I had to physically restrain him today, although he didn't put up much of a fight once I picked him up. And when I left, there was no one to hold him back. Do you know how hard it is to convince a cat that they don't want to know what's on the other side of a door? Holy cow.

So I go to work.

And when I get home, he's on our bed. He then tries to convince me he needs to go outside. And when I don't relent, he goes to sleep.

When Robb gets home, he wakes Marbles up and we love on him some more. And when we go to bed, he's in the bed with us, sleeping in the middle trough between us. Sometime in the night he walks across my face and goes to lay under the bed in the other room. And that's where we find him in the morning.

He's so lazy. We love it. And he's also the most laid back cat I've ever met. He never even thinks of biting or swatting...except once this morning, which is slightly hilarious and slightly more information than anyone needs to know.

This morning I got up and started to work out, like I always do. And since I sleep naked, I work out naked, because my shower is right after that. Well, this morning I was doing crunches and he comes out from under the bed, walks over me, turns around, and starts sniffing my junk. He recoils three times in a row, and then he extends a paw and swats it! I lost it, and he looked at me like, "What the hell is that?" And I lost it again. I am SO glad he is front declawed...that could have been ugly.


Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Saint Marbles McGillicuddy Otto-Matic Boxcar McGee, Patron Saint of the 2 AM Wake-Up Call...

So, I'm fairly sure no one is going to be able to guess what this blog is about from the title unless they've talked with me in the last 24 hours.

Maybe the best way to explain it would be by showing you a photo.

That's right. We got a cat. FINALLY! And now you're wondering about the title.

Well, we call him Marbles, because that's the name he got from Tails, the shelter in DeKalb/Sycamore where we got him. But his full name is up there in the title. The spelling isn't final, but the name sure as hell is.

See, Robb has always named his cats AND his cars something ridiculous. He had a car named Countess Prunewhip Verbena Von A La Eton. I'm sure I spelled that wrong. And he had a cat named Senorita Juanita Georgina Santina Beaner Bertha Pugsley Priscilla Antoine Scantron O'Brien the Third. Yup.

So...now we've got this one.

Saint Marbles McGillicuddy Otto-Matic Boxcar McGee, Patron Saint of the 2 AM Wake Up Call. That second part is because last night, the first night he was home with us, he sat next to the bed at the aforementioned unglodly hour of the morning and meowed until we invited him up into the bed. And then he laid on my chest and fell asleep. And so did I.

Details: He's twelve years old, front declawed, neutered, and microchipped. He was apparently picked up as a lost stray and donated to Tails so he could have a loving home. And now Robb and I are doing our damnedest to give him just that. He's the sweetest cat, too. The only thing that gives us pause is his current obsession with the front door. He's crazy about us coming and going...and he wants OUT! Silly cat.

So, we're new dads to a cat that, if he were a person, would be 70+ years old. Me-yow!


Monday, April 20, 2009


We got a cat! Photos forthcoming...


Thursday, April 16, 2009

Adventures In Oil Changing....

You know what the best way to get an oil change is? Taking your car three blocks to the shop and reading a book while you talk to the receptionist. Highly recommended.

While I was in there she said, "That's weird. You're the second Difazzio we've had in here today." And instantly all the bells and whistles in my head started going off. Red flags and sirens...mostly because I never want to have to run into my dad again. Ever.

"That's odd," I said. "There aren't very many of us."

"Do you have family in St. Charles?" she asked. (I breathed an instant sigh of relief.)

"Not that I'm aware of..." I said, curious. "What are their names?"

"Well, her name is Judy, and his name is...Joe? John?"

At this point I figured it wasn't anybody I knew. And then she says, "Oh, it's Jerry!"

Jerry and Judy are my uncle and aunt that I've never really met. He never came to any family functions, and she's his wife. I think I've seen Jerry a total of twice in my life. He walked through the hospital waiting room on his way to the bathroom when my grandma was dying. And...he must have been at the funeral, although I don't remember seeing him there. My dad always said he was an asshole. And...given what an asshole my dad is, I've always wanted to meet Jerry. He's probably actually a really cool guy. Or maybe he's an asshole. I guess I'll never know.

So that was exciting. And do you know what isn't exciting?

Tuesday I was leaving the Borders parking lot and my steering wheel was having issues turning right. And yesterday on my way back from Wheaton it was hissing when I turned right. So I asked them to check on it for me.

$534 and change. That's what it will cost to replace the rack. As in, rack and pinion. Or rack and peanut if you're Homer J. Simpson.

So...that's money I don't have. My mom said to use my tax return. She was apparently the one person I hadn't told my tax-related tale of woe to. I owed the fed $30.25. I get $60 from the state. Whoopty-fucking-doo.

And we just bought plane tickets two weeks ago for our vacation. Everything's just coming up roses for me.

But Robb reminded me that I purchased a warranty on the car when I bought it. And I have to call them back today and see if it would cover them replacing the rack. And if so, that'd be fucking amazing. And if not...that would be...well, not so fucking amazing.

So...hooray for adventures. My $23 oil change is about to cost me over $500.



Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Sales Pitch...

I have just been tasked with coming up with a fresh new way to sell our points credit card. I know a lot of you don't have any idea what that means, but I'm sure ALL OF YOU have been offered a credit card at some point.

I have until next Wedensday to come up with a handout and a short presentation of new ways to try and sell this card. My first thought was akin to panic, just because public speaking is...not really my thing...but it's my coworkers. And now...I'm just thinking about ways I'd want a credit card sold to me.

So...can I ask you? How would you want a credit card sold to you? What would work for you?

Any idea you might have would be much appreciated. Thanks!


Monday, April 13, 2009

The Fabulous Adventures of Five and the Birthday Weekend...

My birthday weekend was super-fun. End of story.

Not really end of story, actually.

Friday night my family and Robb and I went out for Chinese at Yen Ching. Yum. And my mom decided that leftovers in their fridge would just sit there, so she sent me home with SEVEN chinese takeout boxes. Seven! We're down to five, I think. But we had lemon chicken, two plates of happy family, twice-cooked pork, and two plates of Hong Kong chicken steak...oh, and Yen Ching Fried Rice that my mom ALWAYS orders and NEVER eats. And now...we're out one happy family and one lemon chicken and one twice-cooked pork. Holy hell...rice is coming out my ears!

Oh, and speaking of being out one happy family, Sunday was a delight. Note sarcasm. We crashed at Robb's dad's house Saturday night after hanging out in Chicago with his friends Amy, Erin, and Cari and going to thrift stores and finishing at Nookie's for dinner and dessert. Sunday morning we got up and showered, got ready for church, and Robb's dad was making breakfast. Robb asked who was coming over for Easter dinner, and his dad said that hateful brother-in-law and sister were coming with their kids. We expected that.

What we DIDN'T expect was Robb's dad suggesting we leave before they got there, so as to avoid trouble. Because apparently one side of this disagreement can't be trusted to be civil to each other over Easter dinner (although he never said that specifically, it's what the message meant). And I don't really fault Robb's dad for saying that. He doesn't know what to do about this while situation any more than we do. He's just trying his best to keep everyone happy and, well, up to now, failing miserably at keeping us happy at all.

So...we were both pissed off, and we packed our bags and left before church or brunch or anything. His dad wanted us to stay then, positively pleaded for us to stay. But really, the damage had been done and the day had been tainted, so...Robb and I left.

I called my mom and asked if they were doing anything for Easter, and she said no until I told her what happened. And then we went over there and had a delicious steak dinner. So...something was salvaged out of this while mess.

Ugh. Crappy Easter.

And the worst part of it all is that Robb is so torn up about this. It just makes me sick to see him hurting.

So...yeah...until Sunday morning, my birthday weekend was amazing! Blah.


Wednesday, April 8, 2009

The Power of Ten--or Fifteen...

My friend Melissa (check her out) ran a feature on her blog today that I think it would be fun to emulate.

She did a "10 Things About My Disability" post that I thought was very informative and witty. And while I don't have a disability, per se, I do have a unique perspective. So I thought it might be fun to tell you fifteen things about myself.

So, onward!

1. I am not contagious. I know, this was Mel's first point, but really. You can't catch gay. What you can catch from hanging out with me, though, is well-timed humor and maybe a laugh or a yawn.

2. I am a bibliophile. My room is filled with stacks of books in front of shelves full of books. And on top of those shelves? Books. I adore them, how they look and smell, the sound of turning pages, the magic of words passed through time. It's a vacation in the comfort of my home, and I love it.

3. I always wanted a Chia Pet. Since the first time I saw the commercials during Thundercats and Transformers when I was just a tiny Viewtiful_Justin. I asked my mother to get me one. I wanted them for birthdays and Christmases every year for what felt like ages. And I never got one.

4. I have a thing for firefighters. It's true. Joe Regular? Meh. But when I find out he's a firefighter, his hot points go up five-fold. The hat, the coat, the trucks...all of it. I don't know any reason why this is. I've tried to explain it, and I've plumbed the depth of my childhood. Nothing. But I do.

5. I have an irrational fear of being abandoned in a public place. I don't care if it's a grocery store I go to three times a week and I'm the one with the car keys; if I look up and I can't see you, I get nervous. Anxious. And I have to stop shopping and come find you. I've never been abandoned in a public place. I've never really been abandoned anywhere. But if I can't see you...I'm afraid.

6. I used to have a great memory, but now...not so much. I was a vault. Lock it away and never lose it. Now? It's more like a sieve. Lots of holes...I put something there, and when I go to look for it again in ten minutes...gone! Names, dates, ideas...gone! That is, unless I write it down. If I put pencil to paper and make those marks,

7. I had a great one for number seven, and then I forgot it while writing the last one...hrmmm....oh! I got it! I was going to say that I love to sing. And I do! If there is a song on the radio that I know, I will be singing along. Not well, mind you, but singing along nonetheless. And if I don't know it? I'll be singing along by the second chorus. And, because of that, I judge a lot of music based on its singability. If it's not fun to sing along, I probably don't like it.

8. My feet are cold. Unless I am wearing shoes, I can guarantee you that my feet are cold. I'm sure it's poor circulation, although I've never been diagnosed or even checked out. But I've heard "Your feet are like ice!" enough times to know it's true.

9. I try to figure you out. When I am in public and I see two people together or a group of friends are all around one table at a restaurant, I try to figure out the dynamics of the group. I like to see if they seem like they're on a first date or it it's someone's birthday, if it's a work group or a school study date. I love figuring people out. People watching...to the extreme!!!

10. I find rudeness deplorable. When I say hello to a cahsier, I expect a response. When I talk to someone, I expect their attention. I hate seeing people come through the drive at work while they're on their cell phone. It bothers me even more to see them talking while they're inside and I'm waiting on them. I can't imagine how people could think that it's okay to do this. It's rude, and it's unacceptible. It's important to be polite.

11. I have written three novels. Each year I participate in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and every year I've participated, I've won, which means I've finished three 50,000 word novels, each in 30 days in the month of November. It's crazy amouonts of fun. But...the funny thing is that I've never edited one of them. Never even gone back and read them.

12. I'm a gamer. Many, many hours of my childhood were spent (not wasted, spent) in front of the television with a Nintendo controller in my hand. Not Sega. Not Playstation. Nintendo. I am and have always been a die-hard Nintendo fan...although right now they're working very hard to lose my affections--what with their lack of games for true gamers and their mountains of shitty shovelware crap. But, I digress. The fact is, I play, and I always have.

13. I like pirate slang. When I greet people, it's "Ahoy-hoy." Sometimes when I finish packing things at work I say, "Thar she blows." And sometimes, for no reason, I let fly with a "Yarrr." But I don't particularly care for pirates or the Disney Pirate movies. It's just...a love for the sound of it all.

14. It's a texture thing. This is the line I use when I don't like a food. I love cheese, and I love yogurt, but cottage cheese? Those little lumps turn me off. Baked beans, kidney beans, navy beans? Grainy texture. Ick. Same with peas. And marshmallows? Don't even get me started on marshmallows! I don't understand how something can be simultaneously puffy, slimy, chalky, and squishy at the same time. Eww. Add Peep's crunchy sugar coating and you've got the most revolting thin on the planet.

15. I love. There is so much hatred in this world, and only love can set it straight. I want to try to do my part to reverse the ravages of hate. So, I love. I love people and animals. I love quirks and mannerisms, accents and hair colors. I love facial tics and fashion, expressions and emotions. I just try to love. And I fail at this regularly, but I'm always trying. And really, that's all that matters.

What are some things that people don't know about you? Post them up and let me know about them!


Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Silly Wordplay...

Excuse me for the moment. I was thinking about this during my morning shower, and I thought I needed to share.

Maybe you'll wish I hadn't.

But. In either case, this is best read aloud.

What do you call something that belongs to Johann Sebastian?


So, a container that belongs to J.S. would be?

Bach's box.

And if, somehow, that container was a pugilist?

Bach's boxing box.

Okay. You still with me?

Now. What if that pugilistic container belonging to J.S. had a compulision to burst into song while hammering away at his opponent--what would that be?

Bach's singing, boxing box.

And...if they had an unexpected breakout success of a variety show, what would the headlines read?

Bach's Singing, Boxing Box Sings!

Alright. I'm done now. Thanks for indulging me in my ridiculous English moment.


Monday, April 6, 2009


I wish I could tell you that this past Sunday I had a great time at Medieval Times with Robb and his family for his dad's birthday. Unfortunately, I cannot. It has nothing to do with the show or the service. I'm sure they were wonderful. It has everything to do with the fact that I was uninvited.

Disinvited, as I've been calling it, because the manner in which it was done was so disrespectful.

Let's go way back...way back to before I'd ever met Robb. His older sister married a guy named Scott. And he was cool, way cool. He loved the drag queens, and he and Robb's sister even took Robb to his first pride parade. He was pretty much everything you could want in a brother-in-law.

And then something happened. And no one is really sure what...

He lost his job. He started drinking. That was last year-ish.

Fast forward. Robb and his sister are planning to take their dad to Medieval Times for his birthday. Dinner and tournament! Plans were laid. I was invited. And then I heard nothing for a while.

Fast forward to Friday of last week.

Robb emails me. Family drama. He didn't want to talk about it through email. He didn't want to talk about it at all. I went home and was getting ready for my birthday party. Robb was visibly bummed out. I asked him why.

Apparently his once-cool brother-in-law has taken all his accumulated self-loathing and become Hector Projector. And now we're the hated ones. Because we're gay. Suddenly he's this uber-religious, super-conservative, hateful bastard. He told his wife that he wouldn't go if we were both there. And then they bought tickets for everyone who was planing on going EXCEPT me.

So, in order to avoid conflict on the day they were celebrating his dad's birthday, Robb went. He pulled his sister aside and told her how horrible and discriminatory it was that this was going on, but he went. I don't fault him for that. I'd have done the same thing.

And she says she's going to do something about it. I am not holding my breath.

It's the first time I've been actively discriminated against--singly, anyway. And it makes me sick. How can someone I've had next to NO contact with be so shitty to me? How can he be such an asshole to his brother-in-law Robb who has been nothing but a spectacular uncle to his kids?! It's a damn shame, really.

And when someone hates me for no reason, it makes me want to give them a reason. I know I'd feel a hell of a lot better about him if he hated me for a reason. And if I didn't care so much about his sister and those three kids, I'd firebomb the damn house, slash his tires, do donuts in the back yard...something...anything to give him a reason.

But this senseless, baseless, random hatred is too much for me to handle. And it's not okay. Ever.


Saturday, April 4, 2009

Take Your Nickel Back...

A song came on the radio today while I was at work, and my automatic gag reflex started. It was one of those songs about cherishing the day you have, because what if it was your last...you know, kind of sappy and bad like "If Everyone Cared," by Nickelback.

And then I thought...wait a minute...this IS Nickelback. Ugh. The gag reflex made sense.

Are they still making music? Is there anyone out there who still listens to them by choice? I mean...I assume that if they're still making music SOMEONE is buying their albums. But...who?

I'm sorry if you like them. I have pretty much hated them since...well, since that time in the early 00's when EVERY band sounded like them. Do you remember that week? Why weren't THEY one of the bands that went away? Anywho...

This rant really doesn't have much of a point, aside from raising awareness of the suckiness of a band that needs to grow up or get out. If I have to hear one more song by them that reminds me of a Barney lesson, I'm going to hurl. A brick through their collective faces.

And now, "Don't Stop Believin'" is on. I must go worship.


Thursday, April 2, 2009

Behind the Lens...

It's a little bit funny.

I was looking through photos the other day, and I was astounded by the number of photos I had taken of myself in a "Myspace" sort of way: extended arm, no smile, cute hair...you know the drill. And I thought to myself, "When did I become this person?"

And then I realized something. They are the only photos of me I have. Where are the photos of me with my friends? Where are the shots taken on vacation of me in front of the Grand Canyon or me hanging out the window of a car? I have tons of photos like these:

The MySpace shot, and...

The mirror shot.

And tons of photos like these:

Photos where my whole family (sister, stepdad, mom, brother, sister-in-law) went to do something, and I am mysteriously absent, and...

...photos like these where we did something amazing and odd in college (like play music in the elevator for three hours, making up songs the whole time) and I am not recorded.

And I realized that I am missing out, being the one behind the lens the whole time. I am strikingly absent from all of the records of my favorite memories. When I am old, no one will believe I ever had any part of this kind of thing. They'll just think I sat around and took photos of myself during a particularly good hair day while everyone else traipsed around Millennium Park and sang for strangers in the elevator.

Is there a fix for this, short of giving my camera full of memories to a perfect stranger and chancing theft? Not that I have found.

And will this change? Most likely, not.

Why is that? Because I love taking photos, hunting for those moments when a friend smiles their true smile or something crazy and unbelievable happens just as the shutter opens. It's the magic of the moment, the laughs and jokes captured right there to revisit, in case I never have another one. It's storing away little capsules full of happiness with my friends and family.

And really, if I wanted to look at myself, I could just look in a mirror...or visit MySpace.