I must be the world's unluckiest person.

Sigh. This needs to stop.

I can't wait until I'm married. Aside from re-learning how to play the piano with my children, I decided that my husband will cut my fingernails for me and I will pop his pimples. I can't wait.


I have already achieved one of my dreams here in Sweden. Let's see if another will happen.

Det finns inga hyggliga Svensk killarna. Suck. Självklart inte.


Effin bastards. Usch.

Love manifested in a 7 kg package brimming with everything good Home has to offer.


There are a dwindling number of simple acts in life that are able to elicit the same elation and happiness as good old-fashioned airmail does. How much more are these moments to be cherished?

잔디 엄마와 아빠의 쎌목장 모임 사진. =]

Hej då, solskenet. Så synd. =[

Susan: me and kwan and john song laughed together at u riding bike around
Susan: kwan brought it up
Susan: and we all laughed in disbelief




This is my means of transportation around Lund. I have named it Shorty Starry, or SS, for short (no pun intended). Notice how the bicycle seat is nearly lowered to its absolute lowest to accomodate my runty legs.


I need some steak, pho, and Del Taco Chicken Soft Tacos. =[

"Sometimes He comes in the rain
And we question the pain
And wonder why God can seem so far away
But time will show us
He was right there with us, and...

Sometimes He comes in the clouds
Sometimes His face cannot be found
Sometimes the sky is dark and gray
But some things can only be known
And sometimes our faith can only grow
When we can't see
So, sometimes He comes in the clouds"

"Remember What Matters" by Chuck Klosterman.


As is so often the case, the best advice I ever received came from a drunken, bitter man with a patently ridiculous soul patch. It has been said that you are only as old as you feel, and --if that is indeed true-- this 27-year-old surfer doofus was approximately 146. And what he taught was this:

You think it should matter, but it doesn't.

I was semimadly in love with a woman who lived 800 miles away, in Minneapolis, and I'd heard a rumor that she had begun casually dating another man. This was predictably vexing, and I felt my only recourse was to go nuclear. Her birthday was October 16, and I suspected her new paramour might give her flowers. My plan was to send her two dozen long-stemmed roses; this way, even if the New Guy went for the jugular and gave her a dozen of his own, his gift would suddenly be dwarfed by the monolithic magnitude of my romantic gesture. So this is what I did. And the night before they arrived at her desk, I met this 146-year-old punk in a bar and asked him if he thought this move was brilliant or pathetic.

'Neither,' he replied. 'If she likes you, she'll think it was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for her; if she doesn't like you, it will totally freak her out. And if you sent her nothing, that wouldn't matter, either. If she likes you, she'd find your indifference appealing and powerful; if she doesn't, your indifference would simply validate her belief that you're not the person she should be with. So give her everything or give her nothing. You think it should matter, but it doesn't.'