The times they are a changin’

I remember clearly a very hot summer day almost a year ago. It was the kind of day when you feel as though all of your energy is being sucked from you as you walk alongside the black shimmering road. When you feel like you want to crawl into the refrigerator as soon as you get home just to get away from the heat. I was standing at a crowded tram stop on St. Kilda road, trying to block out the tormenting squeal of Formula 1 cars buzzing around Albert Park Lake. I looked down the street and saw a gust of wind, stirring red dust and leaves in its wake, approaching rapidly; the cool change had arrived, bringing instant relief from the draining heat. This memory sticks in my mind because it is the only time I have actually been able to see and feel a cool change arrive. Normally I’m only semi-aware that the cool change has come at some point well after it has happened.

Sometimes change is obvious and distinct, but most of the time it creeps up on you and you don’t even realise until you reflect on your life years down the track. Despite this, people often like to separate their lives into different periods. A classic example of this is New Years Eve; somehow we like to think that 2009 is completely different from 2008, but does anything really change once the clock ticks over past midnight? In most cases – no. Sometimes, people can be even more superficial and link change to a material object, “My life will be different now that I have this new sofa.”

Right at the moment, I’m semi-aware that change is coming; I feel its presence, but have no idea if it has come already or even if it will come at all. Recently I heard the fantastic news that I’d passed my final actuarial exam, which means no more study; no more stressing before exams and then stressing some more afterwards whilst waiting for the results. Fortunately I managed to get through it all without failing a subject, which to non-actuaries probably means absolutely nothing, but is a pretty special thing to actuaries. I’m not really fussed about that though, I’m just glad I didn’t have to go through anything twice; I don’t think I would have been able to handle it. Anyway, the point is that my education has finally finished, and now my learning begins. That’s why I feel that change is coming.

To be honest I’m a little bit scared really. When I was studying, at least I had a constant source of focus and motivation; I had little time to dwell on my thoughts. Now that I have free time, I reflect and I think about things a lot. I realise that I have a lot to work on until I am the person that I want to be.

I doubt I’ll be content just working during the day and then going home afterwards and doing nothing. So, my plan is to do something. I want to learn a language, get some new hobbies, write a book, work on my weaknesses and last but not least, get back in touch with the social side of my life, which I’ve neglected for so long. I need to spend more time with my friends, my girlfriend and my family. I need to set aside more time to have fun and live life.

Gee, I just noticed that this is starting to sound like a New Year’s resolution, but that’s not my intention at all. It’s a plan really; a plan to have a full happy post-study life. O brave new world.

And yes, I will try and write on my blog more; I’ve neglected that a bit too.

First things first though. I’ll get back to finishing logging my European holiday. Last time I left off, I was leaving Paris for Nice.

Nice – a town that is a catalyst for bad jokes

Yes, Nice was…pleasant. Now let’s just move on.

It was a little bit sad having to leave Paris so soon, but the rest of France beckoned. We checked out of our grimy youth hostel and made our way to ‘Gare de Nord’ to get two tickets for Nice. After waiting around the station for a bit, we crossed town to ‘Gare de Lyon’ and hopped on board a shiny TGV – the French equivalent of a Japanese bullet train – bound for Marseille. With efficiency uncharacteristic of the French, we departed on time and sped through rolling green pastures towards the port city of Marseille.

We had the unfortunate displeasure of sitting near an arrogant man who decided to watch a bad French comedy on his laptop, without earphones, for the entire length of the trip. Police sirens, corny romantic music and canned laughter, which was followed by the inconsiderate man’s laughter, was the soundtrack to what would have otherwise been a pleasant journey through the French countryside.

We changed to a comparatively dilapidated and slow train at Marseille. It snaked its way along the scenic coast towards Nice, that is until it stopped due to a ‘strike’, which lasted for half an hour. I’m convinced it was just an excuse for the driver to go and sit by the beach and smoke, drink wine and eat cheese. Still, we weren’t exactly in a hurry, so it was no skin off my back.

I felt a tingle of excitement when I caught a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea and also when we stopped at famous towns like Cannes. The trip got a little bit boring after a while though. Europe looks tiny on the map in comparison to Australia, yet it takes a surprisingly long time to negotiate.

Nice didn’t exactly put on its pretty face to greet us. We pushed our way past bus loads (or boat loads?) of American tourists, to the main street, which happened to be the perimeter of the red light district. Perhaps people who frequent these areas don’t like to walk very far? I can’t think of any other reason why it would be right next to the train station. In any case, nothing says welcome quite like a neon sign blinking “Sex, sex, sex.”

It turned out that our hotel wasn’t very far from all of these shenanigans either. The hotel was a cheap pokey one-star affair, whose main boasting point was their participation in the annual Nice Carnival. As a result of this, several paper maché Carnival costumes, which looked like they were straight out of that James Bond film with ‘jaws’ in Rio, were dotted along the flights of stairs to our room. They scared the heck out of me; their eyes stared blankly and they grinned inanely; I swear they moved when I wasn’t looking. Shudder. Chris seemed to love them though – always one to be mesmerised by truly evil things.

Scary carnival costume - photo courtesy of Chris

We were a bit peckish after all of the travelling, so we wandered out to grab a bite to eat. After getting out of our creepy hotel and walking past the red light district, Nice turned out to be quite… err… good. It reminded me of Melbourne actually, complete with trams and all. I almost felt as though I were walking down Bourke Street in certain parts.

We were a bit too hungry to explore the city for too long, so we settled for an Italian restaurant (of all places), decked out with tables with the stereotypical red and white check tablecloths and a with a plump old Italian waiter, with black hair slicked back with greasy Bryll Cream, but who spoke French. Italy isn’t that far from Nice… so it was ok. The wood fired pizza I ordered turned out to be rather tasty in any case.

The next day we decided to go to Monaco. We decided to pick up some breakfast and lunch from a either a boulangerie or a patisserie. By now we’d learnt that your money lasts a lot longer if you don’t eat lunch at overpriced cafés each day.

Ah breakfast in France, the best meal of the day. There is no better start to the day than munching on a crisp freshly made French pastry. I became quite a pastry addict whilst in France and developed a particular fondness for ‘Pain aux Raisin’ – sweet pastry with custard and sultanas shaped in a spiral.

We managed to find a truly amazing place to get our breakfast and lunch. To this day I still think about it. Their pastries and their baguettes were beyond delicious. Their ‘Pain aux Raisin’ was a work of art: glazed with sugar, plump juicy raisins, creamy custard, finished off with orange rind and crisp pieces of malt. Oh yeah. The only problem was that nothing else since has matched that first pastry ‘hit’.

We made our way to the station to get a train to Monaco. Something seemed to be wrong though. The station was packed with confused American tourists and none of the trains on the departures board seemed to be going to Monaco. Still, Chris and I thought we’d be savvy and try and use the ticket machines to avoid queuing with the Americans.

We got the tickets with no dramas, but then we didn’t know what to do with them. We walked around looking as confused as the Americans. Chris went over to ask a station attendant what was going on. I asked Chris what was happening when he got back, “Umm, I don’t know man, he just mumbled a string of French at me. I think I caught ‘left’ something.”

Now it was my turn to try and find out what was going on. I lined up at the information counter, running a line from my phrasebook over and over in my head: “Which platform does the train to Monaco go from?” The Americans ahead of me were all asking in English and I felt immensely superior to them, right up until the point where I got to the counter, spoke my badly pronounced ‘phrasebook French’ and received a rapid response – in French. Damn, I have no idea what he just said, I thought. I stepped aside feeling a bit silly.

The French weren’t getting it. The way it was supposed to work was that I would speak my bad French, they’d be surprised and impressed and then respond happily in fluent English. As I spent more and more time in France, I realised the best approach was to ask, “Parlez-vous Anglais?” or “Do you speak English” in French. That way it looked like you were making an effort, but you didn’t actually have to know any French at all. Brilliant.

Anyway, we ended up having to ask some Americans and realised that there was a rail strike – lazy French – and that no trains were going to Monaco. Try again tomorrow.

Our plans weren’t set in concrete, so we just switched things around a bit and decided to spend the day exploring Nice instead.

It was a wet and gloomy day. We spent most of our time dodging the rain because we were too cheap/lazy/proud to buy umbrellas. That’s how we ended up in the Matisse gallery – to get out of the rain.

Now, Matisse is supposedly a famous artist from Nice, but we didn’t find his work at all appealing; Chris especially. We killed a few hours walking around making snide and sarcastic comments before deciding that standing in the rain had to be better than spending another minute in that place. From then on Matisse became a synonym for bad/rubbish/lame.

We dodged the rain some more before searching the city to try and find a ‘Carrefour’ store that we saw advertised on a billboard on the side of the road. Carrefour is a massive ‘department-grocery-everything-you-could-every-need-under-one-roof’ type store. Best of all though, they have an excellent selection of chocolate.

We walked down the street before being asked for a light by some youths. Ah France, so many smokers, but cigarette lighters seemingly in such short supply. It is great not speaking the language, you can just say ‘I don’t understand’ and move on without feeling the slightest bit of guilt.

Although later on, saying ‘I don’t understand’ didn’t seem to work. We walked down the street for a bit longer before three young ladies standing in front of a small garage stopped us. They couldn’t speak English, we couldn’t speak French; it was a communication breakdown. After a few minutes of their frantic gesturing, we still couldn’t work out they wanted. They sighed and tried a new approach. The girl with copper coloured hair and a black leather jacket pointed at her Vespa, which seemed to be stuck. Ahh, it finally clicked, she wanted help lifting her Vespa out onto the street, so I did, and then we were all on our way.

We eventually found Carrefour in a smallish shopping centre and I almost gave in and bought an umbrella at a ‘low low price’, but decided against it. We’d already managed to dodge the rain for this long, why give in now? I did stock up on chocolate though.

Eventually after some more general wandering, we decided to try and find some dinner. I was on the hunt for ‘Socca’ which is apparently a pizza/crepe, of sorts, made from chick pea flour and is a speciality of the region, but it turns out it is more of a market dish rather than a restaurant dish. Still, the search for Socca took us to the waterfront and down an alley to an out-of-the-way restaurant serving local specialities.

The restaurant turned out to be one of the best during the trip. A likeable waiter with flared grey hair, a cheerful voice and a carefree demeanour showed us to a table. The menu was scrawled in white chalk on a small blackboard on the table. The walls were thick and the place was dim and had dark tones, almost like a cellar, but much cosier.

Our waiter realised that we were struggling with the menu, so he brought over a young waiter who, not only translated the menu for us, but also gave us a story about the origin of each dish. After she had finished her spiel, I wanted to order about five different dishes, but settled for a traditional slow cooked hearty stew called ‘daube’. We ordered a demi-bottle of local wine and began our meal. The place started filling up with locals who were starting their weekend celebrations. It became quite lively, as the place also doubled as a bar.

The food was excellent, the ambiance great and the cheerful waiter topped it all off by offering us free shots from the bar after our meal. While Nice may be a little dull sometimes, the food and the waterfront area makes it a truly special place. Well worth a visit.

We called it a night and decided that we’d renew our quest to get to Monaco the following day.

Fully sick mate.

Having ended the last entry on the subject of being sick, it is somewhat fitting then that I begin this entry on the same subject – albeit a different case. I somehow managed to pick up an annoying bug, which has meant that I’ve had to take two days off work and live on toast and water. I’m tired of being sick and I’m sick of being tired; the illness is just so draining. If there is any silver lining, I guess it has given me time to slow down and reflect.

Still, with some luck I’ll be back to health soon and running at full pace again. Sherly has been great throughout all this given that I’m not very good at being sick – I just hate being helpless that’s all.

We’ve been going out for more than two years now. I took her out to a swanky Japanese restaurant (Yu-u) in the city to celebrate followed by a visit to a Japanese bath house the following weekend, both of which were very enjoyable. Sherly has been ultra busy lately with work and uni and I’ve been a bit worried about it all, but I guess she’s always been hard working, so no doubt she can handle it.

Last weekend as part of a ‘get to know my home city better’ kick, I thought I’d check out the Melbourne Open City event, where several heritage listed buildings were opened up for public viewing. The line for the first – the Manchester Unity boardroom tour – was absurdly long and it took over two hours. The time wasted would have bugged me more if it hadn’t been for my foresight to bring my study notes with me. I managed to get through a paper or two, which the old ladies behind me seemed impressed with.

The reason why I waited – and this may seem a little geeky – is that Manchester Unity has a special appeal to me because of the sickness tables that their English parent company produced in the 1800’s. I remember using the tables as an undergrad and felt compelled to see an offshoot of the company that compiled them.

The building was impressive. It was from a completely different time. A time when profit maximisation and rigorous expense minimisation were almost unheard of. A time when insurance companies spent their wealth freely on grand buildings and lavish functions. When name and reputation was everything.

The halls were adorned with paintings and carvings and led to a set of lifts with big bronze doors with embossed Manchester Unity symbols. Small touches such as unique cornice designs for each floor, so that anyone with a good memory could know where they were if plonked on a random floor, confirmed that mass production was a mantra yet to be followed.

Manchester Unity Tower

The tour guide explained that a (rich) dentist now owns the top floor of the building including a three level tower at the top, which he uses for the purpose of a multi level operating room, presumably for Melbourne elitists who want a view while getting their teeth whitened. We were taken along the rooftop and then to the boardroom.

The boardroom wasn’t as grand as I had been imagining, but maybe that was because the dentist had taken down all of the paintings and jewels the morning before he decided to let all of Melbourne walk through. Fair enough too, he obviously didn’t get rich by being dim.

The most fascinating part of the room was a 15m long, single piece glass table top that had been imported from France. The logistics of getting it onto the 11^th floor in 1840 when it is too wide to fit through the doors or windows are just mind boggling.

The building was impressive, but I’m not sure whether it was worth the long wait. Others on the tour seemed to be convincing themselves that their time hadn’t been wasted by emphatically telling people in the queue how ‘lovely’ and ‘worthwhile’ the tour had been as they exited the lifts.

Plaza ballroom

Next was the Plaza ballroom beside the Regent theatre, which apparently had been restored recently after being flooded for many years. The ballroom was impressively grand and as I stood looking across the carpeted floor lit by numerous chandeliers I squinted and tried to imagine a Melbourne in its golden era with society types watching a play and then proceeding to the ballroom in their extravagant outfits.

Anyway, enough about Melbourne – back to Paris.

Please don’t vomit on the Mona Lisa

After my morning walk, I met up with Harry for breakfast. Today we planned to see the Louvre. I was convinced that it wouldn’t live up to its hype, but it proved me wrong. The Louvre is a feast for the soul that everyone should experience at least once in their life. The only problem is that now Australian galleries pale in comparison and it is hard to get excited about the quarterly ‘special exhibits’ that come along and their relatively exorbitant admission prices.

The Louvre

I’m sure I would have appreciated the Louvre all the more had I not been getting sicker by the minute. After a few hours of browsing the artwork, I became more interested in the locations of toilets – the toilet symbol was the Mona Lisa to me. I understand that it is a magnificent old building, but the lack of toilets was farcical. At times I was reassuring myself, “Please don’t vomit on the Mona Lisa; it would be sacrilegious.”

After a few more hours even Chris was getting a little bit tired of the Louvre. We were both a bit ‘cultured out’. I think you really need to see the Louvre over a few weeks rather than try and cram it all into a day.

Our next stop was the Notre Dame. The intense heat of the sun was making things worse for me and by the time we got into the Notre Dame, I was feeling really quite ill. I thought I was going to vomit in the Notre Dame for sure, which would have been even more sacrilegious, so I told Chris I’d meet him back at the hostel and left. I’d run out of water to drink and I only had large denominations of currency and couldn’t buy any, so I staggered around the Paris streets parched and exhausted, trying to find the nearest metro station.

Finally I was able to spot a funky art-deco ‘metropolitan’ sign and walked down the stairs to the underground platform. It was a real struggle to walk back to the hostel and when I got back, I collapsed in my bunk bed and slept until the next day.

Centre Pompidou – The inside-out building

I was healthy enough to see some more of Paris the next day, but still not fully recovered. It was annoying walking past patisseries filled with delectable pastries and just feeling nauseous.

The view from the Eifel Tower

We spent two more nights in Paris and were able to see a fair chunk of the city. Our approach was to see one or two landmarks each day and walk through the streets to explore Paris in between.

Arc de Triumph

It isn’t the landmarks that I remember most of my time in Paris however. To me, Paris will always be associated with relaxing in a beautiful park on a gentle spring day, watching Parisians go about their daily lives whilst munching on a yummy baguette. Paris really is lovely in the springtime.

Eifel Tower

Europe, at long last

It was a holiday of contrasts: the riches of Paris to the poverty stricken small towns of Morocco; lush green forests to arid ashen deserts; grimy youth hostels with odd roommates to five star hotels with portly porters willing to please for a tip; biting cold to searing heat and back to a winter chill once more. We journeyed relentlessly, always heading forwards onto new cities, never looking back; there was no time for nostalgia. We were in a city never more than a few days at a time and were guided by the limits of the train network. In crooked lines we cut our way across the continent on slow trains and on fast trains with the vague notion of needing to head south to Casablanca.

I think constantly adapting to all of this change made things feel a little strange when I got back. Things were the same, but not really. Work was the same, but not quite. My eyes were closed at night, but I wasn’t sleeping.

Anyway, I’ve been back for a few weeks now and things are becoming normal again. The holiday afterglow – where your own city seems new and exciting again for a brief moment – is fading.

Paris

It took around 34 hours from Melbourne airport to reach Charles de Gaulle airport. When I fly I always get the yearning to flick a switch and lose consciousness until I arrive at my destination. Forget first class, not remembering or having to experience the flight at all is the only way to fly. Still, I finally arrived, conscious and exhausted.

The French have their own (albeit quirky) way of doing things and it feels as though the airport is designed to stamp this impression on travellers from around the globe before they are allowed to enter the country. Instead of a bus or a monorail between the gate and the terminal, at Charles de Gaulle, there is a moving walkway that travels for kilometres through what feels like an underground bunker up hills and down them. It must almost be one of the longest moving walkways in the world.

Whilst waiting for the bags I tried to run through the scraps of French that I had learnt in my head. While I should have been revising useful phrases, the only thing I could hear over and over was ‘Je suis fatigué… Je suis fatigué … Je suis fatigué’ (I am tired). My blue chubby bag slid down the chute and Chris’ soon followed. We hoisted our hefty packs on our backs and went to find customs before realising we were out of the airport. Talk about lax controls. I was in France. It felt good to be in a country again – once you walk through the international departure gates and begin your journey, you aren’t really in any country anymore; you’re just a human in transit; you don’t belong anywhere.

The first opportunity I had to try speaking French was when trying to validate our rail passes and get a free train trip to the city centre. I was nervous and took the easy option, asking in French, “Do you speak English?” Fortunately, almost everyone in France seems to speak English and as long as you make an effort to try and communicate in French, they don’t seem to mind speaking English with you. In fact, my French was so bad that people just started speaking English to me, perhaps to save their language from being butchered by my awful pronunciation.

It was a Sunday; the trains weren’t very crowded and people didn’t seem rushed. We arrived at the central station (Gare de Nord) and could have kept going to find our youth hostel, but after travelling for such a long time, all I wanted to do was to get outside into the fresh air and walk about. So we decided to head to a café just outside the station.

Paris was everything I imagined it to be. Low rise buildings with balconies filled with red flowers in hanging pots, narrow streets with small Citroens and scooters whooshing by, pavements crowded with relaxed diners at busy cafés. We found a café, ordered some Perrier and soaked up these new surrounds. It was sunny Spring day and most people seemed to be in a carefree mood.

Fatigue soon won out though and we decided to try and find the youth hostel. We took the metro and zipped underneath the city and walked for a little way with our heavy packs to the hostel. We arrived and checked in with little fuss. It was a reasonable place, but it was a 10 person share room, so each day I wondered what roommates the new day would bring. Fortunately, none of the people that stayed in our room over the four days were intolerable, but a couple came close. I slept fairly well on the first night, but woke at an excessively early time. I didn’t feel like sleeping anymore, so I showered, got dressed and went for a wander. This was to be my routine during the holiday.

Early Morning in Paris - Garbage men and pigeons

The streets were deserted but for a few garbage men dressed in green uniforms and pigeons. I walked along past stores that were barricaded shut, hoping to find some sign of activity. I guess I’d always imagined Paris to be the kind of city that never sleeps. It was a public holiday though and we were a little way out of the city. Finally I came across a café that was open, so I ordered a coffee, French style – two shots of espresso with no milk – and sat outside. I pulled out a note book and started writing. I loved just sitting there, in Paris, watching the city slowly stir awake as the day grew brighter.

Perhaps it wasn’t the brightest idea to get up so early and load myself up on coffee whilst still recovering from the long flight. So began two days of sickness, where I felt as though I were going to vomit on precious artworks or in sacred places and where the thought and sight of all food turned my stomach and made me nauseous. Not the ideal start, but I grew to love Paris – one of the world’s greatest cities.

A Spot of Fun to Distract from Reality

I came across this tag while reading a friend’s blog, so I thought why not? Constant study is getting me a bit down and it has been a week at work that I’d rather forget.

The idea:

1. Put your music player on shuffle.

2. Press forward for each question.

3. Use the song title as the answer to the question even if it doesn't make sense. No cheating.

4. With the answers, give your own comments on how it relates to the questions.

5. Tag someone else

Alright, I’ve got a nice glass of red at the ready and I’m going to chill out for a bit. itunes is fired up and I’ve merged my playlists for a truly random experience. Don’t let me down now music library…

How are you feeling today?
“Uptown Girl” Billy Joel.

Oh damn… what an awful start. Umm yes, the rough edged blue collar downtown guy singing about inter-class unrequited love – tricky.

Ok I’ve got it. After slaving away in the steel mill (and by steel mill I mean an air conditioned swanky new Docklands office) all week I really look forward to seeing my girl Sherly who is uptown (directly North in Carlton).

Will you get far in life?

“Take me out” Franz Ferdinand

Yes I’ll get far, but ‘I know I won’t be leaving here with you’ (or anyone for that matter).

How do your friends see you?
“Harder Better Faster Stronger (Live)” Daft Punk.

Umm, well the less said about this one the better, especially the ‘live’ bit. Moving right on then.

Will you get married?
“Look What You’ve Done” Jet

… you mentioned the M word.

What is your best friend's theme song?
“Lean on Me” Bill Withers

Go itunes! Yup, gotta love my mates Harry and Irz. Actually we tend to sing this song on the streets when we’ve had a bit to drink.

What is the story of your life?
“Hello Hello” The Cat Empire.

If at first you don’t succeed try again.

What was high school like?
“Blues Brothers Theme” Blues Brothers Soundtrack

Imagine black suits, black ties, black sunglasses and a mission from God.

What's in store for this weekend?
“Nasty Girl” Inaya Day

Haha… oh dear, I shouldn’t have included my club playlist. Well, one can always hope…

How's your life going?
“Cello Suite No. 1” Bach

So true, my life is exactly like Bach’s cello suite 1 right now. Frankly, I’m so glad that cello suite 2 didn’t come up, because that would have been absurd.

How can you get ahead in life?
“Gimme Some Lovin’” Blues Brothers Soundtrack

Yup, asking people for some lovin’ always gets you far.

What's the best thing about your friends?
“The Rhythm” The Cat Empire

My friends always find time to appreciate the lighter side of life.

What song will they play at your funeral?
“Worthy is the Lamb” Choir/ Religious Hymn

*sob* He was one worthy lamb alright that boy. Seriously, what the heck is this doing in my playlist anyway?

How does the world see you?
“Great Southern Land” Icehouse

Well I’m a little offended. I’d like to think people see me as more than that…

Will you have a happy life?
“Concerto for Violin and Orchestra in D major” Beethoven

Yes. Yes I will. Not feeling all that happy about including my classical playlist though.

Do people secretly lust after you?
“All I want for Christmas is you” Oliva Olson – Love Actually Soundtrack

Well, I guess they do. That’s news to me.

How can you make yourself happy?
“Respect” Aretha Franklin

I’ve got to show myself and others a bit of respect. All I’m asking is for a little respect.

What should you do with your life?
“Stuck in Moment you can’t get out of” U2

Apparently I should just be nostalgic and live in just one moment of my life.

Will you ever have children?
“Billy Jean” Michael Jackson.

Yes, but I will deny responsibility. ‘The kid is not my son.’

What song would you strip to?
“It had to be you” Frank Sinartra

Ahhh I’m a romantic at heart.

What does your mum think of you?
“I don’t remember” Powderfinger

Oh gosh… I hope not. How sad.

What is your deep, dark secret?
“It just takes some time” Jimmy Eats World

I won’t tell you just now.

What is your mortal enemy's theme song?
“Relax, don’t do it” Duran Duran

Yeah very fitting. I can see us grappling over a gun James Bond style. ‘Hey, relax Goldfinger, don’t do it! Save the world from the evil death ray.’

What's your personality like?
“Can’t Touch This” MC Hammer

Alright, I might have issues with letting people get close. Let’s just move on, ok.

What song will be played at your wedding?
“U.F.O” Sneaky Sound System

Very appropriate wedding music.

The end….

Alright, I tag Sherly and Irz (update your blog fool).