levity: (bring it)
Seriously, guys. Some people do not sexual attraction! Some people just don't want to have sex at all! It's a thing called asexuality! It's not the same as decreased libido, which is a chemical thing, and it's not a disorder that needs to be fixed. And yes, sometimes people feel like it means there's something wrong with them, but maybe you have to look at what the rest of the world is telling them is right and normal! And why did it come up specifically for females?

Here I thought med meant less stereotype and more science. Ahahahaha.

(This is not directed at anyone, I am just annoyed.)
levity: (daydream team)
GOOOOOL. GOOOOOL. I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO SCORED, MY STREAM IS AT A STANDSTILL HALF THE TIME AND PIXELLATED THE OTHER HALF AND I'M PRETTY SURE IT WAS AN OWN GOAL BY SOUTHAMPTON, BUT WE ARE 1-0 UP EARLY IN THE GAME AND MY STREAM IS IN SPANISH (I love how they pronounce "Oxlade-Chamberlain". And "Jenkinson".) AND SO I DON'T EVEN CAAAARE, I WILL MILK THIS FOR ALL IT'S WORTH. GOOOOOL. GOOOOOOOL.


ETA: I know the goalscorer's name! It's Hooiveld, which must be ridiculously fun to say, though probably not as much as "salpingooophorectomy".


ETA the second: GOLDI POLDI HALLELUJAH, GOLDI POLDI HALLELUJAH. I have not actually seen either of the goals, but I don't want to change my horrible stream because I haven't yet found an exception to the rule that all sports fans are superstitious.


ETA the third: APPARENTLY I AM DOOMED NEVER TO SEE ANY GOALS, BECAUSE IN THE TIME THAT IT TOOK ME TO SWITCH OUT STREAMS WE'VE SCORED TWO. I LOVE THIS TEAM. I LOVE THIS TEAM. AND ONLY AN ARSENAL FAN WOULD EVEN CONSIDER THIS A POSSIBILITY, BUT: GUYS. PLEASE DON'T SCREW THIS UP.


ETA the fourth: I hope to God and Arsene Wenger that I did not jinx this.

Everyone's going to be gushing about Lukas Podolski's wonderful curling freekick (AND RIGHTLY, WALANG SINABI SA IYO SI DAVID BECKHAM, LU-LU-LU-LUKAS PODOLSKI) but I would like to direct your attention to the gorgeous piece of footwork from Santi Cazorla that led to Mikel Arteta's almost lazy assist for Gervinho's goal. And say what you like about Gibbo as a defender (actually, don't, he's a young talented player who tends to make bad decisions, so, typically Arsenal), his performance was fantastic. The argument can be made that all our defenders are wingers in disguise. Whoever made up Verma's chant would certainly agree.


ETA the last: At least I saw Theo's goal. Why the hell is the Guardian's minute-by-minute cover photo Anton Ferdinand ignoring John Terry's handshake? Which really means: John Terry called Anton Ferdinand by a racist slur, no amount of handshaking will do anything about that, so will you please shut it until you and the FA and the rest of British media can show that you can deal with racism beyond banners before games, my gulay.

Gervinho, you belong with us. What can I say, erratic but talented is practically our middle name. Santi Cazorla is a magician and a joy and a sight for sore eyes. Theo, Jenks, Gibbo, Mikel, Wojciech you insane human being- I want to draw hearts around this entire team, but it's not like that's anything new.
levity: (Jolteon and Togepi)
The OB Ward is a wonderful place. I do not want to write more, for fear of turning it into Literature- I think I am paraphrasing someone, but I do not know who, someone tell me lest I Tito Sotto- for taking some part of someone else's life and reading symbolism and meaning into it, or worse, making it about me, and I have a phobia of birth, okay, and no illusions about the ward's usual state, and the kind of life our typical OB patient's going to be born into- anyone's going to be born into- and I am going to cut this off now, but we watched a mother give birth, and the OB Ward is a beautiful place.
levity: (bring it)
Apparently I go to a medical school whose students are incapable of grasping the fact that their first duty as a doctor is to their patient. Not to the patient's family, not to the patient's legacy, not to what they've deluded themselves into believing that the patient really wants, but to the patient. Maybe this is a difficult thing to comprehend, but whatever. Congratulations, Philippines' best and brightest.
levity: (Default)
Can I just not have a uterus? It's not like I'm planning to do anything with it anyway.

On the bright side, I'm not apt to forget anything about dysmenorrhea during tomorrow's exam.
levity: (bring it)
The notion of cancer as an affliction that belongs paradigmatically to the twentieth century is reminiscent, as Susan Sontag argued so powerfully in her book Illness as Metaphor, of another disease once considered emblematic of another era: tuberculosis in the nineteenth century. Both diseases, as Sontag pointedly noted, were similarly “obscene—in the original meaning of that word: ill-omened, abominable, repugnant to the senses.” Both drain vitality; both stretch out the encounter with death; in both cases, dying, even more than death, defines the illness.

But despite such parallels, tuberculosis belongs to another century. TB (or consumption) was Victorian romanticism brought to its pathological extreme—febrile, unrelenting, breathless, and obsessive. It was a disease of poets: John Keats involuting silently toward death in a small room overlooking the Spanish Steps in Rome, or Byron, an obsessive romantic, who fantasized about dying of the disease to impress his mistresses. “Death and disease are often beautiful, like . . . the hectic glow of consumption,” Thoreau wrote in 1852. In Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain, this “hectic glow” releases a feverish creative force in its victims—a clarifying, edifying, cathartic force that, too, appears to be charged with the essence of its era.

Cancer, in contrast, is riddled with more contemporary images. The cancer cell is a desperate individualist, “in every possible sense, a nonconformist,” as the surgeon-writer Sherwin Nuland wrote. The word metastasis, used to describe the migration of cancer from one site to another, is a curious mix of meta and stasis—“beyond stillness” in Latin—an unmoored, partially unstable state that captures the peculiar instability of modernity. If consumption once killed its victims by pathological evisceration (the tuberculosis bacillus gradually hollows out the lung), then cancer asphyxiates us by filling bodies with too many cells; it is consumption in its alternate meaning—the pathology of excess. Cancer is an expansionist disease; it invades through tissues, sets up colonies in hostile landscapes, seeking “sanctuary” in one organ and then immigrating to another. It lives desperately, inventively, fiercely, territorially, cannily, and defensively—at times, as if teaching us how to survive. To confront cancer is to encounter a parallel species, one perhaps more adapted to survival than even we are.

This image—of cancer as our desperate, malevolent, contemporary contemporary doppelgänger—is so haunting because it is at least partly true. A cancer cell is an astonishing perversion of the normal cell. Cancer is a phenomenally successful invader and colonizer in part because it exploits the very features that make us successful as a species or as an organism.


- from Siddhartha Mukherjee's The Emperor of All Maladies. So far, the only complaint I have about this book is that I will never be able to write it myself. Between him and [livejournal.com profile] guede_mazaka, I am turning into a very bitter person.

Perhaps my favorite thing about this book is that Mukherjee gets it, the all-consuming perfect terribleness of cancer, the way we aren't even close to a viable long-term solution. There is no witty conclusion, because there isn't the space.

---

Tumbling problems aside, I still have not yet managed to stop listening to Marina & The Diamonds, part because, as with all the favorites you know you're going to like thirty seconds in, it's like those two albums have my name written all over them. The bright smiling anger and the satire and the performativity, the cheerful wink and nod at the construction of her whole image and the simultaneous deconstruction, the plucky synthetic pop and the clear fuck-off I do what I want and the consequences are all mine air. Oh well.

---

Waging a war against our printer. Losing.
levity: (daydream team)
GOLDI POLDI HALLELUJAAAAAH.

---

ETA: And if he has a great song I haven't heard it yet, but he needs one immediately. SANTI CAZORLAAAA IS THIS WHAT GOALS FEEL LIKE I DON'T KNOW I HAVEN'T HAD THEM IN A LONG TIME. HEY ARSENAL SINCE WHEN WERE YOU THIS EFFICIENT WITH YOUR CHANCES.

Can't remember when the last time we didn't have more corners than the other team was, though.


Son of ETA: But seriously, guys, do you have the feeling that this game was held in a mirror world where Liverpool are us, flashy and wasteful and careless? Also: when did Liverpool get this good?


ETA the Third: Vito Mannone and Abou Diaby, take a bow.
levity: (beauty is a hint of storm)
We can stick anything into the fog and make it look like a ghost.
But tonight let us not become tragedies.

We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows
lookin’ like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.
Let go.
Tonight, poets, let’s turn our wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside.

Step into this.
With your airplane parts.
Move forward.
And repeat after me with your heart:
I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.
Make love to me
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I’m new to this,
but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop
without jumping.

I have realized that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it.
That we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
That if our hearts
really broke
every time we fell from love
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.
But hearts don’t break, y’all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9 – 1 – 1.
Tell them I’m havin’ a fantastic time.
levity: (desire lives in the heart)
Tracking the Marina & The Diamonds tag on Tumblr. Chronically terrified of going through it, for fear that there's someone there who takes this song straightforwardly, or worse, feels it's about them.

This is just a preface to saying that I will stop being a repetitive angry feminist cliche if people will stop being stupid. Yes, it's been that kind of week. Or year, or life, or whatever.
levity: (clarity)
You believed in your own story,
then climbed inside it—
a turquoise flower.
You gazed past ailing trees,
past crumbling walls and rusty railings.
Your least gesture beckoned a constellation
of wild vetch, grasshoppers, and stars
to sweep you into immaculate distances.

The heart may be tiny
but the world's enormous.

And the people in turn believe—
in pine trees after rain,
ten thousand tiny suns, a mulberry branch
bent over water like a fishing-rod,
a cloud tangled in the tail of a kite.
Shaking off dust, in silver voices
ten thousand memories sing from your dream.

The world may be tiny
but the heart's enormous.


trans. Donald Finkel
levity: (evening stretched out against the sky)
Because you brought home a college application form one afternoon in 2008 and your mother said that if there was even the slighest chance that you might want to be a doctor in the future, you ought to check the box. You were sixteen years old and directionless; it wasn't even really a question. Because you checked the box, and six months later you got a call. Then again, isn't that how all stories start?

Because you never managed to rid yourself of the idea that if you had a talent and an education you followed the talent, but if all you had was the education, then you went into medicine. Because if you wanted to consider switching career paths altogether, you should have done it before letting your academics go down the toilet in a two-year-long bender worthy of all the mental health cliches the media has to offer.

Because paying for your take-out pasta at the grocery the cashier asked you and your roommates if you were studying to be doctors, and you said yes, and she smiled and said that the Philippines needed more doctors; because sometimes you need validation from strangers that you're not just working towards an ideal that not only never existed but that was also never valid except as an exercise in self-congratulatory guilt-prevention measures. Because your parents are the classic ivory-tower academics who deal in policy and practice without ever getting to see the people the policies are being made for, and someone in the family had to do something pragmatic. Because there's nothing noble in the profession of medicine, any more than there is anything noble in any other profession that helps make the world go round, and you're sick to what passes for your soul of all the idiots who delude themselves into believing otherwise. Because you don't know what's worse- that your classmates actually buy into the embarrassing but sacred Hippocratic bullshit business, or that they don't. Because in many ways doctors are like superheroes are like politicians- the people who want the job should be, by definition, the people who should never get it, unless the alternative is the people who believe they were born for it. Because it's a lot like plugging holes in a sinking ship, and then you go on med missions for people who really need them and it's not like plugging holes in a sinking ship at all.

Because when you were picking through your library's journal archives shopping for a third-year research project cancer called your name, like the perfect pair of shoes in a shop window, and, and.

Because love is for children and you don't know how to do happiness without looking over your figurative shoulder for the screaming need to walk off of the roof of a convenient building that you have never lived without, and besides you wouldn't know what to do with either anyway, but work is something you can set store by, always. Because, contrary to your usual, you can imagine yourself doing something else for the rest of your life, and it wouldn't be a gaping hole inside of you. Because when two roads diverge in a yellow whatever, who the hell's to tell you you can't take both?

Because you're never going to be great and you're never going to be good, but you can always do something useful.
levity: (daydream team)
SEASON NA SEASON NA SEASON NAAAAAA.

THIS ONE'S OURS. SCREW YOU, RVP, SCREW YOUUUU. IN ARSENE WE TRUST.

HAVE I EVER EXPRESSED THE THOUGHT THAT THE THINGS EXIST THAT MAKE ME HAPPIER THAN ARSENAL FC? IF SO, MEA CULPA. MEA MAXIMA CULPA.

ALSO: WOJCIECH SZCZESNY, ARSENAL'S NUMBER ONE.

---

ETA: We never win the first game of the season, do we?

On the bright side, our new signings are bloody brilliant.
levity: (bring it)
(Or, I am writing this even though my head is pounding because there's idiots)


Dear RH opponents,

The RH Bill is not about you. The RH Bill is not about you. The RH Bill is not about you. The RH Bill is not about you so much that the amount of noise you put into waving around your little morality flags is- kind of unwarranted, to say the least. Nobody is preventing you from standing by your morals and choices as you see fit. Nobody is preventing anybody from standing by their morals and choices as they see fit, unless said morals and choices involve, say, murder, in which case the right of the murdered person not to have been murdered kind of takes priority. This can be a metaphor, if you like, but for simplicity's sake let's say it isn't. You can choose not to use artifical contraception, if that's you want! You can have twenty kids, if that's what you want! So can we end the no freedom of religion argument here? You know what you want, you know what you believe in, you know how to go about acting on them, you can afford to act on them, and nobody is stopping you, unless murder etc., which is great! Some people? Aren't as lucky. So, again: the RH Bill is not about you. It's about them.

It's about the sixteen-year-old girl who had to quit halfway through her last year of high school to work as a maid because she had twelve younger siblings and a jobless father. It's about the woman on her third pregnancy who didn't want another child but couldn't do anything about it because her live-in partner refused to pay for her contraceptive pills. It's about the 30% of high school students in that old DepEd study (will link when I find it; damn the sore lack of electronic records in this country) who didn't know that having sex led to pregnancy. It's about the women who wait the night out sleeping on benches outside the PGH's OB ward, and who have to share beds once they've gotten admitted. It's about the women who suffer from complications from abortions they need but can't obtain legally and get turned down for treatment by doctors on no ground save their presumed higher moral ones. It's about all the families out there who have more kids than they can support, and who know it, and who don't know what to do about it, because no one will tell them.

And if you're going to say that all that is just calling for pity and not looking at the economy, never mind that it's, you know, the good of the people laws are supposed to be looking out for in the first place (key words being supposed to, of course), never mind the idiotic entitlement in thinking of people as an investment: it's not numbers that result in profit. It's productivity that results in profit. You know when people are productive? Hint: it's not when they've been malnourished gestation onwards because their parents can't afford the right kind or amount of food. It's not when they have had to sit in a classroom with a hundred other students throughout their schooling careers because their parents can't send them to private schools and because the government can't afford to educate that many kids. It's not when they don't get schooling careers to begin with because they have to put food on the table. Of course the goverment should channel funds into education and tertiary health care, nobody is contesting that. But do you know what would make that easier?

You guessed it.

Because the RH Bill is about contraception, but it isn't just about contraception, either. It's about education and maternal and newborn care and preventing transmission of and/or treating sexually-transmitted diseases and it's about giving people the opportunity to have the family lives they would like to have, which you may take for granted but others do not. It's about catching problems upstream before they get to be problems.

(It doesn't even go into the tricky question of abortion, which is a whole other battle (my thoughts on a postcard: would never have one, would never prevent someone else from having one, I am not self-righteous enough to think that my morals should be everyone else's morals). Repeat for emphasis: nothing in the bill condones abortion. But even if there were little loopholes I didn't notice that did? Abortion is contraindicated in the Constitution. The Constitution declares the fetus is a life and prohibits all medically unnecessary abortions. If the loopholes existed that allowed for abortion, the Constitution would still take precedence, because, well, it's the Constitution. That's what it's for.)

If your opposition is all because of your moral beliefs, well, no one's making you starve for theirs, you ought to do others the same courtesy. And if it's because you think everything should be left in the hands of a higher power- look at us now. As Lord Vetinari would say, if there exists any kind of supreme being, it is our duty to be its moral superior.
levity: (clarity)
Quote of the day:
"Sa ngayon, ang typhoon signals ng PAGASA ay para sa bagyo lamang." - Jessica Soho

---

Somebody tax those fucking bishops. I have a longer thing on the RH Bill, but seriously, guys: somebody tax those fucking bishops. And they have the gall to promise to endorse the RH opponents in the next elections. What the hell.

---

I said that I was going home because our classes tomorrow start at 9:30 and besides what are the chances that we're going to have classes in any case, but the truth is that riding the two trains to Ortigas, wheels grating over slick rusted rails and rain streaking against windows and halos around streetlights, I can feel my brain putting itself back together, best as it can. Much as I would love to be the sort of person who didn't need coping mechanisms- whatever, I won't begrudge you yours if you do me the same courtesy.
levity: (daydream team)
HOLY CARP APPARENTLY THE REAL ABBE FARIA DIDN'T DIE OF A CATALEPTIC SEIZURE SOMEWHERE WITHIN THE BOWELS OF THE CHATEAU D'IF. HOLY CARP HOW AM I ONLY LEARNING THIS NOW.

(This of course begs the question, Who did? Because Edmond Dantes had to have gotten out somehow- Oh, wait.)

AND HOLY CARP APPARENTLY ABBE FARIA PIONEERED THE FORERUNNER TO INCEPTION REAL LIFE IS THE BEST THING.

I'm not even going to wonder why this is my life anymore. Theoretical cardio is kind of like physics with a heart (there is no punch line), but practicals always suck. Augh.
levity: (daydream team)
That moment when your review of related literature begins with:

Urinary tract infections (UTIs) are infections in the urinary tract.


Research, how I love you so.
levity: (beauty is a hint of storm)
Okay, so I was wondering what Cesc's shirt said, and whose face was on Sergio Ramos's shirt, and then I realised that they were the footballing people who had died recently. That plus Giorgio Chiellini sobbing his eyes out (Mario was the logical conclusion, of course Mario was the logical conclusion, you wouldn't have that lit-fuse temper if you didn't care too much, and Andrea is kind of designed to be this brilliant tragic figure, but Chiellini is something else entirely) and the Spaniards forming a guard of honor for the Italians meant I ended up in tears too. Football. No matter the result, it breaks your heart.
levity: (beauty is a hint of storm)
There are probably better ways to say fuck you to everyone who's ever made monkey noises or thrown bananas than scoring a brace in the Euro semifinals, but I can't for the life of me imagine what they could be.

Translation: MARIO!!!!!

---

Manu Neuer playing as an outfield player may be the second-best thing I have seen in my life as of yesterday.

---

Dad: Barcelona versus Juventus, sino kampi natin? Juventus?
Me: Barcelona!
Dad: WHAT? BLASPHEMY.

I am doomed to live with Juventini forever.
levity: (that free will thing was a bugger)
Three drive-by fic recs:

1. The Only John Wayne Left in This Town

By his tenth birthday, Clint's hands are more callous than finger. He's the best shot anyone has ever seen, and the best banjo player in the state. Two roads diverge on an Iowa highway overpass, and Clint, being a stubborn little fuck, takes both.


The one that manages to do Americana without glossing over anything and that is a love letter to country music.

2. A Partial Dictionary of the 21st Century

He actually kind of liked Star Spangled Man, back when he was doing recruitment performances, but of course it was always a little embarrassing too. He's sort of grateful nobody's dug that one up and tried to do some kind of mix with it, because sometimes when DJs see him at a club they'll do a riff on the Star Spangled Banner (though in Steve's humble opinion nobody will ever top Jimi Hendrix's cover).

At any rate, this one night he's out at a bar where a woman is doing an unplugged set, just her and a guitar, which should be kind of hokey but she's really good. For her last song she says, "My grandfather had this song on a record, and he used to play it for me as a kid," and then she opens with something that sounds awfully familiar.

Steve stares at her, because that's the song. Who's strong and brave, here to save the American Way?

But it's slow, and sad, and not all the lyrics are the same -- because the song was about him but more about this mythical hero who would do it all, and --

She's left out the line. The song was always just a lot of questions about who will fight for America or save America or give his all in battle, but in the original, there was an answer: The Star Spangled Man.

And she's left the answer out. So it's not an anthem to raise money for a war or get enlistment numbers up. It's a cry out for help. Who'll rise and fall, give their all for America?

(She's left out a lot of other stuff too, about the goose-stepping goons and the Krauts and all that guff, which is just as well.)


The one that is, in contrast, not Americana at all. Steve Rogers was never my favorite, but this fic gets both the earnest sincerity of the kid from Brooklyn who hated bullies and the stiff-upper-lip sort of handwringing confusion of the super soldier out of time, shake and serve.

3. never give all the heart

"Don't you think they've got a point, though?" Dustin asks. His voice is carefully casual but when Mark glances up at him his expression is nothing but. "Don't you think you're getting a bit… overwhelmed?"

Mark blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You're running yourself ragged, Mark, me and Chris both think so-"

"It's Chris and I," says Mark.

"What?"

"It's 'Chris and I both think so', not me and Chris," Mark tells him. "And thank you, but I think I've got this under control." 

Dustin doesn't pursue the matter, but out of the corner of his eye Mark can see Dustin still looking at him long after Mark has turned back to his code. On some level Dustin has a point, but it's not something that Mark can let himself concede. It boils down to one thing – to Yinsen in his last moments, face preternaturally peaceful, reaching for Mark and saying, don't waste your life. And Eduardo, Eduardo saying, I didn't sleep, Mark, perpetually under fire from all sides without a modicum of the respect that Mark and Iron Man have enjoyed.

There are stakes here that Mark himself is only beginning to realise the magnitude of. And his response – his only possible response – must be to press on. 


The one that is my favorite sort of fic, plotty and smart and with a pitch-perfect Mark Zuckerberg voice and quietly heartbreaking in all the right places.

---

Things I have: an addiction to writing, and absolutely zero imagination. This is my curse.

---

Things I really wish someone would write, or, to be more accurate, things I wish someone had written as of yesterday:

- the Captain America version of The Kids Aren't All Right, the fake journalism fic that pastiches 1940s radio news reports and press releases and Star-Spangled Man touring ads and editorials. The one that looks at what it means to make Steve Rogers a symbol of- okay, the US, but also of the military-industrial complex that runs the US that runs wars, and of whatever it is that induces the idea that war can be anything better than justified. The shining ideas of heroism in contrast to, well, war, and the whole thing where in the end superhero stories (and war stories) are about values and ideas of power that are no longer valid.

- the Prometheus fic that makes it clear that it's a Lovecraft story wrapped up in visually stunning sci-fi trappings, where your creators of life are cosmic horrors that, if you tried to understand them, you'd go mad, and the fact that sometimes they look just like you and me makes no difference. Or it can be about Vickers and David, two different versions of the perfectly engineered child, because some performances steal movies, okay.

- Albert de Morcerf and Beauchamp and Franz d'Epinay, Paris society's new blood, young and bright and good enough to play the game, but nowhere near insightful enough to know what it means, or what it can do. Eugenie Danglars and her glittering fuck-you to the world, Valentine de Villefort who grew up trusting no one, knowing that all everyone saw in her were her name and her fortune and who found herself falling for the first man who cared for neither, Maximilien Morrel the out-and-out military man who entered the service in the first place to keep away from the power-brokering, to have a career where things were straightforward and honor meant something, but then again, what did he know of the French military when he entered. Haydee who went after revenge just as viciously as the benefactor she found herself tied to (and isn't that its own tangle of thorns), but who had to be the beautiful Greek slave girl to do it. And at the heart of it all the roiling mess that is barely post-Napoleonic France, the tension and the thrum of the idea of revolution.
levity: (mes que un club)
How do you even begin to explain the continued existence of Andrea Pirlo? Sometimes I think the only option left is to file it under "act of God", and let it be.

---

I love my buddy line.

---

There was once a time when I did not know of the existence of Lionel Messi. Those were simpler times.

This day two years ago the Best Block Ever (TM) was sitting in the second-floor corridor right above the RH Batcave waiting for Humanidades to start and Allison was talking about the footballer people were saying was the best in the world, who had a childhood growth hormone deficiency and whose medications were paid for by a club who watched him play and decided to take a chance on his future, who played for Argentina and, right, had a birthday coming up. At the time my knowledge of football amounted to: 1. the World Cup was going on, 2. you're not allowed to use your hands, and 3. whoever scored the most goals won.

Lives are changed in the most unlikely ways.

So. One day late, but it's the thought, etc. Felicidades, crack.

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