he’s one of those girls who only knows a caricature of happiness but, and this is important, it doesn’t change her honesty. She comes at you with fingers guilty of craft, of hand-made Christmas cards and newspaper clippings of animals being the heroes that she believes humans cannot (‘Brave Dog Saves Owner from Fire’). She stresses plaintively over injustices in the entertainment industry, her cage rattled by the willful indignity of her extended televised and filmic family, her global conscious bound tightly by the two guiding forces in her life: shameful things that make her bristle and cute things that make her cheerful. Should she encounter herself in some purgatory between the two, she grows thoughtful as to what she’s feeling, the calmness between her two extremes confusing her. Her gestures toward sympathy are heartfelt but hollow. Her heart has been educated by moral dogma, drilled deep into her through her choices of input which, almost always, must meet the requirement of desperately pleasing positive reinforcement of what already makes her comfortable.

She stumbles off to her petulant carousel of alternating giddy expectation and debilitating disappointment, unchecked and vainly motivated cheer or slyly conceived and dangerously melodramatic dismay. And off we stumble with her.