I was nineteen years old when my memory failed me. It was the days between Christmas and New Year's Eve; days I spent laying in bed with a paper fan watching Daria in its entirety on my laptop. That Christmas was the first I had spent living out of home. I had arrived at my mother's house in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and left in the morning on Boxing Day, leaving behind drying roast meat in packets of alfoil for a Brisbane share house that peeled paint and groaned in the wind. Lounging around, slow and steaming, while watching a cartoon seemed an entirely appropriate way to celebrate this new found independence.'