But truth be told, I'm not as dour-looking as I would like. I'm stuck with this round, sweetie-pie face, tiny heart-shaped lips, the daintiest dimples, and apple cheeks so rosy I appear in a perpetual blush. At five foot four, I barely squeak by average height. And then there's my voice: straight out of second grade. I come across so young and innocent and harmless that I have been carded for buying maple syrup. Tourists feel more safe approaching me for directions, telemarketers always ask if my mother is home, and waitresses always, always call me 'Hon.

Relics are treasured as something close to the divine.

Why is America the last best hope of Earth? What if it's Liechtenstein? Or, worse, Canada?

Like Lincoln, I would like to believe the ballot is stronger than the bullet. Then again, he said that before he got shot.

You know you've reached a new plateau of group mediocrity when even a Canadian is alarmed by your lack of individuality.

I'm a big fan of editing and keeping only the interesting bits in.

My lips are chapped from the winds of change.