In keeping with the general theme of complete egocentricity and self-absorbedness on this blog, I now present to you a selection of nine pictures of my face. I went to a photo shoot yesterday morning, because I need head shots in order to become the fabulously wealthy and successful actor I was born to be. I picked out these nine as the best of the 100 or so shots she took, and now I present them to you for your opinion. The photographer recommended that I show them to my friends and relatives who know me best. Apparently, the person in the picture would naturally pick out the ones that they feel are most flattering, rather than the ones that best represent their actual looks and personality. That is your charge, my friends: peruse the photos and then post a comment under the ones that you think are the best based on those criteria. You can vote for no more than two! As always, I value your frank and honest opinion. Good luck!
Call me a Scrooge, but I've found that the last couple of years Christmas just hasn't carried the same sense of wonder and excitement it once did. When I was a kid, I was ready to pee my pants every day in December just thinking about the twenty-fifth, which crept closer so slowly that the month was always filled with blissfully tortuous anticipation. The sense of suspense, the agony of not knowing what the fantastically wrapped boxes contained, was only heightened by the lights, the music, the snow, and everything you knew meant it was Christmas time. Back then, my heart's desires cost about twenty bucks and, tragically, seemed both completely unobtainable and the key to my whole life's happiness. This was the season, then, when miracles of a very practical kind could happen; objects only admired on the shelf, or at a friend's, or in some abstract sense of obsession could literally become my own and wind up, eventually, in pieces somewhere in my closet. I like to c...
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