🚨 Online Predators Exposed: How I Survived & Fought Back 💻

🚨 Online Predators Exposed: How I Survived & Fought Back 💻 What happens when your polite “hi” online turns into a nightmare of unwanted messages, fake profiles, and dangerous strangers? I’ve lived it. I’m Arabella Sveinsdottir, and today I’m pulling back the curtain on how predators target minors in digital spaces, how I fought back, and how you can protect yourself or your kids from the same traps.

The internet promised connection. It promised community. But for many of us who grew up online, that promise came with a dark twist: strangers who turn kindness into permission, who twist boundaries, and who use social media and gaming platforms to prey on minors. As someone who navigated these waters as an autistic teen trying to fit in, I’ve seen firsthand how innocent interactions can be misread by people with bad intentions.

When you’re young and online, you’re told to be polite. You’re told to greet people, answer messages, and build networks. But predators thrive on this politeness. They’re not all lurking in the shadows with obvious warning signs; many present themselves as “friends” or “mentors” at first. They exploit courtesy as a green light. That’s what happened to me. A simple hello would sometimes trigger a flood of assumptions, from “You’re my girlfriend now” to demands for personal details. It’s surreal, bizarre, and terrifying when it happens to you.

Let’s be real: minors cannot give consent. There is no gray area here. When an adult tries to escalate a conversation with someone under 18, they’re in the wrong. Always. And yet, so many young people are made to feel guilty, blamed, or gaslit for “inviting” attention they never asked for. This narrative is dangerous. It protects abusers and leaves victims confused and ashamed. That’s why I speak out. That’s why my books, scripts, and papers take on this topic. Because silence protects no one except the people doing harm.

One of the biggest myths about online predators is that they’re all on one platform. Roblox gets headlines, Discord gets warnings, Instagram has its cautionary tales. But the truth is, any place where messages can be sent—games, apps, forums, even creative communities—can be exploited. It’s not about one company; it’s about behavior. As soon as there’s a messaging feature, there’s risk.

I also learned about impersonation and identity theft the hard way. Fake profiles of me appeared on apps and chat groups I never joined. People would message my manager claiming “I” said or did something I hadn’t. It was a wake-up call. Online safety isn’t just about who you talk to; it’s about how your image is used without consent. That’s why I’ve publicly stated: if you see my name or face outside of my official channels, it’s not me. Report it. Protect yourself from catfishers who use other people’s identities as bait.

What’s the solution? First, boundaries. You don’t owe anyone your real name, address, or private details. Not online. Not ever. Until you’re an adult doing business or building a verified network, privacy is self-defense. Second, blocking and reporting. You’re not rude for hitting block. You’re protecting yourself. Third, tell someone. A teacher, counselor, or trusted adult can be a lifeline. If something feels off, don’t keep it to yourself. The law is on your side. Online exploitation is a crime, and authorities take it seriously.

My journey taught me another form of empowerment: self-defense. Growing up as a public figure meant stalkers didn’t just stay online. Some tried to show up in real life. That’s when I decided to train. Martial arts gave me confidence, awareness, and a sense of agency. Self-defense isn’t about violence. It’s about boundaries made physical. It’s about knowing you have a right to protect yourself. And if you’re a parent, teaching your kids awareness—not paranoia, but awareness—is one of the greatest gifts you can give.

I want to emphasize something here: this isn’t about hating men, older people, or entire groups. It’s about accountability. It’s about protecting kids and respecting boundaries. Everyone deserves safety. Everyone deserves to grow up without being targeted. And everyone deserves to know that saying no online or offline is not just allowed, but a right.

There’s also a digital literacy component. Young people need to know that a profile picture doesn’t equal a real person. That kindness doesn’t require oversharing. That privacy settings matter. And that when someone pressures you, mocks your boundaries, or tries to fast-track intimacy, it’s a red flag and it is not your fault.

The Netflix film Adolescence captures some of these themes beautifully. It’s not just a movie; it’s a mirror. It shows how easy it is for manipulation to happen in digital spaces and how important it is to stay alert. I recommend it for parents and teens alike, not as a scare tactic but as a conversation starter. The cinematography and execution make the topic digestible while still impactful.

Today, I live with stronger boundaries. I have official channels only. I maintain privacy not because I’m unfriendly but because I’ve learned what’s at stake. I also advocate for teaching self-defense—not just the physical kind but the digital kind. Knowing your rights, understanding platform tools, and being willing to block or report is digital self-defense.

For anyone out there who feels alone or targeted: you’re not. What happened to you isn’t your fault. There are people who care, who will believe you, and who will help. Protecting yourself online is not paranoia; it’s wisdom. And raising your voice about your experience, when you’re ready, can help others see the warning signs before it’s too late.

This is bigger than me, bigger than any one story. It’s about creating a culture where kids and teens know they’re allowed to protect themselves, where adults take complaints seriously, and where predators can’t hide behind the anonymity of the internet. It’s about making the internet what it was supposed to be: a space for connection, not exploitation.

If one honest story can make a teen rethink oversharing or make a parent start a conversation tonight, then everything I’ve been through has a purpose. The question is: how many more people will speak up before we finally build the internet kids deserve?

🍂 Autumn Glow, Safe Love & The Muse That Changed My Life ✨

 🍂 Autumn Glow, Safe Love & The Muse That Changed My Life ✨ Isn’t it wild how autumn feels like both a funeral and a rebirth? One minute the leaves are dying in orange fire, and the next, you’re walking under them like the world just handed you a blank page and dared you to write your own ending. That’s exactly how this season hit me, and it’s why I’m sitting here talking about fall, nostalgia, and the one person who cracked open my entire world: Nia.

Autumn has always been a loaded word for me. For some, it’s pumpkin spice, sweaters, and moody playlists, but for me, it’s the sharp ache of nostalgia mixed with the stubborn spark of survival. The season paints the trees in blazing orange and crimson, but behind that beauty is something brutal. Leaves fall because they’re dying. Branches bare themselves because they’re shedding. And yet, instead of mourning, I find comfort in this cycle. Fall whispers, “let go.” It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t plead. It just shows you that killing the old makes space for the new.

I learned this most clearly during my long solo walks. I’m an art and film student, so my brain doesn’t exactly have an off switch. Walking around campus or even grabbing groceries from the corner store becomes an accidental meditation. My head fills with scenes for films I’ll probably never shoot, poems that demand to be scribbled on receipts, and dialogue that spills into my notebooks like someone else is dictating it. That’s what autumn does to me. The crisp air bites, the trees glow, and suddenly, every memory feels like a movie reel that refuses to stop playing.

And then, out of nowhere, the past collides with the present. Because it’s not just about me wandering through a cinematic autumn landscape. It’s about who walks beside me now. Her name is Nia. And honestly, she turned fall into something I no longer face alone.

Here’s the truth: I used to be blind. Blind to who actually cared and who just wanted to lurk in the shadows of my failures. Blind to how much I was worth outside of what I could produce, prove, or perform. My life before her was crowded with the wrong people. People who only popped up to gossip, to monitor if I had fallen, to poke at the softest wounds with malicious curiosity. I let myself chase those connections, thinking maybe if I just held on harder, someone would finally hold back. But autumn taught me something: some trees have to shed their entire canopy before they can bloom again.

Nia is the opposite of that toxic crowd. She doesn’t question why I identify as asexual. She doesn’t keep a scoreboard of my achievements. She doesn’t hover with secret animosity. She just loves, and she makes it look effortless. You know that one person who feels like home? That’s her. Since the day she stepped into my life, inspiration has turned into a flood. My film scripts? Fueled by her. My poems, my prose, my late-night book drafts? All traced back to her energy. Nia is my muse, and I don’t say that lightly.

What blows my mind is how private we keep things. That wasn’t a stylistic choice but a survival instinct. I’ve dealt with stalking and harassment before, so privacy isn’t about being coy, it’s about being safe. But within that privacy, happiness blooms. We’re together on campus every day. We explore small corners of the city, sip coffee at places no one Instagrams, and remind each other what “living” actually means. Healing doesn’t happen in isolation; sometimes, it takes one person showing up consistently to make you realize you’re not as helpless as you feared.

And she proved that in the darkest chapter of my life. I went through major surgery for respiratory problems, and there’s a special kind of loneliness that comes with waking up in a hospital bed wondering if anyone will call. Nia called. That simple act lit up a part of me I thought had gone dark forever. She reminded me that I wasn’t as invisible as I convinced myself to be. While I wasted years chasing people who couldn’t care less, the one person who genuinely wanted me to heal was already in my orbit.

It’s funny how love redefines safety. For the longest time, I thought safety meant locking the door, checking the windows, keeping my gun nearby just in case. But safety has another shape: it’s the knowledge that if someone knocks on the door, I’m not alone. There’s someone who looks out for me, who makes the world less sharp-edged and more survivable. Autumn reflects that back at me. The season strips everything down, shows you what’s real, and then quietly promises: growth is coming.

But let’s not romanticize it too much. Autumn is messy. Leaves rot, winds bite, the days shorten, and the cold creeps in like an unwelcome guest. Yet within that decay is transformation. I like to think I mirror that. The old furniture of my life, the dirty remnants of past connections, I’ve started to dispatch them. Not out of cruelty, but out of necessity. There’s something satisfying about cleaning space for what actually matters. It’s not sad; it’s survival. And if fall has taught me anything, it’s that survival is the first step to joy.

Everywhere I turn this season, I see metaphors. The orange glow of the trees reminds me that endings can be gorgeous. The crisp silence of campus walks reminds me that solitude isn’t emptiness, it’s a breeding ground for imagination. And the steady presence of Nia reminds me that love doesn’t have to be dramatic or demanding; sometimes it’s just safe, steady, and shockingly simple.

That’s the thing about autumn. It lingers. It makes you reflect, but it also demands that you move forward. It doesn’t care if you’re ready. It tells you, bluntly: let go. I used to think letting go meant losing. Now I understand it means making room. And in that room, I’ve found scripts, poems, laughter, recovery, and most importantly, a love that doesn’t ask me to be anyone but myself.

So when I walk alone this season, ideas rushing and memories colliding, I don’t feel like I’m chasing ghosts anymore. I feel like I’m walking toward something. Something orange-glow, something safe, something endlessly inspiring. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what autumn really is: not the death of what was, but the rehearsal for what’s next.

So yeah, maybe autumn is about letting go, but for me, it’s also about looking forward with eagle vision. The leaves fall, the cold sets in, but somewhere in that silence, a new script is waiting, a new poem is forming, and a whole new world is about to begin. The only question left is: are you ready to shed, too?

Stolen Voices 💥📚 Why Women Create The Art And Others Take The Credit

Stolen Voices 💥📚 Why Women Create The Art And Others Take The Credit What do you call it when a woman makes the masterpiece, a man signs the canvas, and the world applauds the wrong name?

I grew up believing that books and paintings carry fingerprints you can feel even if you cannot see them. The way a sentence bends into a metaphor, the way a brushstroke widens at the edge of an eye, the way a scene lingers two beats longer than you expect, that is authorship. That is voice. It is also the first thing that gets erased when power decides that evidence matters less than performance. If you have ever walked past a poster for the film that popularized the story of the big eyed paintings, you know one of the most famous examples. A woman painted, a husband claimed, and a courtroom had to intervene so credit could return to its source. That case is not an outlier. It is a pattern. It is also the reason I am writing this, because the pattern did not stop at the gallery door. It traveled into publishing, into YouTube thumbnails, into captions, into bios, and into my own inbox.

There is a reason these stories upset people even when they were not the ones who were copied. We are taught that creativity is a gift, but we are not always taught that protecting credit is a duty. When you watch credit migrate away from the maker and toward the nearest microphone, you are seeing a lesson about culture disguised as gossip. It says that confidence can overshadow craft, that presentation can overshadow provenance, and that repeating something loudly can make people forget who said it first. It is not new. It is not rare. It is not harmless.

Think about literature for a second. The industry has a long history of pseudonyms and ghostwriting, some of it consensual and ethical, some of it murky and uncredited. The murky part is where real damage lives. If a woman writes a book and a man becomes the face, we lose more than a byline. We lose context. We lose the lineage that helps readers map where ideas come from and how they evolve. We also lose role models, because a teenager looking for proof that women lead in certain genres will find fewer names than the reality deserves. That loss compounds across years. It becomes silence that looks like absence even when the work is everywhere.

The digital era could have fixed this. We have timestamps. We have version histories. We have receipts baked into the tools. Instead, the speed of posting often turns documentation into an afterthought. I have felt that pressure in my own work. I have seen ideas lifted from drafts and posted under someone else’s banner days later with a caption that pretends spontaneity. I have seen signature visual styles recreated without credit. I have even watched my bio get rewritten by another person as if the details of my life were public-domain decoration. Some people call that flattery. Flattery does not file off serial numbers. Flattery does not present your identity as reusable packaging. Flattery acknowledges the source. What I have experienced is not flattery. It is taking.

When this happens to women, the commentary often pivots to tone policing. The copied creator is told to calm down, to be grateful that her ideas are “resonating,” to accept that the internet is a remix machine. I understand remix culture. I use it when I cite, analyze, and reframe. Remix is a conversation. Copying without credit is a monologue that borrows a voice it refuses to name. There is a difference between inspiration and extraction. Inspiration says I learned from you. Extraction says I have your words now and will sell them back to your audience.

That pattern is not just history for me. I have lived it in smaller, messier ways online. I have seen men lift entire ideas from my drafts and publish them as if the spark originated elsewhere. I have watched my signature styles replicated, my bio paraphrased word for word, and my personality type pasted into someone else’s one-sheet. People call it flattery. The truth is it erases labor. When you have to argue that your idea is yours, you are already paying a tax in time and energy. It is a tax that female creatives know too well. The internet amplifies it because a new audience can be convinced by volume and confidence. If a louder voice repeats your work with enough swagger, some people will decide the echo is the origin.

There is also a social layer that turns this into a gender story. You can feel it in the ways certain online subcultures talk about female creatives. The language reduces women to archetypes, praises confidence when men perform it, and punishes the same confidence when women defend their work. It rewards validation from peers while positioning women as targets for collective skepticism. You can watch an idea authored by a woman receive friction and then watch an almost identical idea receive celebration when a man with the right audience posts it. You can watch the algorithm do the rest.

The antidote to all of this is not to become cynical. It is to become rigorous. As a writer and content creator, I treat my process like a studio with glass walls. I document drafts, keep dated notes, and archive outlines. I show enough of the pipeline that my audience can see how the work develops, which also keeps me honest about my own influences. If I quote a thinker who shaped my argument, I name them. If I borrow a structure from a favorite essay, I explain the lineage. This is not about fear. It is about culture. Credit does not diminish the glow of your work. It makes the glow clearer and more durable.

There is also the reality that I am autistic, and that shapes how I navigate this conversation. I take words literally. I value clarity over charisma. I will say what I can stand behind face to face, which is not always the internet’s preferred style, but it keeps me aligned. When I describe a copying incident, I am not insulting a person. I am describing an action and its impact. Precision matters. It is how we avoid turning accountability into a pile-on. It is also how we avoid normalizing erasure under the banner of drama.

Let us return to the famous big eyed paintings for a moment, not because the courtroom scene is cinematic, but because it gave the public a clear anchor. Authorship was tested in a way no one could spin. The brush met the canvas in front of witnesses and the truth became visible. Most of us will never have a courtroom. We will have our timelines. We will have our communities. We will have our habits. If our habits are meticulous and our communities value naming sources, we will have enough to push back against the drift of credit. If platforms reward original uploads and elevate the first instance of an idea instead of the loudest repetition, we will have more.

Readers are not spectators in this. You are co-architects. When you see a format, a joke, a theory, or a style that clearly belongs to someone’s body of work, say their name in the comments. Link the original. Encourage creators who build with receipts. Ask questions that reward depth. When you buy books, look up the story behind the byline. Celebrate women whose names were hidden too long. Recommend their work in your own circles. Mentorship and audience energy help correct the map faster than arguments alone.

Creators, there is a practical side to this too. Write stronger bios that are unmistakably yours. Publish behind-the-scenes notes that show the scaffolding of your ideas so imitators cannot claim coincidence. Share drafts with trusted collaborators who can vouch for your development if needed. Register projects when appropriate, even if you never expect a dispute. None of this guarantees perfect outcomes, but it raises the cost of erasure. It also strengthens your own relationship with your work, which is the one part of this no one can take.

I want a world where a young woman can post a style she invented without bracing for a larger account to absorb it by morning. I want a world where a woman’s success is not framed as suspicious and a man’s version is not framed as proof. I want an industry where contracts reflect reality and marketing does not swallow authorship. We get there by practicing the culture we want, not by waiting for permission.

When I look at my shelves, I see more than titles. I see pathways. I see the essays and interviews that helped me understand how books are made, how paintings are signed, how credit can be stolen, and how it can be reclaimed. I also see my own past, because everything I make springs from the reading that shaped me. That is why this conversation is personal. It is about fairness, yes, but it is also about lineage. Every time we restore credit to the right hands, we protect the future of the art we love.

There is a quiet power in choosing to keep going. I will keep writing, filming, and posting with transparency. I will keep uplifting women whose names deserve more light. I will keep calling out patterns with accuracy and without cruelty. I will keep receipts. I will keep the door open for conversations with people who want to learn how to build better habits. I will keep believing that audiences care about truth when they are given a clear path to it. If you are with me, your comments, shares, and thoughtful citations are not small gestures. They are structural.

The next time you love a line, a layout, a look, or a thesis, ask yourself a generous question before you repost. Who taught me this. Then answer it out loud. That is how we shift the culture from extraction to respect. That is how we make sure the fingerprints remain visible on the page.

If the internet is a museum with motion sensors, who do you want the plaque to honor when the lights come on and the room gets quiet?

Knife-Price Culture Is Broken 💔📚 Why I Won’t Sell My Books to Rude Buyers

Knife-Price Culture Is Broken 💔📚 Why I Won’t Sell My Books to Rude Buyers Have you noticed how easy it has become to treat sellers like they are disposable, like they exist to absorb every rude message and unreasonable demand until the price hits rock bottom and the soul of the sale goes with it? I grew up among secondhand paperbacks that still smelled like old rain and pencil notes in the margins, and I swear those pages raised me.

When I list a book, I am not listing clutter. I am putting a small piece of my history on the shelf and hoping it finds a reader who will love it the way I did. That is the part the worst buyers miss when they lowball with insults, accuse sellers of fakery just to force a discount, or type things they would never say to a human face. We can talk about market forces all day, but the real crisis is manners.

Selling books should feel like matchmaking. It should feel like watching a favorite character leave for a new adventure, a little bittersweet but right. Instead, too many interactions feel like auditioning for the privilege of being disrespected. I do not say this lightly. I know how the internet works. I know that scale breeds speed and speed sometimes deletes empathy. Yet somewhere between the scroll and the send button, a lot of people forgot that the person on the other side is a human being with a life, a memory, and a shelf where that book sat through breakups and birthdays.

I grew up on secondhand shelves. My first edition of anything was a miracle and everything else was a treasure anyway. The notes in the margins were conversations with ghosts. Library discards felt like rescues. When people say it is just a book, I think about the nights that book kept me company when the world felt sharp. When I started selling, it was not a pivot to profit as much as a recycling of meaning. If I am moving cities, if I need to clear space, if I have two copies because a friend gifted me a title I already owned, I do not dump a life. I look for a reader. That is why I say I am not only selling. I am adopting out.

Then comes the message that sours the whole screen. You know the one. The buyer begins with a accusation-laced question. Is this legit. Are you scamming. Why so expensive. The tone is an audit disguised as curiosity. The goal is to make you defend your honesty so they can push the price lower while you are busy proving you are not the villain in a story you did not write. I have had people throw around threats of bad reviews before they even said hello. I have had people insist a pristine copy is worthless because the sticker residue on the back is not a museum piece. I have seen grown adults perform tantrums the way toddlers perform hunger, only with more typos.

The sad part is that this is not about the five dollars they want to shave off. This is about a culture of contempt. It shows up everywhere service exists. Waiters know it. Ride share drivers know it. Artists at weekend fairs know it. And sellers know it. The internet made it easy to buy and a little too easy to belittle. The screen acts like armor. People type what their mouths would never risk in public. Meanwhile, the people on the receiving end keep showing up because this is how we pay rent and buy groceries and keep the lights on. In my case, it is also how I keep books moving into the hands of people who love them.

As a writer, I think about language for a living. I notice the words people choose when they want to dismiss value. They say only a book as if that reduces the work an author poured into it, the labor of editors and printers, the careful shipping, the careful storage, the cost of time. They say secondhand as if that means it is lesser, when secondhand often means proven and loved. They say you can get it cheaper on a big platform and sometimes that is true, but it does not change what this specific copy is. It does not change the fact that the independent seller answering your questions is a person, not a faceless warehouse.

A lot of this comes down to respect for context. That signed copy from a local event is not the same as a generic reprint that arrives in a padded mailer. The copy you held at the Boston International Book Fair carries the memory of aisles and excitement and conversations with strangers. The Barnes & Noble paperback you dog eared during commute seasons has weight in your palm that no new-ink catalog can replace. When you sell a book like that, you are passing along a story about a story. If the buyer sees only a chance to flip it for profit, they will miss the point entirely.

I have learned to walk away. It took practice. I used to feel obligated to answer every combative message because being polite felt like the only power I had. Now I understand that my power is the ability to choose my customer. If someone starts with disrespect, I do not push the sale. I step aside. The right reader will arrive and the conversation will sound different from the first sentence. They will ask with curiosity instead of accusation. They will say they have been looking for this edition and the cover art means something to them. They will understand why the shipping cost is not a personal challenge but a reality of distance and packaging. You can feel the difference instantly. It reads like kindness.

Kindness gets framed as extra in some circles, like a topping on the sundae of commerce. I believe the opposite. Kindness is infrastructure. It is the road that every sale travels. When the road is cracked, the journey breaks. That is why I am happy to donate books to drives when the buyer pool feels toxic. I would rather hand a pile to a student who lights up at the idea of free literature than sell to someone who treats me like an obstacle. There is a privilege in being able to donate and I am not blind to that. But when I can, I do. It reminds me that books are better than the worst attitudes attached to them.

There is also the personal layer. I am autistic, and for me words are literal. I say what I mean. I do not lace a request with a sneer or a smiley face that hides a threat. I write the way I would speak face to face. It does not make me perfect. It makes me consistent. It makes me allergic to manipulation disguised as negotiation. I respect a fair offer. I respect someone saying a price is out of their budget and asking if I can meet them in the middle. I even respect a pass. What I refuse is the idea that disrespect is the same thing as bargaining power. It is not. It is just noise.

If you are reading this and you are part of BookTok or any corner of the internet that celebrates reading, I am asking for a cultural reset. Let us make buying feel like joining a conversation again. Ask sellers about the book’s journey. Celebrate the old bookstore stamp on the inside cover. Share the story of the last time you found a note from a stranger in the margins and how that line changed your life. Tell sellers when you cannot afford a price and ask if there is wiggle room without framing them as adversaries. If you are a reseller who is actually respectful and transparent, thank you. You are the reason many of us keep listing.

Platforms are part of this story. Large marketplaces make everything look interchangeable. The search results flatten nuance. An independent seller becomes a tile in a grid. That is why I often describe the listing in full sentences instead of bare specifications. I want you to feel the texture. I want you to know the edition, the condition, the postcard tucked inside the jacket. I want you to know where the book has been. I do this on Amazon listings when possible. I do it on local platforms. I do it in captions on YouTube when I show a haul. The details are the difference between a transaction and a meeting.

I keep thinking about the first time I realized a stranger valued a book the way I did. It was a message that said thank you for keeping this in such good condition and for describing the tiny crease on page 214 because it made me laugh when I got to that exact line. That is the energy I want to replicate. Not because it flatters me, but because it treats the whole exchange like an act of care. If you are rolling your eyes at the idea of care in commerce, I get it. The world can be cold. But we are the ones who decide what happens in our small corners. We decide how we write to each other.

So here is my plea and my promise. I will continue to price fairly, ship carefully, and describe honestly. I will continue to say no to buyers who weaponize suspicion as a tactic. I will continue to donate when the cost of dealing with disrespect outweighs the sale. I will continue to recommend books I love, from Barnes & Noble to the stalls at LA book fares, to indie sellers who wrap a paperback like a present. And I will continue to believe that most readers are still readers at heart, which means they understand that stories are not disposable and neither are the people who share them.

If you are a buyer who has been guilty of snapping at a seller because you were stressed or because you wanted the thrill of a bargain, you can change that today. Send a message that begins with hello. Ask a clear question. Make a reasonable offer. If the answer is no, accept it and keep moving. The world is full of books waiting for you. The world is also full of people who make a living by getting those books to your door. Treat them like partners, and watch how much better the whole experience becomes.

The next time you hover over send on a message that treats a seller like a wall instead of a person, ask yourself a simple question that might change the internet one purchase at a time. What kind of story do you want this book to carry about you?