It's probably a particular coincidence, me watching of all things Woody Allen while I'm being neurotic and obsessive. I'm tired of it, if I want to mention Opera a will, and someone can wake up, get a clue, and deal with it. I can only think they're on holiday now, so that my phone isn't coming any time soon, or they're conveniently forgetting. The rat bastards. It was rather nice though, the empty crushing satisfaction of tickling someone. You'd think with a pretty orange flower staring at me and the prospect of Madison Monroe, that my night would be looking up, but apparently now. Sort of like a misprint and the inequality of it all.
And so I woke up and was subscribed with the New Left Review.
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