I spent most of my teen years spouting out my love/hero worship of Oriana Fallaci. I would talk to anyone that would listen about her journalistic accomplishments, her bravery, etc... I carried around her book, A Man, with me at all times.

But you know what? Forget all of that. It was her hair and cigarettes, the world weary look that enraptured me.

Love: Superficial Edition