Immi warned you to Speak for Yourself!

I just heard the first strains of what will soon be Emmy Rossum's new album, titled Inside Out. The name of her album in the first sign of trouble; Imogen Heap's "The Walk" begins "Inside out, upside down, twisting beside myself." This would be fine if her songs didn't sound like they were lifted by night from the now ironically titled Speak for Yourself, which warned Rossum from the get-go.

I have only listened to short clips of her breathy electronica, which sounds good, but too much like "Headlock" or "Just for Now." She has an amazing voice, which she proved during Phantom of the Opera. She doesn't need all that electronic crap. She should just belt it out, but hey, we all have to choose our own paths, right?
Tell me what you think.

And, randomly, I came across this on MSN. A description of my ideal man, Kerouac-quoting and all. For the full article, click here.

"I'd spotted him earlier in the station. I'd quickly ascertained — given his disheveled hair (the cut undeniably a home job executed under the influence), his attire (black pants, turtleneck sweater, ripped coat, high tops with safety-orange socks), and his demeanor (coolly reading a bio of Cocteau while drinking coffee) — that he was not my type.
Which isn't to say I wasn't interested in him. His type — tufted, intellectually superior hipster — was on the list. See, in the way that birders keep a life list of the species they've spotted or long to spot, I had a list, of sorts, of people I wanted to have sex with: the bearded, migratory Peace Corps worker; the native-to-NYC nice Jewish boy; the flashy European artiste.
On board the train, Rob grabbed the seat across the aisle from me (cheeky of him) and began telling me how he'd dropped out of grad school in Arizona and flown to New York with nothing but the coat on his back and 50 bucks in his pocket, about how he was working in an art-postcard factory and living on Staten Island with three actors, each paying $90 a month in rent. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do — maybe start a magazine. He did know he needed to be with people who, as he said, quoting Kerouac, "burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles." A fabulous Roman candle I was not. Selling earrings at Tiffany's, eating candy bars for breakfast — let's face it, I was a cherry bomb. Somewhere around the two-hour mark of our journey, he passed me a postcard. It was Robert Doisneau's photograph of a French couple kissing on a bridge, and I blushed. Minutes later the train broke down, and I was struck by a thought so disturbing I shuddered in horror: I am either going to marry this guy, or I'm going to kill him so no one else can have him."