Old habits die hard. Real hard.

I could say it was due to laziness.

I could blame my selfish nature.

I could even say it was revenge for the "but you're not that interesting" comment A - my ex-boyfriend's self-proclaimed "heterosexual life partner" - threw my way as I left his house last Friday evening.

But in the end, I place full blame on China and its nonchalant attitude toward copyright law for desensitizing me during the years 2002-2004 to the point where this past week I guiltlessly engaged in two counts - here and here - of intellectual property thievery.

The trademarked property in question: "Tantric Sunday." The term, to be specific.

It's true, before sitting on A's back porch listening to pre-"Hypnotize" Notorious B.I.G., watching a real-life MSNBC documentary play out before my eyes with the halfway house residents who lived directly behind him enjoying their hour of "yard exercise" and listening on speaker-phone to saved voicemails of pissed-off girls with deep-South accents that were even more acutely deep-South-sounding given their Bacardi-and-Coke states, I had never before heard the term "Tantric Sunday." The meaning behind it, of course, yes, I was quite familiar with that, but the catchy two-word euphemism for an all-day, blow-off-church, blow-off-brunch, doin'-it-and-doin'-it-and-doin'-it-well Sunday -- no, this was new to me.

And while my intention was not to take credit for something to which I contributed not a scintilla of creative input, that was indeed, as A pointed out to me in a stinging Facebook write-up last night, the end result.

So to A, his partner in Tantric Sunday crime S, and anyone else who might have been offended or otherwise affected by my carelessness, I offer you a deep, deep, waaay-down-deep apology.