Anyone know where I can get the older versions of iPhone apps — that is, those which are compatible with the iPhone 3G?
I gave my old iPhone 3G to a friend, and it seems that the current versions of the Facebook, Angry Birds, and Words With Friends apps are not compatible with the 3G, and I’d love to upload those apps to the phone.
Is there an online archive of old versions of apps, or am I screwed?
I watched the most powerful documentary on Nova (PBS) last night — ‘A Walk to Beautiful.’ I can’t get it out of my head.
Ethiopian girls living in remote rural villages take on the brunt of their families’ manual labor. At age two, they are carrying heavy stick bundles, and by age 8, they are carrying things that an adult American woman of average build can’t lift off the ground. Consequentially, these women’s growth is stunted, and as young women, their bodies can barely endure child birth — they are often in labor for days, even weeks, with no modern medical attention.
For some of these women, child labor literally tears their insides apart. Not only do they suffer devastating stillbirths, they develop fistulas between their wombs and bladders. Because they can’t control the resulting urine leakage, the women’s families and villages shun them. The women are either kicked out of their homes and are relegated to a poorly constructed grass lean-to on the edge of town, or are encouraged to kill themselves, or are even killed. Their only chance of returning to society is treatment at the country’s solitary obstetric fistula hospital.
This documentary definitely put things into perspective. For some women in the world, failure to be a perfect mother, lover, and servant results in shame, ostracization, even death. Although women worldwide have a ways to go before we can safely say that we share equality of opportunity with our male counterparts, today at least, I truly feel like a lucky woman.
I need your suggestions on songs to trail run to, that is. Leave it to me to decide in late July to get my beach body back, but I really love it. Right now, I’m working a playlist that’s heavy on Lady GaGa, Katy Perry, Lady Sovereign, Avril Lavigne, Kelly Clarkson, and Fergie. I don’t feel no shame about that, so don’t chastise. I need more, however. I. NEED. MORE. ENERGY.
When he wasn’t totally pissing me off or making me want to kick him in the nuts, Jeff and I had a lot of fun together making our short-lived podcast, Jeff & Jess: 21st Century Penpals. When I got home after hearing the news from Victoria and Albert, I found myself playing these. Laughing turned to crying, turned to laughing again. I think this is how I’ll prefer to remember my friend. Hilarious, sweet, cutting, perpetually weird.
Here is a link to the episodes that made it to air, for those that are interested.
I have too much going on in my mind regarding Jeff and his suicide to write about it with any measure of eloquence right now. Perhaps another time. But I needed to acknowledge his passing today.
My relationship with Jeff — the friendship, the 21CP podcast — was complicated, to say the least. My heart hurts. Sometimes his intensity, his raw desolation, was too much for me to carry and I had to withdraw and recover. Such a smart, analytic man. Such a deep feeler. Perhaps these things were his undoing.
I sincerely thank the people who’ve been looking out for Jeff. Since his father died in 2009, he’s been on a slow decline. I never thought it’d end this way. I also want to give special thanks to those who sprung into action today in hopes of saving him.
The young campaigner straddles my waist with the confidence and guile of a Conquistador. He peels off his ‘Ron Paul Revolution 2012’ hoodie, revealing a masculine trail of hair leading down into his skinny jeans to his turgid groin, all topped with a rumpled Infringement Festival t-shirt.
“My, aren’t we the anarchist,” I smirk, my voice heavy with lust as I eye the impressive coil of muscle shifting in his pants. He laughs, stroking his lightly stubbled jaw conspiratorially, his head descending toward my milky breast. He hungrily claims a pert nipple with his mouth like an animal, maintaining steady eye contact all the while, burrowing into my soul. I gasp at the sharp pain, quickly followed by ripples of liquid heat under my skin’s surface. God, he’s beautiful. Jet black hair, piercing blue eyes, long eyelashes. A younger, straighter, more sinister personification of Jake Gyllenhaal. For a moment, I understand the sensual allure of Pan, the goat-god.
“I feel like you’re going to burn an A on my forehead while we fuck,” I utter, half as a statement, half as a question. “Like in ‘The Scarlet Letter’,” he chuckles, his eyes cast up from his work on my breasts, now covered with pink nip and bite marks. Batting his eyes at me, as if he’s merely stroking my knee, I feel his hand cup my mound, his palm pressing and squeezing me insistently through my yoga pants. He knows that I’m on my period; it’s been an issue of contention between us all night.
His eyes darken with mischief as his fingers delve into my panties, searching my face for a reaction. I grow nervous as he plays with me, but am quickly lost in the liquid heat rushing from my nipples directly to my sensitive clit. He withdraws his fingers, and we both see the blood. I bite my lip; he smiles. He brings his fingers up between us, his grin widening as he deftly draws a capital “A” above my left breast. “My little slut. My Hester Prynne.” I laugh, shocked and amazed at the perversion, … the novelty of what’s transpiring between me and this dirty, dirty boy. “We’ll probably both have to update our OKCupid questionnaires after this.”