It's only a matter of time before we stop trying so very hard in the unusual hours of the night to scrounge for every desperate recollection of what used to be. If you've been reading this blog long enough (-which, by the way, is not long at all, seeing as I only booted up this baby, one seemingly lusty night back in November-) you will have understood that by "we" I strictly mean I. And by "every desperate recollection" I mean the past and what we think is left of it within us. I won't go into detail, no, I can't, for the sake of my upbringing full of an overflowing inbox of emails consisting of one too many copy paste jobs executed on articles about the harsh online world - all credit to the dear father whose email address has made quite an impression on the ol' gmail. I can just imagine my 7th grade homeroom teacher creaming this moment with her Scottish "OOH, Bless his socks!" Tsk, and to think, she would have twirled my hair with her dainty fingers, just as she said it.