Fat Man Gleb

fmgleb @ 2006-10-09T13:38:00

2006-10-09T13:40:18Z

I would say that oatmeal cooked in milk is a lot better than oatmeal cooked in water. Not only does it taste better, it also "puffs up," so to speak, thus making you think that you're eating a whole lot more than you really are.

In conclusion, don't ever run out of milk. It screws things up.

Rape Rape Rape

2006-07-26T00:15:43Z

I have this Google News Alerts thing going on. Every night, Google emails me a list of news articles concerning Belarus, along with their first paragraphs. This one seemed pretty promising:

"Belarus regards the possibility of increasing the export tariff for rape in order not to allow to ship oilseeds abroad. This question was raised during the meeting of Council of ministers of Belarus Republic on the 24th of July."

The rest of the article is located here.

fmgleb @ 2006-06-10T11:54:00

2006-06-10T08:56:05Z

Yesterday/today was the prom.

My head hurts, and someone just called me asking if I want my jacket back.

fmgleb @ 2006-05-24T23:34:00

2006-05-24T20:35:27Z

Highly recommended reading: http://www.jcu.edu/math/Faculty/Shick/erdos.pdf

fmgleb @ 2006-05-21T23:02:00

2006-05-21T20:04:10Z

I went to this little store which sells DVDs and music CDs today. The following conversation took place.

Me: Do you have anything along the lines of David Bowie?
Salesman: David Bowie? Which genre is that?
Me: It's glam rock.
Salesman: What?
Me: Glam rock.
Salesman: Oh. Well, let's see here. Have you heard of Korn?

I ended up getting a Powerman 5000 CD instead. Not quite glam rock, but whatever.

A Blast From The Past!

2006-05-20T20:12:34Z

A Blast From the Past

2006-05-20T20:07:51Z

fmgleb @ 2006-05-19T22:12:00

2006-05-19T19:14:34Z

There's a reason people say that Russians are smart. Take a look at this math problem:

Some person named N lived in the XIX century. The sum of the digits of his year of birth equals the sum of the digits of his year of death. The numbers of years this person lived begins with the digit 8. When was N born?

This problem was one of the ten problems on Belarusian State University's math and applied math and informatics (computer science) departments' entrance exam a few years ago.

What am I getting myself into?

In case anyone is interested in the solution (I'm a bit proud of it!):

------------------

Let 18wx be N's year of birth, and 19yz be N's year of death (there are supposed to be lines above 18wx and 18yz). Then we get:

10y + z - 10w - x = 80 + k;
10(y - w) + (z - x) = 80 + k;

Clearly, y - w > 0, and y - w = 8 or y - w = 9. Additionally, we have:

1 + 8 + w + x = 1 + 8 + y + z;
w + x = y + z;
y - w = x - z

Since y - w > 0:

x - z > 0
x > z (*)

If y - w = 8, then:

80 + z - x = 80 + k;
z - x = k;
z = x + k;

Since x, y, z are positive integers, we get:

z > x

Which contradicts inequality (*). Therefore, y - w = 9. Since y and w are positive integers, and y, w < 10:

y = 9 and w = 0

Since y - w = x - z:

x - z = 9;
x = 9 and z = 0;

Finally, we get the values of all four variables: (w, x, y, z) = (0, 9, 9, 0).

Therefore, our good friend N lived between the years of 1809 and 1890.

ANSWER: 1809.

fmgleb @ 2006-03-21T06:40:00

2006-03-21T04:43:26Z

As I was walking to school today, I recalled a special briefing we had in school last year. In it, we were told what to do in case of an emergency (e.g. a nuclear power plant explosion, oil refinery explosion, chemical bombardment by American planes): Get our coats and start walking in a direction perpendicular to the wind. Upper classmen should start walking immediately; the little kids, however, should stay and wait for a bus to come and take them wherever they need to be taken.

I'm not sure why I didn't ask this during the briefing, but... why do the little children get wheels? Hrm? Sure, they're smaller, weaker, more fragile... but imagine the following! After another saucy comment by Belarus' president against the U.S. and the West in general, Congress declares war on the country. Within hours, F-22s start dropping entire kilotons of freedom on Belarus, and Russian ICBMs rush towards the Lincoln Memorial, each carrying a five megaton nuclear warhead. Pretty soon, the world plunges into a nuclear world war, and the lucky bastards who got to sit the whole thing out on the International Space Station begin noticing an awfully worrying silence on the other end of the magical communication device which they use to maintain contact with Houston and Moscow. In the mindst of all this, a bunch of high schoolers are walking in a direction perpendicular to the wind, while an even larger bunch of little children is driven to a bomb shelter. The high schoolers get killed; the children just take up space in bomb shelters.

Now, from a practical point of view, this just doesn't make sense.

1) The government spends eleven years educating high school seniors. Little children spend no more than seven years in the public school system. Therefore, the value of a high schooler, both in terms of academic knowledge and the amount of money the government has spent on him or her, is a lot higher than the value of a little child.

2) Physically, an average high school senior can accomplish a lot more than an average elementary school student.

3) Assuming the disaster kills a majority of the population, people would have to start REPRODUCIN'. Children wouldn't be suitable for this, as their plumbing would be all wrong. Now, high schoolers on the other hand...

Maybe I'm missing something, I dunno. Maybe it's because of people like me that the government doesn't want to give busses to high schoolers!

(Okay, okay... It's actually because there aren't enough busses.)

In other news, I have a terrible cold. Oi.

fmgleb @ 2006-03-11T21:07:00

2006-03-11T19:07:43Z

I'm not sure if Dear Reader knows anything about my sleeping habits or not, so I'll make it perfectly clear: I suck at sleeping. I often go to sleep at 3 A.M. and wake up at 6:45 A.M. (0300 and 0645!) with an awful headache. I'm not talking about an "Oh, I cannot go to school, mother! This headache is dreadfully distressing!" headache; no, I'm talking about the sort of headache which accompanies you when you wake up at 3 P.M. on a Saturday morning in the middle of a golf course with no pants on (nor in sight) and your car keys in your underwear (which, for whatever reason, have the name Steve scrawled on them, even though, as far as you know, your name is definitely NOT Steve, not to mention that you don't recall purchasing a leopard man-thong, and anyway, what's that suspicious stain doing there?). That's my guess, anyway. I wouldn't know since I don't have a car. As awful as the headaches are, however, I've gotten used to them.

Yesterday I went to sleep at 10 P.M. because I was fleeing extremely sleepy. As usual, I woke up at 6:45 A.M. As soon as I opened my eyes, I lapsed into a feeling of vague unhappiness; something was missing! Was I in my own room? Yes. Was there a young lady in my bed who seemed a lot prettier the night before? Obviously not, otherwise I would currently be looking for a paper bag, not writing an LJ entry. Were my legs amputated? No! Both kidneys were in place, too. So what was missing?

The darn 'aches. The headaches were missin'!

I guess one can get used to anything. Imagine that.

Dog.

2006-01-02T21:46:13Z

I'm not going to comment.

The candy is pretty tasty, though.

fmgleb @ 2005-12-04T21:46:00

2005-12-04T19:48:07Z

I have a nasty habit of putting things on my desk lamp's (burning) bulb.

It's an old habit.

You see, it all started in third grade, after my friend came back from a vacation in Greece. His parents bought me a little tetris handheld video game thingie as a souvenier, which I very much appreciated, and, like with all things that were dear to me back then, I placed it on one of my shelves, next to my desk lamp. Then I turned the lamp on, did some homework, went to eat dinner, and forgot to turn off the lamp in the process. When I came back, my beautiful blue tetris with 250 games on it was a heap of blue, melted plastic. I was devastated! I did, however, learn the real ultimate power of heat.

My next few years were spent melting modest things: pieces of wax, putty, pencil-tip erasers, etc.

A few days ago, I decided to up the stakes a little. "I have mutilated enough erasers," I said. "I am a man," I said. "Why should my manhood be limited by rubbers," I yelled, to the surprise of the neighbors!

With endless gusto, I began working.

According to my highly scientific calculations, the angle at which the lead is bent is 37 degrees; however, I later managed to bend it a full 180 degrees.

fmgleb @ 2005-11-13T01:20:00

2005-11-12T23:55:40Z

The thing about Belarus is that it's always a little backward. Let's take a look at a supermarket that's located in Minsk.

The supermarket in question is pretty big--it's about as large as at the HEB on Memorial. However, judging by its shopping carts, you wouldn't guess:

I'm sure we've all eaten Air Head candy before. Heck, even people in Belarus eat Air Head candy--albeit under a different brand name:

That literally translates to "Rip Your Head Off." I can't vouch for the balloons integrity, so I can't tell you why his nose is brown. Whatever he did, it's probably illegal in Texas.

Somebody is trying to kill me

2005-08-20T01:21:28Z

Now, I'm a pretty nice guy. I can't say that I have a lot of enemies; in fact, I'm pretty sure that I don't have any. Well... I was pretty sure until today.

Today was a pretty usualy day. I did my usual routine, and at about 6 pm got on the computer. At around 7:30 pm, I got a little hungry and decided to go grab myself something to eat from the kitchen.

I was not prepared for what I saw. Somehow, my enemy managed to not only find out that my name is Gleb, but also that I cannot resist a long, hard salami stick.

I, of course, am pretty experienced in these things, and knew not to touch the salami until after I figure out how to neutralize the trap (by the way, if anyone has any ideas, please contact me ASAP). I boldly proceeded, only to find a second trap:

I seriously don't know what to do. Should I open the door? Should I stay inside!? Who knows what mischief lies ahead!

fmgleb @ 2005-07-06T15:26:00

2005-07-06T12:28:09Z

London wins.

Yay.

fmgleb @ 2005-07-06T03:45:00

2005-07-06T00:53:35Z

I am wearing a frown, friends. A frown. Now, there are many reasons to wear a frown--world hunger, global warming and the fact that a goat died in some forsaken village in Belarus are all quite valid reasons--but I am wearing a frown for a different reason. I am wearing a frown, ladies and gentlemen, because it's currently 3:25 am and I can't fall asleep because my minds keeps on wandering back to the same question: "Where are the 2012 Olympics going to be hosted?"

Seriously, folks. With only a few more hours left until the announcement of the Olympic Committee's decision, I just can't fall asleep! Will the snooty Parisians stick it to the world? Or will London, with its perfect gardens and fatally sick cattle, win another battle against the frog-eaters across the English Channel? Or will one of the underdogs--NYC, Moscow and Madrid--surprise everyone and once again remind France and England that no one has been paying any attention to them for the last 100 years, anyway, and that they still exist only because Joe Sixpack needs to pretend that he's at least somewhat cultured and knows a few foreign countries BY NAME?! These are all very exciting questions and they are not letting me close my eyes! NOT EVEN FOR A SECOND!

NOT EVEN FOR A SECOND! And that makes a frown appear on my face!

I am Fat Man Gleb, and I will now be departing!

fmgleb @ 2005-03-08T22:49:00

2005-03-08T20:49:24Z

Dreams are interesting things. I don't know about you, but I can almost always trace my dreams to something that happened in real life. I shall use last night's dreams as examples!

At some point during my sleep last night, I thought I was running really fast towards a pit of some sort. This isn't too strange; I often dream that I am running into a pit, or a heater, or something stupid like that. I can still recall falling asleep as a six-year-old, after a long, painful battle with one of my loose teeth (some of those bastards hurt like, uh, something somethings before finally falling out and leaving fantastic little holes in my mouth through which much whistling could be accomplished), only to wake up fifteen minutes because of one of said dreams (in that particular dream, I was imagining I was running into the family room heater).

This, in itself, isn't too strange. These days, I dismiss it as a subconscious warning that I give myself not to, um, run into things, I guess, because I'm clearly not a bull, or one of those ponies that do tricks and then get beaten by their owners for not winning first place. The strange thing is that, this time, I woke up quietly yelling "HELP ME! HELP ME!" And why? I will tell you why, good friend!

At my school, there is a cloakroom. Every morning, the hundreds of students that attend School #10 of Polotsk walk up to it, hand their coats and things to one of the two ladies that stand behind metal bars (I'm still not sure whether the ladies are criminals and the state is trying to save resources by imprisoning them in a school, or if they're just worried about the coats), get little metal tags with a numbers on them, and go learnin'. At the end of the day, they hand the little tags to one of the ladies through a little window, at which point the lady finds the coats and gives them to the appropriate students. A pretty good system, if you ask me.

As some of you may know, I used to spend all my days in school wearing a zipped-up blue coat. Gone are those days! The use of the cloakroom is mandatory.

Anyway. As I was leaving school on Saturday (the Belarussian school week is made up of six days), I noticed a small child standing at the top of bars that separate the cloakroom from the lobby. He was quietly yelling "help me! help me!" in his tiny voice, yet no one came to his help. Either no one heard him, or no one cared (I took note of two people sitting a few meters away reading a newspaper!). I was about to help him off, but then some teacher saw him and picked him off the bars before I came close enough.

Maybe she thought I was about to beat him, or possibly eat him. Well, here are some news for you, lady! I am not Japanese!

After witnessing the aforementioned event, I started walking home. I spent the walk thinking about the many hardships of being under the age of seven. My thoughts weren't focused on things like not being able to reach the light switch, or not being able to independently go for a wee. Rather, they were focused on being helpless in EXTREME situations. As a small child, I would often get into EXTREME situations as well, and quietly ask for help for long periods of time. No one would ever help. Some folks would even laugh! How heartless!

Then I arrived at my place of residence, ate, fooled around on the computer, forgot about the event, did some more stuff, somehow got reminded of the event right before going to sleep, and then went to sleep. I woke up reliving the child's cries for help! How strange.

Another case in point: for a while now, I have been thinking about how embarrassing it would be to meet an old schoolmate or teacher from my previous school. I have many reasons for this... Mostly, the fact that I told them that I was planning on leaving for Israel, quit school, changed my mind (or, rather, my mom changed her mind!) and went to a different school. Also, I have been getting sad about all the snow that has decided to visit Polotsk. It makes walking impossible.

With that in mind, read the following sentences. During my various dreams last night, I imagined that I was walking around my old school's halls with a large shovel, gathering snow (don't ask me what snow was doing inside a school). Eventually, I got to the math classroom. This was happening during the school day, because when I walked inside, my old teacher was explaining some concepts (I suppose he was explaining what a matrix is, because he had a really big square drawn on the board, with a bunch of random numbers written inside it) to my old class. The classroom only had a little snow in it; a bit of snow in the corners and that's it. So, I started walking around the room, during class, picking up snow with my shovel and doing something (I'm not sure what) with it. Suddenly, my math teacher saw me and started yelling "YOU BACK STABBING BASTARD! GET THE HELL OUT OF MY CLASSROOM! HOW DARE YOU COME BACK HERE? HUH?!" Being the smart guy I am, I got scared, took out a notebook and a pencil (out of nowhere), and started copying everything down from the board. He kept on yelling. (It should be noted that my old math teacher would sometimes get really mad during class and start yelling at some students for not doing the work assigned.) Then, I started collecting more snow. Then I left.

Another somewhat interesting anecdote: I've been reading about how many people claim that Russia is turning into a dictatorship. I've also watched the movie "Love Actually" a while ago. It's a pretty crappy movie, but at one point, there was a press conference between the American president and the English prime minister. The English PM got crazy and said a bunch of patriotic garbage and made fun of the US. Oh, and I have been thinking about moving one of my websites to a different host.

During my funtasting night, I imagined I was at some press conference. Vladimir Putin and Chirac were present. Chirac gave some normal, uninteresting answers. Then the microphone was given to Putin. Putin said "you know, I THINK FRANCE SHOULD STOP BEING SUCH A FUCKING DICTATORSHIP! HA HA!" At that point, I thought "well, you know, maybe he just feels a little bit crazy today." That was not all, though! Suddenly, he stood up, and started running outside (no, there were no pits around, so don't ask). For some reason, the a whole bunch of Russians (the Russian ambassador to France, the embassy's employees, etc.) were there. There was also a parade going on, which contained a bunch of clowns and horses and magicians. So Putin got sassy and started running towards one of the clowns. Then, in a swift kick, he kicked the clown's butt. (Vladimir Putin has a black belt in Judo, which I obviously did not forget!)

Then I saw the police come. I thought "well, I guess Putin has diplomatic immunity... Not sure about the rest of the Russians, though." (I didn't realize that ambassadors almost always have diplomatic immunity!) The police arrested everyone, including Putin. I forgot what happened next. I suppose you can call this a blank... Then I remember finding out that France has deported its whole Russian population, and having some old Russian ladies that escaped from the law ask me to create forged documents for them in HTML.

Righto. So... This is it, I suppose.

Um.

Fat Man Gleb,
SIGNING OUT.

fmgleb @ 2005-01-24T00:42:00

2005-01-23T22:43:47Z

Snow is a majestic thing.

What's more relaxing than walking outside during the dark hours of the day into a deserted center of town, full of pretty buildings, historic monuments, and fresh, puffy snow that crunches beneath your behemoth shoes?

Nothing, good sir!

I tell you this, humble (imaginary) reader, because I have just experienced the exciting event described above. Not only experienced it, but experienced with a small dog at my side. The dog, of course, is the small, black poodle that resides with me.

Chula is its (her) name, friends.

Being a Houstonian dog, it has never seen snow up until about a month or two ago. One would assume, of course, that she would get used to the white phenomenon by now. No such luck! Much like the people that surround me and refuse to acknowledge me (hey, maybe I really will eventually go away!), it refuses to acknowledge the existence of snow.

For people that still haven't experienced a simulation of what would have occurred if Former President Raygun's plans didn’t go as he planned: a decently snowy day concludes with a few feet of snow and ice in some spots (tractors move all the snow from the roads and sidewalks into awkwardly placed heaps of it/into parks).

My dog is about a foot tall.

My poor canine companion spent the whole walk today climbing onto large snow mounds, and jumping into untouched yards covered in (usually) a foot or so of the flaky stuff, drowning up to her stomach (above her little legs!), only to, err, mark her territory, if you know what I mean.

Sometimes, though, she would just do #2 in the middle of a sidewalk, not being able to know if she’s on grass of asphalt (she seems to be principally against doing those sorts of acts on anything other than grass). I, being a good citizen, would then kick some snow over it, just in case. In case some unneighborly country tries to crush the Russian spirit, that is!

-Fat Man Gleb

P.S
It’s probably because I respect and care for my dog more than I respect and care for most people (most people other than members of the family and friends, of course), but I felt I had to mention that the post above is greatly exaggerated. My dog fully understand the concept of snow. She prefers fresh snow, dislikes old, frozen sidewalks, and walks into silly positions because those are the only places off the sidewalks (and I kid you not when I say that every square inch of the yards here are filled up with snow) that can be, erm, fertilized.

P.P.S
It would not be a lie to say that I “signed” my name in this post for the mere purpose of including a P.S note and a P.P.S note.

fmgleb @ 2005-01-22T00:00:00

2005-01-21T22:01:35Z

I don't like reading good books. Especially interesting, classy books that involve witty, classy gentlemen, beautiful, gentle women that wear puffy dresses, and fantastic dialogues that no one would understand if it wasn't for those SAT prep courses or abusive parents that try to relive their glory days through their kids.

The reason for this, foes, is this: once you read a book like that for a few hours, you get "into" it. You pretend that you're one of those Princeton graduates, with parents that own a large property in New England, with beautiful, smart, and interesting people around you. You pretend that you are, too, visiting a large party that employs a not-so-small army of butlers, caterers, and waiters, drinking cocktails, and being introduced to the latest millionaire that emigrated from London. The world seems perfect! Not once is there a mention of a crude word, a vile act, or anything else not completely pure! Everything is fantastic! To be blunt about it, the poor and ugly simply do not exist!

That's all very nice and dandy, of course. But, oh, imagine the disappointment of coming back into the real world! Going to the rest room, to commit one of those "unspeakable" acts! Or walking by the TV, only to see a fat, disgusting woman, wearing cheap, hamburger-stain-covered clothes, yelling and arguing about some insanely retarded topic, like superstar gossip, in a disgusting kolhoz accent!

Baah!

And bam! The damned book made you forget about all the not-so-nice things in this world for a small while, causing you to rediscover them all once again--as if it wasn't a bad enough surprise the first time around!

Yuck!

fmgleb @ 2005-01-06T18:14:00

2005-01-06T17:18:12Z

When I sat down at the computer, I had a clear plan in mind. I wanted to open up a text editor, create a new text file, name it “lj2.txt”, and write something that I could post later on this blog. I even knew what I was going to write! Since I’ve taken a few pictures of the local grand New Year tree (they New Year trees here, not Christmas trees), I wanted to begin the post kind of like this:

“Large ones, small ones, ones with colorful ornaments at their tips, natural ones, plastic ones… Belarus is full of them! Even the local Jewish Community Center here has a large, crooked, plastic one!”

I wanted to then continue the post listing the many other characteristics of Christmas trees without mentioning the noun “tree”, and finish the post with a few of the many New Year tree pictures that I’ve shot.

Having such a fantastic plan in place, I began typing away, only pausing to have lunch or to wonder why one of the eight-year-old children outside yelled “SOMEONE’S GOING TO GET CUT!” in Russian (I think they were playing War).

Unfortunately, by the time I was done, the piece transformed into a highly descriptive text file containing things that could have made any sensible gentleman blush such a blush that could guide a landing airplane at midnight during a sudden blackout at the airport.

Since I assume everybody but me is a sensible gentleman (excluding the ladies, of course, but no sensible lady would read anything I have to write past the first line), I quickly deleted the file and started writing what’s currently in front of you. Who knows--maybe, in thirty years, I’ll want to run for public office. (Which is why I should not have a Live Journal at all.)

So… Without further ado, here are two pictures of the town New Year tree (it’s even bigger in real life than it seems):

Woo.

2005-01-03T21:25:27Z

I've never had one of these "Live Journals" before. It seems that it's time to start one! To paraphrase my Russian brethren, “a bear must have died somewhere in a forest.”

The reason for such a fantastic proverb is that Russia is indeed actually one giant, fantastic forest, where Man and Funny-Hat-Wearing, Unicycle-Riding Bear live alongside each other in great harmony, eating borsch and building nuclear missiles to foil whoever-the-hell-wants-to-get-us-this-time‘s plans.

So… What does the educated man write about in his web log? I haven’t the slightest clue. Maybe he writes about what music he’s listening to? I’ve noticed a lot of people tend to do that. I suppose I could give that a try.

Right now, I’m listening to “11. Artist - Track 11”. (No tag available.)

It’s off of some CD I stole from my sister years ago. It’s obviously very bad because she has never looked for it in all these years, but I attained a few moments of bliss because of it, while listening to some strange German girl (I assume…) singing something about makeup, The Machine, and how she needs neither but is falling into the grips of both (at least that’s what I understood), being able to finally ignore a hissy fit somebody else in the house caused over something extremely mundane.

I suspect that most of the CD is pretty much geared toward rich hipster German/French girls that wear dirty, old jeans to prove a point. As of yet, no one has actually figured out what the point _is_, but I’m sure humankind if getting there. Nonetheless, it has a strange 90-ish feel to it, making me feel like I’ve traveled back in time, when Russia was completely poor, people listened to tapes, and The World According to Clarissa was cool.

Back on (the incorrect) track… The current track (pun fully intended), though, is in French. I know this because I heard the word “mourier” (sp?), which means “to die” in French. I learned that word from my old French teacher; It’s one of the etrê verbs.

I would tell you, dear reader, more, but I don’t even know if I spelled those two words properly. You see, I have never paid much attention in French class.

In French I, it was simply out of laziness.

In French II, it was because my teacher was a degenerate, Vichy-French apologist, white-supremacist, snob, and all-around swine, which caused me to go into hibernation mode for an hour and a half every A-day morning. “Hibernation mode” consisted of drawing little comical drawings on loose-leaf paper and trying to think up a reason for the Mexican kid’s apparent fatness, even though he always wears basketball shirts and plays the sport quite well (not to mention often). On certain days, it also consisted of minor back-talking, but since she was a degenerate (as I’ve mentioned before), she never got it and everything was merry as usual.

I would like to end this post with an interesting observation I’ve made a small while ago, but have never had the chance to bring up: I have never had the famous “birds and the bees” talk. 21st Century FOX and 9th grade biology made the talk obsolete, of course, but I feel that I’ve missed out on something important; something so important that shapes every single one of us. Something important like the fall of the Berlin Wall, or possibly the assassination of JFK.

On the other hand, maybe it was for the best. I can imagine what an awkward talk that could’ve been. Have you ever watched a PG-13 rated movie with your parents? You know, with the long kissing/sex scenes? Very awkward. I imagine it would be kind of like that, only ten times worse. My mother learned to avoid such situations by changing the channel while those scenes occur on the television screen. I, of course, always pretend to get angry (so that my mother wouldn‘t think that I‘m gay, or anything else that could remind one of a Friends episode), but deep inside, I realize it’s for the best.

That’s about it, friends, fans, and cool cats.

(Too bad no one will ever read this, other that a few people. And they’ll be doing it out of pity.)

-Fat Man Gleb

P.S
I’ve just taken out the CD and it’s titled “My Melody Stereo Total.”