at present i'm submerged in the never-ending cyle of accumulating clutter. if i have an enormous house with room for storage, i would have far less worries. or maybe i would still succumb to hoarding more books and magazines i wouldn't have the time to read anyway. but the annoying aspects are not the glossy hard copies of my reading lists but the constant stream of junk mails. even the essential posts are becoming difficult to manage. the advent of mobile phones introduced far more hodgepodge with cellphone boxes and the bills taking up cramped spatial eyesores. with the other paper trails, the shredder comes in handy. do i really need that topshop receipt from eons ago? all these piffles to ponder.
"if you read a little bit that means you're in." was one ditty uttered to me by a colleague two nights ago. i'm still perplexed what she means by "in." she might have thought i was into fashion folios. nah. i live by this edict of director joey reyes, author of porn again, midlife outtakes and mistakes, in his MySpace page, describing the people he would like to meet, "people who are not fixated into self-images and signature outfits, name-dropping and the latest cell phone m

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