The wind soared into the building the moment the crimson doors swung gently with the hand of the man behind them, filling the room with a dull roar that seemed to not echo the storm. Not even the terenchal downpour of rain made its way in but the few drops that did came from the dark green coat that fell off of the man’s shoulders. They fell to the ground in silent drops, littering the dusty floor with hopes of life from their purpose.

Immediately the ever watchful eyes made their way to the staircase leading up to the higher levels of the schoolhouse, and perhaps a way to bring justice to the crimes below. But to merely make sure everything was as he checked from the small gaze outside, a quick overview of the ground floor was had.

Now away from the fogged entrance, he could see several of the boxes contents, identifying them as books and lamps. The slick feet slid across the floor to where they lay and he squatted down to inspect further. One box held a book called, Night of  Write while beside it was a half-torn Selene Park. All else were two lamps, stored and smashed in the same case. Shards covered the floor around the crushed cases from the impact, and eventually he decided not to try and gather them up.

From his bent legs he rose to make his way back to the ascending staircase that still was off to his right. He grabbed the rail of the hard, green steel staircase and took cautious steps to the first platform. Gripping the metal was not so easy for him as he had been drenched on his gloves and the fact that the hard poles were old and didn’t actually give enough gripping, instead being so skinny that it was hard to find if you had normal hands.

After a bit of struggle and adapting the man found himself next to the classroom door he had found earlier. Though he knew that from such an angle a gunman could not have perched, he was still interested of the contents of the room. Two steps got him in proximity nest to the window of the wooden entry and he analyzed the inside.

A sort of nostalgic feeling gripped him, seeing the rows of wooden desk bolted to the uncomfortable chairs and just the overall feel of the room. Shelves of what would have been countless texts were now empty with the exception of a few scattered and torn librams that seemed to have little value to whoever emptied out the rest. Though he felt like he should look over the room, a suprising lock on the door prevented him. Why lock the classrooms and not the school door?

He shrugged off this fact as it seemed construction workers were going to leave some valuable things in the dust of their project. A new set of stairs led to a new platform, and this time he was prepared to conquer them. Now having the feel of the sport, a certain ecstasy gripped him and his hands grabbed onto the rope like he were a mountain climber.

Even though his shoes had finally dried from the quick walk on dry land, every movement of his foot seemed unbelievably sleek as if the stairs were trying to bring him down. Perseverance well, persevered, and the final two steps were brought much easier to the empty platform that seemed so far away.

Back from this apparent sanity break, the green coated man continued with grounded footing up to a wide platform that hovered above the entrance. The concrete slabs extended the length of the hall below, casting a shadow were there light to do it. As was where the entrance was, a set of six large glass windows garnished the outer wall to look out into the city of Panuksaw. From there you could see the entrance of George’s bar, which meant that anywhere from there on could be the spot.

Now certain of a relative location, his eyes shot around to the walls to the left and right. Both sides contained piles of boxes, but not looking organized or stacked in a way in order to conceal anything. These cases too contained old texts and literature that had been tossed aside by the people who decided to ransack or empty the place.

A grunt followed out the nose of the man, with no findings to work off of. Knowing that there was still a ways to go, he turned to the large set of stairs lying in the direct middle of the platform. At these stair-tops, another platform led two adjacent staircases to the next story ahead. Directly from the center and on both sides were more classrooms that were just like the last one, at least he assumed.

For some odd reason, the grips on the side of the stairs thickened to more of a modern style with this set of stairs. It made it easier to hold onto, but why wasn’t it like that on the previous floor? Questions like these would rise a lot in such an inconsistent building and while minor, still gets one to think of scenarios behind little details.

One the next floor he found the same thing as on the last, with the six large windows pointing out to the city below. On both sides lay inconspicuous boxes as well, randomly stacked and thrashed about with no care for what they held. A rising frustration was building in the man, not as if he had an obligation to do anything though. Sights went forward to a new, identical platform to the one he could see about two inches to the left and down and the ascent began.

As soon as his eyes could see the dully lit next floor, only illuminated by the presence of still threatening lightning, he could see a lead. In the center of outward display was a small pile of cardboard boxes, only about three single boxes high. This alone wouldn’t seem like much, but there were dozens of other cases thrown about supposedly in an attempt to hide that a post had been set up. But in such an intelligent gaze, there was no mistaken what had happened.

Out of his calm demeanor, he rapidly began searching through the still annoying piles that settled on either side of the place which he stood. With almost hyper and malicious strength he tore the boxes apart like the sheets of bound paper they were. Every box seemed to bring him closer to what he was looking for, yet after ripping down about forty or so he couldn’t find a single shred of evidence.

Clearly the criminal had been swift and prepared in his attack, not chancing to let a bit of his heinous act remain. The man, now defeated in hope, sat down onto the shredded remains of a box and began to think about the situation. Suddenly, a chilling sort of reminder came to him in the tolls of a church bell. Off in the distance a controlled ring began, sending out sounds of remembrance and command. Soothing and sharp creaks of a wooden hold could be heard from where he was, and twelve rings had brought a bitter realization.

All he could do for then was what he had discovered. Was there something he missed though? Were those rooms at all important? Another, clearer day would have to be the subject for those answers. Moving at the speed of what clearly the man he was searching for was, in a mere two minutes he made his way back onto the streets. Without regard for what he himself had left behind, he charge through the door and ran across the muddy and deserted streets off into the distance of the city.

Still in his mind he knew he should have returned, but business matters lay far more important in his mind than the justice he could not bring. Hurried steps splashed on wet pavement as he alone was the sound that awoke the new light to come forth. Twilight set in on the town, a single state that would guide him to his destination and hopefully back to investigation.

((Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it. I’ll have my comic pitch up a bit later, I jsut really wanted to finish this up.))

No one knew what happened except those inside the cinema.   I never told anyone.  But today, today is a revelation.

In Jan 2006, I joined the National Level Japanese speech competition (this after winning the Regional Level).  Together with my coach, I flew to the Philippine Capital to compete.  We were  on the same plane with the Japanese Consul who was going to witness the same event we’re participating in.  He congratulated my coach for a job well-done on me and told us that we were likely to win because he personally honestly loved my speech.

We were so happy to hear that from the Consul himself.  Somehow, it boasted my confidence.

My coach was so confident of me and honestly, so was I.  But we kept practicing.  My coach kept throwing me probable questions for the Q & A.  We were ready.

We roamed around the venue and enjoyed some of the activities prior to the Speech Contest.  I just took the time to breath and relax.

Then time came.  We were inside the cinema.  I was seated side by side with the other contestants.  The coaches were seated in a different lane/s.  I was nervous  (I was never completely confident everytime I present myself before a crowd, especially when speaking was necessary).  I think, the rest of the contestants were nervous too.

While the speaker before me delivered her speech, my phone kept ringing.  It was my mom.  I didn’t pick it up.  It’s not proper.  But more than that, I was scared of what she was gonna tell me.  I wanted to pick it up but I never did.  While the phone kept ringing, several thoughts came to my mind. I cried a bit because I was deeply worried about the phone call.  But then, it’s time for me to get up and deliver my speech.  I wiped my tears, took a deep breath and went straight to the podium.  I felt fine.

All the lights were turned off except the three which were focused on me.

I watched the crowd and didn’t say a thing for about 10 seconds.  That was what my coach taught me to have everyone’s attention on me.  It was working.  I had everyone silent.  I had everyone’s attention.

I had a good start (at least that was what I thought).   I spoke calmly, ignoring all my worries.  I was relieved, I was able to manage that.  I did a good job.  But only up to my 10th sentence.  After a very well-listened introduction, my tears were racing down my cheeks.  I was bogged with the unanswered phone call, plus the content of my speech-I was feeling them all so real (I mean, it was real right from the time when I wrote it, but then, I thought I could deliver it smoothly, like I did in the prior contest, without putting too much emotion except what was needed as a speaker).

Despite the tears, I kept speaking.  I wasn’t lost, I was still on focus.  But my voice cracked.  I wept.  Loudly.  But I went on until the end.

I was already done with my crying when I had my Q & A.  I think I had 2 or 3 questions and I answered them well.  But I think the questions weren’t that good because the judges were feeling for me plus the fact that they hadn’t understand every bit of my message.  I mean who could understand someone who’s crying while speaking such a lengthy speech?

I went back to my seat.  I knew then that I failed my coach.  I knew then that I wasn’t gonna win.  I knew then.

Why did I cry anyway?  Actually my speech was all about my dad, his cancer and the fact that he was running out of time.  I was crying because he was in a very bad condition when I left him at home (that, after a few days of failed chemotherapy).  I was crying because I was afraid my mom was gonna tell me dad left already.  I was so scared of that, reason why I didn’t pick up my phone.  I was thinking I was still gonna be composed when I deliver my speech because at least I didn’t hear the news yet.  But not knowing didn’t help.  It only bothered me even more.

If you are curious why my mom called, I have no answer.  I didn’t ask her because I was feeling a real failure.  I didn’t ask her because I didn’t want to end up telling her I was a mess.  But I called her after the contest, right after we all left the cinema.

I left all my failure feelings inside that cinema and went out with my coach, wanting to forget everything.  My coach and I never talked about it.  Never.  I knew she was devastated because she is the competitive type, she always wanted to win in anything.  I was devastated as well, not so much with not winning but with failing to do what I was supposed to do.

When I returned home, my dad couldn’t recognize me anymore.  I showed him my prize and my mom explained to him what it was and why I had it.  He just smiled.

I never talked to anyone about what happened one afternoon in the cinema.  I never talked to anyone of those waiting for my return and news.  I didn’t tell them anything except that I didn’t make it.

A few days after the competition, my dad died.

(It’s been 4 long years (almost) since I kept this story to myself and to those inside the cinema.)

I’m “home”. That is, I’m currently inside of the house I live at. Soon, I’ll have a place I can attach that word to and actually mean it. She will, too.

I look forward to that time… it puts a smile on my face.

For now, I’ll settle for this bedroom and the stinky Beagle who’s currently laying on my pillow. Jerk-ass. But I can’t friggin wait until May

Night.

Please see the note at the bottom about the origin of this poem.  Regardless of the true origin, it’s a beautiful thought and worthy of preserving.

The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,

I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
My daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.

The sparkling lights in the tree I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep.
In perfect contentment, or so it would seem,
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know,

Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
And I crept to the door just to see who was near.

Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.
A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old,
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

“What are you doing?” I asked without fear,
“Come in this moment, it’s freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!”
For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts..

To the window that danced with a warm fire’s light
Then he sighed and he said “Its really all right,
I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night.”
“It’s my duty to stand at the front of the line,
That separates you from the darkest of times.

No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here like my fathers before me.
My Gramps died at ‘ Pearl on a day in December,”
Then he sighed, “That’s a Christmas ‘Gram always remembers.”
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘ Nam ‘,
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red, white, and blue… an American flag.
I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home.

I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat.
I can carry the weight of killing another,
Or lay down my life with my sister and brother..
Who stand at the front against any and all,
To ensure for all time that this flag will not fall.”

“  So go back inside,” he said, “harbor no fright,
Your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.”
“But isn’t there something I can do, at the least,
“Give you money,” I asked, “or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you’ve done,
For being away from your wife and your son.”

Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
“Just tell us you love us, and never forget.
To fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone,
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home, either standing or dead,
To know you remember we fought and we bled.
Is payment enough, and with that we will trust,
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.”

According to snopes.com (http://www.snopes.com/holidays/christmas/glurge/different.asp) the true author is Michael Marks.  And on another site (http://officespam.chattablogs.com/archives/2006/11/lcdr-jeff-giles-sc-usn.html), I found this comment:

Jeff Giles has been incorrectly cited as the author of “A Different Christmas Poem”. The poem is actually entitled “A Soldier’s Christmas” and was written by Michael Marks on December 7th, 2000. The works of Mr. Marks have been featured in the Washington Times, hang in the Titan Missile Museum, and are featured on the International War Veteran’s Poetry Archive at http://www.iwvpa.net/marksm

I know, because I am Michael Marks. LCDR Giles simply forwarded my poem long ago and had his email signature appended at the bottom.

Warmest regards,

Michael Marks

Thank you, Michael Marks, for a beautiful piece.

THIS IS NO JOKE..
EXTORTING UNITED STATES BUSINESSESS
SHUTTING COMPANIES DOWN..
THEY ARE USING ALL WAYS TO LAUNDER MONEY HERE.
TELL ME HOW YOU FEEL ON THIS SERIOUS ISSUE??

Eli, the high priest in Shiloh was blind to the evil that surrounded him. In some ways he was a great man, but always a step behind. Hannah prayed for a child and he thought she was a drunk. Only when she explained that she was pouring out her heart did he give her a blessing.

Eli’s sons were plunderers, crooks and seducers of women in the precincts of the tabernacle. But he took half steps, just enough to assuage his conscience but not enough to end the misconduct. He said some things to them (Samuel I, 2:23-5). However in G-d’s eyes that did not constitute true reprimand and therefore Eli himself was also guilty of those crimes.  A serious reprimand is not a one-time thing when a problem is ongoing.

He was also a great man. He initiated the lad Samuel into prophecy. When G-d first calls out, Samuel does not recognize the calling. Eli, instructs him and Samuel receives his first prophecy about the doom that will fall on Eli and his descendents. Eli abjures him to tell him the entire prophecy even though he suspects the worst. He does not try to argue with G-d or Samuel or deny his grievous sins of omission.

The prophecy comes to pass. His scoundrel sons, violators of holiness, carry out the Ark of the Covenant into battle. The story ends when Eli hears the tidings from the front. He accepts with equanimity the fulfillment of the righteous decree that both his sons will die in one day. But this ineffectual, blind and burdened man still underestimated the gravity of his failings. Finally he hears that the Philistines captured the Ark of the Covenant. He falls backwards and dies. His daughter-in-law widowed on that day gives birth to a son. She realizes that the honor of Israel is gone and she names the son Ichabod (no-honor) (Samuel I, Chaps 1-4).

Alas, most frum leadership share many of these same failings and are driving their followers down the path to the same disaster. In the end, they will lose their positions of leadership; their families and followers will lose their standing; all Jews will lose honor. Most leaders still don’t understand that they cannot retain leadership when they ignore molesting and corruption in the very places that should be most holy. They cannot get off by claiming they spoke words of admonition when they were ineffective gestures. They cannot insist they are too busy with holy work to notice or deal with the details. They must face up to unpleasant truths if they really want to protect the honor of individuals, organizations and the community. G-d is not interested in reputations bolstered by falsehood and maintained at the expense of tormented children. Leaders, please, stop and change course before your yerushah (inherited legacy) is depleted and another sad woman names her orphan son, Ichabod!

WOMEN WAITING FOR SOMEONE at the Mirpur 1 Mazar in Dhaka.

A great tumbling sound rose from the back alley ways of the city, scattering all creatures that lay in its wake. Trucks and construction vehicles evacuated to the safehavens of their far off garages far off into the second ring of the city. Relentless tears of the sky made every inch they traveled more dangerous than the last, even with the heavy vehicles firmly on the ground as they were. One wrong move could spell disaster for far too many.

By the time they had evacuated, the events that were about to unfold still lay thirty minutes away. In that old, dusty tavern a murder of a young woman brought not fear and paranoia to its patrons, but rather the curious interest of one. Now that the crew had vacated the area across the street, it was open for anyone to check inside, and that is what this man dressed in a green raincoat decided to do.

Still in the midst of a violent thrashing of the winds and rain he remain rather calm in his movement until he reached the end of the sidewalk. With a firm plant he stood, gazing across to the fog covered buildings ahead without a trickle of emotion grazing his face. The brick building lay ahead, not fifteen steps across, but he waited.

In the full thrill of the tempest it seemed as if his body turned to stone. Not a movement came from him except the expansion of his chest as he breathed in the sharp and flowing oxygen from around him. After about half a minute or so of remaining still, his foot finally rose to begin the tread across the slick path. Before it lowered though, the sheen of a headlight illuminated in front of him.

The man’s legs straightened out again to be fully on the sidewalk as he watched the car creep by. A beige colored Concord made its way inch by inch on the disastrous street. Black and red windshield wipers banged like the beat of a heavy drum against the glass guarding the car. For a moment the timid, young driver looked up from the car to eye the observant man until he continued on and out of sight through the fog.

Now drenched, the man sighed at the slow moving annoyance. This time, without a pause, he began to briskly walk across the street with no more hesitations. Every step even for him was difficult, feeling his heel twist madly against the asfalt road and nearly bringing him to the ground. Stationing a strong left foot onto the unforgiving surface, he persevered and charged forward but at the same pace he had been going.

With a final heroic step, he climbed his way up to the clearly to high sidewalk and grabbed a lightpost thereafter. Although not completely conquered by the fierce lash of Mother Nature, he couldn’t help but breath heavily in relief of something to hang on to. But his rest was not for long, knowing that time was scant in his search. Sliding his hands off the pole to turn to the brick building, his eyes began to take in his surroundings.

Signs were unorganized around the building, keeping its claim as a construction sight. Many of the signs warned that passer-bys should not come near or that construction was in progress. There was no showing of this however, for the men had left due to the horrible weather conditions.

Another thing he observed were that the signs were bolted down and were probably not going to be moved in whenever the final adjustments to the building were taking place, suggesting a demolition. This was confirmed as he read a white and orange striped sign that proclaimed, “No use of fire near This Area”. Though tempting, he did not take out the lighter from his left pocket (although it was clearly soaked as well).

Undaunted by the signs of warning, the man in green garb stepped towards the building. At the top of the front doors it read, “Redhern B. Murrow Schoolhouse”. From that statement he;d knew what would be inside, that is if he could get in. There would be many classrooms and stairwells to check, seeing as it was a seven story building and all.

From a window he could gaze inside, though it was a bit obscured by the effects of the rain from in and outside. A rough hand came from his pocket to rid the glass of the smog that obscured it. Inside he saw piles of boxes, not stacked in any particular order. Some of them seemed empty while others were clearly full. Even a few were smashed, suggesting that they had been thrown from the floor’s above.

Other than that he could see a back entrance which led into another short hallway which then had a door to lead outside. Some designs just seemed to follow that pattern of an extra hallway before a final door to exit. He assumed that it had something to do with being able to hang something up in that hallway, but he was thinking far too much.

To the right of his window he could see a staircase that lead up about a third of a story into the air by design. At the top there was a classroom directly to the right of an ascender, and to the left would be another set of stairs. Because of the continual pattern of stairs ahead, the man could not see too far up, instead seeing the bottom of the next set of stairs one could come across.

Everything also seemed very old, taking a sort of thirties spin on a schoolhouse. That must of been the reason why it’s being demolished. Even if you couldn’t tell by architecture, the massive amounts of spiderwebs at every corner where walls met was dead give away. Even the spiders seemed to be scared by the weather, retreating to the back on their webs at the flashes of a lightning strike.

The final thing he could notice from his position was that there was a door that was under the staircase. The masked entry was hard to see, though it looked a little different than the exit way and the school doors above, both of which were solid wooden doors. This door was green, and didn’t seem to lead off into any side building as there were none close enough for that to be the case.

A basement door must be the answer for that, though a basement door wouldn’t help all too much in this investigation. One thing it did give though was a reference point for where the explosions would be place, had they not been set already. As long as he wasn’t a complete moron, the basement wouldn’t need to be disturbed.

Now content in his first overview of the place, he stepped away from the window to the large crimson doors. There was a doorknob on each of the doors, which seemed a bit strange considering the age of the school. With a single turn though he realized it was not yet locked, so that he could make his way in. In a controlled manner he made his way into the schoolhouse, closing the door behind him as another strike of thunder raddled his senses.

((Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. I’m probably going to do my comic pitch after the third part because frankly, these are long.))

Hello hello dear readers. Thanks for being faithfull and kept on visiting my blog even when I’ve left it to rot. It’s now again one of those nights I activated my iPod and felt like blogging.
So excuse the use of English and stupid grammar/syntax errors cause that’s just the way my iPod rolls. And I’m sleepy.
So, anyway, life was so not good lately. I’ve spent the majority of those two or three (or four?) weeks dragging. Literally. As shown below.

You see, people died. My uncle. And he died in pain. My mommy didn’t let me visit him because it was too bad to watch. I didn’t even attend the funeral.
Death makes us wonder too much, upon reaching our insides. It turns them all around and leaves us with bitterness still lingering on our teeth.
I can’t stop thinking about all the other people that died since the begining of creation. They are all…nothing at all now. They don’t excist. Doesn’t that hurt? To believe that they jut don’t…excist? They’ve lost their thoughts, their bodys have been devoured by worms and they’ve spent eternity in a box. Damn. I don’t want to think of it that way. I won’t let it affect me.

A year before, that specific date the big downhill begun for me.
It was my first major depression crisis. I still didn’t want to admit it, until a few weeks ago. When I found out that the depression gene runs in the family. Relatives killing themselves, being hospitalized and all that jazz. Oh the joy.
Nevertheless, that time is hard. It’s the Big Test Period as we like to call it. And it sucks. At the lessons that I’ll be examined in the end of this important year I’m good. But maths? Physics? Oh god. I wouldn’t care if the teacher wasn’t that much of an ass. He doesn’t get it.

I am currently pretty dizzy. And not coherent at all. So don’t mind me.

The other shit? My “love life”. It doesn’t excist. Not even close. And my last ex (you know, the one I thought that I could bare with, that understood me more than anyone etc?) keeps on being imprinted on the inside of my eylids. I hate him really fucking much. For all that he did to me. For letting me believe in the dream and then snatched it far far away. That bastard. I haateeee himmm. Ok I’m calm.
Yesterday he was looking at me. And he was doing all that stuff he did to me while dancing, with someone else. And what did I do? I was mature. Really mature. I looked at him with pure indifference and went out. And cried in the arms of my best friend. Seriously, he is good. And there’s no K__ (name) that hasn’t destroyed me in any sort of way. That name is jinxed. Oh dear, I lost it again.
I need love. The emotion. Badly. I’m all alone again. Swimming in a sea of people I can’t reach. And it’s hard. There I go all needy little cry-baby again. That’s what he said. ……
……
-You’re to insecure. I can’t do that
-I’m insecure? That was ANGER you dumbass. Anger because you hung up on me.
-I don’t know babe. You’re just too weird. What normal person writes on his walls? *looks at arms* And his arms?
-I can’t recall ever stating I’m normal you knew it all along. I never forced you to like me or care about me. And my psychological problems have nothing to do with that. I am fine with you.
-You’re not. I thought you would be but I was wrong. I hope you get more secure someday. For whoever you’re with. And I don’t care who that might be.
-You’re such an asshole. You were looking for an excuse, admit it!!! And you’re too coward to say that you don’t like me anymore to my face!!! -That’s what you think? You’re just too weird and messed up. -And leaving me is the best thing you can do? Well done. Go. Destroy me. -What else could I do?
-Care. But since you don’t I don’t care either.
-Can’t you see that what you’re doing is wrong? You’re letting your insecurities get to you. You’re not living.
-And you told you that I want to live damn it? [at this point I'm shouting. Loud.] -Then DIE! [shouts as well.]
[silence]
-I can’t believe it.
-Me neither. [kisses my cheeck. And the other one. I snatch his shirt because I'm stupid and even though he hurts me I need him] Goodnight. Have a nice rest of your life. ….

He left and I sat down on the road crying. Too dramatic to be true? Ya think? Nevertheless true. Story of my life. Too weird for anyone.
And that’s the third time I’m reliving the break-up. Roughly translated. I don’t know how I ended up quoting it. I’ll regret it. But it’s irrelevant now. Since that came up I’ll upload it. I hate him.
Goodnight.

-Free…?

Image : http://www.flickr.com

Are you madly in love with your boyfriend? Consider yourself a long, happy and fulfilling lives with her emotionally? It's wonderful when a woman she met the man who is sure that his own personal Prince Charming. But for some women there is a persistent question in their minds. How serious is it about marriage? Does it seem as interested in making the jump to being a committed couple as you or you have any doubts about how emotionally invested in the relationship is it? If you do not know exactly wherehis heart or his head is at, there are some signs that your man is ready for you.

An answer to the question of how he is serious about marriage can be found in your relationship with the people closest to him. When a man believes he has found the woman he is destined to be that he wants with all those he loves to love him too. He is quick to introduce her to his family and friends and will often include her in activities where they are present. He will present it as her love,girlfriend or his future wife. It leaves no doubt in anyone's mind about how much he cares for her. If that's your boyfriend acts, you will certainly have an engagement ring on her finger in the very near future. If your guy is always excuses to explain why you have not met his family, or why you do not hang out with friends, not so near to commit to anything serious yet .

Another sign that your man is ready to offer is that he will thinkmore seriously about their financial future. Many men put off marriage until they feel established in their careers until they have a small nest egg hidden in the bank. No matter how much money is their friend, most men still see themselves as the bread winner and the one who needs to take care of the family. If your man suddenly took an interest in mortgage rates or retirement planning, he thinks of a future more serious with you. It will likely gethimself in a comfortable place financially before he proposed. If it works in this direction, you can expect a proposal before too long.

See Also : twjewelry tw2 http://schuesslerfson.wordpress.com/ http://skagen.girokontostudenten.org/

So many projects and ideas on the mind that I have made me realise that I need to restructure this blog into something worth crediting for. Tomorrow (hopefully) I’ll be posting the beginning of a several part story to merely get the creative juices rolling. I’ll decide right now that it will be a detective story, one other idea I’ve almost decided to throw away.

After that I want to do a little pitch for a comic book story idea, though not the one I’ve been thinking intensely about. That will be written in story script, with a little thing from panel to panel.  I might in between these two, chronicle just little goings ons in my life, though this might fall apart like it did before.

Let’s get a move on then. December 5, 2009. I await your response!

I say stupid shit sometimes. I dig ridiculously deep holes for myself, generally because I’m stubborn and persistent and can’t just admit when I’ve fucked up and apologize. Dad always told me… the first step in getting yourself out of the hole is to stop digging. I need to heed that wisdom more often. I say things that come off as hurtful, because I have a tendency to be blunt in the heat of a discussion… I don’t think before I speak. And I know when I do it, and I immediately feel awful about it, but I’m so fucking full of myself that it’s more important to me to save face and pretend like I’m right when I know that the right thing to do is to just shut the fuck up. I’m genuinely sorry when this happens, and it’s how I feel right now.

I hurt people who I love, and that’s not cool.

I’m sorry.

I love you.

We all remember days that are important in our lives. Our birthdays for example are a time of festivity.  The day we get married is another milestone and the day our children are born. All of these are important to everyone and most women anyway I know remember these dates.

We also tend to remember sad anniversaries. The death of our parents, the day our divorces are final and for a lot of us, the day we lost a very important spirit that was close to us – our animal friends. This is that day for me, this the the second anniversary of the day we lost Bart.  Rather than go into the whole detail of his life and passing, I will let you read the short biography on my website, here.

I recently worked with a client who was really hurting from the loss of her dear animal friend. He has been gone much longer than Bart and she doesn’t have the ability I do to have Bart’s wisdom still passed onto me.

So yesterday I got in the pool.  When I am in the water, I am more able to freely hear animals here and in spirit.  I  heard Bart’s words coming through loud and clear. He told me that “heaven is not off in the clouds, but right here next to us.” In other words, our animal friends are not long gone and far away, but literally gathered around us when we need them and helping us to get through the same things they did when they were in body. Also Bart reminded me that there is no time where he is.  He doesn’t observe this day the way I do – anymore. I think at the time he was very grateful to be leaving his body. But now he has a new “life” so to speak in death. He is working with animals that arrive, he is finding animals for me to talk with that stood by the sides of my clients, and he has his own lessons he’s learning.

I will have some sadness today, I won’t lie. But I also want to celebrate a cat that walked into my life and totally changed it for the most part. I’m still the “me” I always was, but I’m also now well aware of a gift that was lurking inside for the majority of my life. When this cat helped to bring that out, that is when life got very fulfilling.

Who could be sad at something like that?

Pre Exam Stress: due to insecurity and unpreparedness

During Exam Stress: due shit papers

Last ppr stress: i’m doomed since i can’t change anything-almost wished exam hadn’t started and i could change the way i studied

after A levels stress: induced by boredom and bleak future and feeling like a waste of oxygen

seriously, the worrying never stops. plus i have nearly zero to live for now! So i think what we need, is MORE. Where are our plans to go crazy and haunt each others’ houses and trek and become fit? the moment we get jobs our time to be together will be only a dream so i say we just go out and do something even if we have no clue what. Even though we are total dormitory dudettes. The lazyness is still good in other ppl’s houses.

now i’m looking into working at SENTOSA/ IMM sales. the moolah gotta keep coming or i can’t afford those new moon tickets! and feel free to leave requests for whatever you want i can get from China-i’m leaving on the 17th.

miss you babies
Chickpea

A Serious Man is the Coen brothers’ latest black comedy, a layered modern tragedy focused on the life and mind of Larry Gopnik; physics tutor, Jew, husband, father, brother, man (in that order). The film begins with an eerie Yiddish prologue set in Olden Times. The Coens have stated that the prologue’s events have no real relation to the greater film other than that of tone, and I find that to be an odd choice by them (or, at least, an odd statement). The prologue ends with one of the characters declaring that a curse has been brought upon their house, and as the film unfolds that declaration seems to bear particularly ironic fruit. It doesn’t really matter that there is no literal connection drawn between the characters of the prologue and the characters of the main story; this film is about themes. Faith, reason, God, science, fate and punishment; those kind of themes.

Gopnik is played (or played down) by Michael Stuhlbarg, a relative unknown. Indeed, many of the actors in this film are unknown save Richard Kind (who plays Arthur Gopnik, Larry’s ailing, gambling, pathetic brother). Sari Lennick, quite convincing as the long-suffering wife to Stuhlbarg’s oblivious husband, had never acted for either television or film prior to this. There must be reasons for the specifically obscure choices in casting. The Coens have been able to handpick major stars and famous leading actors for years now; why would they head back into New York theatre to pluck out a few talented unknowns to take the main roles? I think the answer lies with Aristotle. In discussing Greek tragedy, Aristotle asserted that the characters should be full and vibrant but that the plot should be the driving force of any performance. Tragedy is about exposing the conflicting natures of the human soul and that was best achieved in the representation and demonstration of larger, universal themes. As such, the characters were generally more vessels for themes or particular philosophies than they were fully fleshed out people.

I believe the Coens set out to use these talented unknown actors in order to keep the focus on the plot, the philosophies and the overall themes of the movie. If John Turturro was playing Larry Gopnik everyone would be focused on how reminiscent the whole thing was of Barton Fink. If it were John Goodman as Sy Ableman, Judith Gopnik’s new-found life partner, would we not be at least partially distracted from the deeper themes that the Coens were exploring? It’s arguable that no, we wouldn’t be distracted at all because they’re excellently talented actors who disappear into their roles. But still, it was clearly enough of a concern to the Coen brothers for them to steer clear of big names.

The film unfolds at a leisurely pace. It spends a large portion of the film simply exploring the day-to-day interactions of the main characters, with little sense of urgency or tension. Along the way Larry is exposed to several situations in which his morality is tested. Money troubles, family troubles and work troubles pile onto Larry’s yamulka-adorned head until eventually they all converge in one act of immorality; a small act, certainly, but an act of immorality nevertheless. This film is devoted to the representation of faith and the Old Testament understanding of God. The story of Job is particularly relevant. If you don’t know the story of Job don’t read it before seeing this film, as you’ll ruin the experience. As the film’s title suggests, it also explores the interaction between science and faith. Gopnik is a man of reason and science, but he’s also a Jew. Gopnik finds it difficult – even impossible – to rationalise one with the other and the consequences are brilliantly depicted.

As for the viewing experience; the movie is slow, beautifully shot and interestingly acted. Unfortunately, for me, the slowness translated to boredom. It wasn’t until the final shot that something actually grabbed me and hooked me in (and I do intend on seeing this film again). Therefore, I do recommend A Serious Man. Just don’t go in expecting the lively dialogue and fun plot progression of something like The Big Lebowski. That it quite decidedly aint.

Fuck me… last night was a bad idea. I went over to my best friend’s house… we drank/smoked well into the night. As much fun as that was, I have a four-hour drive ahead of me once I get out of work tonight… I’m driving to Chicago to see my girlfriend.

I miss her.

The drive there is always worth it, no matter how fatigued I might be when I make it. We’re going to her friend’s house for “game night”, whatever that entails… I don’t really care. I just want to see her. I will be pleasant and such at this new place, but it’s not why I drive four hours on shitty highways with shittier visibility. It would be pretty dickish of me to demand all of her time, it’s just that I know after next weekend it’s gonna be a while before I get to see her, and even longer before I get any kind of alone-time with her, so I was hoping we could get some of that in this weekend. She’s extremely busy with school this weekend, and with the “game night” thing, chances of that seem slim.

Next weekend, it might actually end up being Thursday before I can see her… as opposed to a day earlier. Reason being, she wants to get tanked with a group of friends from school. Internally, I’m always so weird about the idea of her going out and getting drunk without me. I trust her explicitly, but that’s about it; I don’t trust another human being on Earth like I trust her. Meaning I don’t trust the asshole guys who might hit on her, nor do I trust anyone’s reaction-speed who’s had too much to drink. So, it especially sucks that that’s the situation Wednesday is being given up for. I really can’t be too pissed… I work on Wednesday anyway. One of those “principal of the thing” situations, I guess. I know that if I had the choice between “get drunk with friends” or “see her a day earlier (especially considering the long break to come)”, I’d pick the latter every time. But, I see my friends more often than she sees hers. So, it’s a different situation I guess.

Either way… I’ll be happy to just see her face. All these stupid things I think of during the weeks when we’re apart seem to melt away the moment I see her. It’s amazing, the power she has over me in that regard. I just wish she was here, now. It’s the same wish I always have, and it never seems to get fulfilled soon enough.

I’m tired, and feel like I’m being an asshole. I should probably stop digging now.

Time for work…

Fame (1980)
★★★★ / ★★★★

Students with talent when it comes to acting, singing, dancing and playing music were accepted in New York City’s High School for the Performing Arts and those who lack such talents were rejected. The very intense audition process was only the first scene and it really showed me that “Fame,” directed by Alan Parker, was going to be a very different musical compared to the ones that have been released in the 2000s. Throughout the film, it had a certain seriousness to it. It started off showcasing naive characters who want to “make it big” but as years went on, some of them made it while the others’ dreams were crushed because they either succumbed to the pressure or they simply didn’t have that extra “thing” to make them stand out. Some of the students that the film focused on were Irene Cara (who wanted to be a singer), Maureen Teefy (who wanted to act), Barry Miller (who wanted to follow Freddie Prinze’ footsteps), and Lee Curreri (who wanted to make and play music that was different and progressive). Throughout the film’s 130-minute running time, the spotlight was eventually under each of their respective struggles and we get some ideas on what made them the way they were. I also liked the fact that none of the actors looked like typical actors or had features that most would deem “beautiful.” In fact, all of them looked kind of geeky or nerdy so that spice of realism really helped the picture to become more than another forgettable musical. As four years went by, the characters matured (while some were fixated) in both overt and subtle ways and their problems had more gravity. Granted, the pacing became a little slow (and somewhat depressing) toward the end but I was more than willing to forgive that flaw because there were a plethora of memorable scenes and fun dance sequences. I wish that Cara had more scenes, however, because I really did love her songs. I wished that the film showed more of what personal events and experiences inspired her to write. This movie’s remake is to be released this year (2009) and I can only hope that it is able to retain some edginess and realism that this one had. I also hope that the remake would not lose sight on this picture’s theses–that talent is a good template but far from enough to be successful; and those who attain fame are not necessarily safe because it’s a constant challenge to rise above the pressures. The movie’s ability to take the audiences back to the 1970s was a bonus.

Indeed, the title for this post does refer to three particular albums by Dream Theater! It somehow felt like the right title for my first post here.

I don’t demand or even expect that anyone else even read the things that I write, but for those who choose to do so I have a simple request. Whether you agree with me or not, I ask only for the same respect that you would wish me to display for you in reading your thoughts. Responding to me in a blind rage about something I write will not result in me changing my mind nor will nitpicking about every thought I attempt to convey win me over. I recognize that people will not always agree with me, but there are ways to express disagreement that are polite and others that are more likely to make me decide to delete and ignore them.

I post this warning because I know that my thoughts are not always the most popular. I WILL express my opinions on things that others may find shocking, and I will question what others consider unquestionable. If I am asked to consider believing something I reserve the right to poke and prod at it to see how it holds up to scrutiny.

I may choose to share some of the poems or stories I write as well or to write about the games I play, the books I read, or the music I adore.

I am absolutely, positively, unconditionally, head-over-heels in love with her.

I was thinking earlier about how much her smile means to me. How I grin just thinking about it, and how knowledge of its existance has the power to calm me down when I’m feeling like I’m about to put a stapler through someone’s forehead. She means everything to me, and I consider myself beyond lucky for having her in my life.

I would do anything for her.

This is a must read article. I am NOT expressing an opinion about either immigration — whether any form of it is good or bad — or multiculturalism (whatever that means to different people). But this writer appears to have his facts in hand and thus I pass along the facts he presents, together with his analysis of his opinion of cause and effect. I don’t vouch for that analysis but do think there has been enough written about Detroit to lend credibility to the notions presented to at least warrant discussion.  The typos, regrettably, are his.

Also see Okrent, Daniel.  “Detroit:  The Death — and Possible Life — of a Great City.”  Time.com. September 24, 2009.  http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1925796,00.html (accessed Dec 3, 2009)

Feel free to come to my blog and comment.

HOW IMMIGRATION AND MULTICULURALISM DESTROYED DETROIT

By Frosty Wooldridge
October 5, 2009
NewsWithViews.com

For 15 years, from the mid 1970s to 1990, I worked in Detroit, Michigan. I watched it descend into the abyss of crime, debauchery, gun play, drugs, school truancy, car-jacking, gangs and human depravity. I watched entire city blocks burned out. I watched graffiti explode on buildings, cars, trucks, buses and school yards. Trash everywhere! Detroiters walked through it, tossed more into it and ignored it.

Tens of thousands and then, hundreds of thousands today exist on federal welfare, free housing and food stamps! With Aid to Dependent Children, minority women birthed eight to 10 and in once case, one woman birthed 24 kids as reported by the Detroit Free Press—all on American taxpayer dollarss. A new child meant a new car payment, new TV and whatever mom wanted. I saw Lyndon Baines Johnson’s “Great Society” flourish in Detroit. If you give money for doing nothing, you will get more hands out taking money for doing nothing.

Mayor Coleman Young, perhaps the most corrupt mayor in America, outside of Richard Daley in Chicago, rode Detroit down to its knees. He set the benchmark for cronyism, incompetence and arrogance. As a black man, he said, “I am the MFIC.” The IC meant ‘in charge’. You can figure out the rest. Detroit became a majority black city with 67 percent African-Americans.

As a United Van Lines truck driver for my summer job from teaching math and science, I loaded hundreds of American families into my van for a new life in another city or state. Detroit plummeted from 1.8 million citizens to 912,000 today. At the same time, legal and illegal immigrants converged on the city, so much so, that Muslims number over 300,000. Mexicans number 400,000 throughout Michigan, but most work in Detroit.

As the Muslims moved in, the whites moved out. As the crimes became more violent, the whites fled. Finally, unlawful Mexicans moved in at a torrid pace. You could cut the racial tension in the air with a knife! Detroit may be one our best examples of multiculturalism: pure dislike and total separation from America.

Today, you hear Muslim calls to worship over the city like a new American Baghdad with hundreds of Islamic mosques in Michigan, paid for by Saudi Arabia oil money. High school flunk out rates reached 76 percent last June according to NBC’s Brian Williams. Classrooms resemble more foreign countries than America. English? Few speak it! The city features a 50 percent illiteracy rate and growing. Unemployment hit 28.9 percent in 2009 as the auto industry vacated the city.

In this week’s Time Magazine October 4, 2009, “The Tragedy of Detroit: How a great city fell and how it can rise again,” I choked on the writer’s description of what happened.

“If Detroit had been savaged by a hurricane and submerged by a ravenous flood, we’d know a lot more about it,” said Daniel Okrent. “If drought and carelessness had spread brush fires across the city, we’d see it on the evening news every night. Earthquake, tornadoes, you name it — if natural disaster had devastated the city that was once the living proof of American prosperity, the rest of the country might take notice.

But Detroit, once our fourth largest city, now 11th and slipping rapidly, has had no such luck. Its disaster has long been a slow unwinding that seemed to remove it from the rest of the country. Even the death rattle that in the past year emanated from its signature industry brought more attention to the auto executives than to the people of the city, who had for so long been victimized by their dreadful decision-making.”

As Coleman Young’s corruption brought the city to its knees, no amount of federal dollars could save the incredible payoffs, kick backs and illegality permeating his administration. I witnessed the city’s death from the seat of my 18-wheeler tractor trailer because I moved people out of every sector of decaying Detroit.

“By any quantifiable standard, the city is on life support. Detroit’s treasury is $300 million short of the funds needed to provide the barest municipal services,” Okrent said. “The school system, which six years ago was compelled by the teachers’ union to reject a philanthropist’s offer of $200 million to build 15 small, independent charter high schools, is in receivership. The murder rate is soaring, and 7 out of 10 remain unsolved. Three years after Katrina devastated New Orleans, unemployment in that city hit a peak of 11%. In Detroit, the unemployment rate is 28.9%. That’s worth spelling out: twenty-eight point nine percent.”

At the end of Okrent’s report, and he will write a dozen more about Detroit, he said, “That’s because the story of Detroit is not simply one of a great city’s collapse. It’s also about the erosion of the industries that helped build the country we know today. The ultimate fate of Detroit will reveal much about the character of America in the 21st century. If what was once the most prosperous manufacturing city in the nation has been brought to its knees, what does that say about our recent past? And if it can’t find a way to get up, what does that say about our future?”

As you read in my book review of Chris Steiner’s book, $20 Per Gallon, the auto industry won’t come back. Immigration will keep pouring more and more uneducated third world immigrants from the Middle East into Detroit—thus creating a beachhead for Islamic hegemony in America. If 50 percent illiteracy continues, we will see more homegrown terrorists spawned out of the Muslim ghettos of Detroit. Illiteracy plus Islam equals walking human bombs. You have already seen it in the Madrid, Spain, London, England and Paris, France with train bombings, subway bombings and riots. As their numbers grow, so will their power to enact their barbaric Sharia Law that negates republican forms of government, first amendment rights and subjugates women to the lowest rungs on the human ladder. We will see more honor killings by upset husbands, fathers and brothers that demand subjugation by their daughters, sisters and wives. Muslims prefer beheadings of women to scare the hell out of any other members of their sect from straying.

Multiculturalism: what a perfect method to kill our language, culture, country and way of life.

Listen to Frosty Wooldridge on Wednesdays as he interviews top national leaders on his radio show “Connecting the Dots” at www.themicroeffect.com at 6:00 PM Mountain Time. Adjust tuning in to your time zone.

© 2009 Frosty Wooldridge – All Rights Reserved

Source: NewsWithViews.com
URL Source: http://www.newswithviews.com/Wooldridge/frosty506.htm
(accessed Dec 3, 2009)

There are so many options in life. I’ve learned, though, that as I get older I have fewer and fewer of them. It’s like… when you’re 18, fresh outta high school, you could do anything you wanted. Go to college… go to work… enlist… live at home and stay unemployed… etc. More and more, though, it’s like once you graduate there this HUGE pressure which states that if you don’t immediately go to college and get a degree, you fucking suck. That’s kinda the boat I’m in, and it kinda sucks. Nobody wants to hire me because I’m lacking in college education. I do get tuition reimbursement from my current job, but there’s two immense problems here:

-The very concept of reimbursement is flawed: I’ve got to have the money before I can spend it for them to pay me back.
-Working a full-time job, I can only take one or two classes per semester. A BS will take me probably 12 years to accomplish. Fucking sweet.

So, I’m in this job with nowhere else to go. I’m begging them to get me some certifications, which should help my situation. At this point, all I can think to do is keep collecting certifications from this job until someone else will hire me.

There is, of course, another alternative…

… I could always enlist. If I were to do it, I’d join the Navy. I took a practice ASVAB yesterday…  that’s a basic entrance/aptitude test you’ve got to take before enlisting in any branch of the military… and I scored amazingly well on it. My mechanical skills and higher mathematics could use some work, but aside from that I did very well. There are a lot of perks and benefits to joining, which I’m not going to delve into here for fear of sounding like a recruiter, and they’re numerous enough for it to be truly tempting. Probably the biggest benefit is that it’ll get me outta here, and into something new. I think I’m a creature of change, I need new and different shit to keep me entertained/challenged. The downside, of course, is that it’s going to take me away from her.

I realize it’s not healthy to peg so much on one person’s existence, and that’s not only what this is. Part of it is that I am really starting to feel things coming together. I’m getting my financial shit handled, I’m not broke anymore, ever. As a happy result, I can afford to live somewhere other than my friend/co-worker’s spare bedroom. My beloved will be moving up here with me in a few months, into a house we hope to rent. I can finally look just a few months down the road, and feel truly happy about what I see. And I think if I enlisted now, it’d throw all of that into disarray. We’d figure something else out, sure. Assuming she’d stay with me, she’d (hopefully) move to wherever I get stationed, we’d have a place to live, money for food, blah blah blah… everything we need. Aside from the climate change, things would mostly stay the same save for one huge difference: I’d be gone. A lot. I don’t know that I could do that to her, to us. Once again, it’s got me feeling stuck.

Part of me thinks I should just forget about it. I mean, Navy careers can really work for some people. I see my brother, sisters, their spouses having had great careers in and as a result of the Navy… but, they’ve all been there for years. There’s a lot of bullshit between basic and where they are now. I think if I was single, had no friends, had no job, I might just do it. Thankfully, none of these things are factors. And that’s not me saying the the military is a last resort, meant only for losers. Not by a long-shot. I’m saying that I have someone who I really, truly care about here that I really don’t want to put through the lifestyle of being a military girlfriend/spouse/wife/whatever… it’s not fair. If she had known, going into this, that the Navy was something I wanted and still chose to get involved with me it might make a little more sense, but as that’s not the case, no dice.

Blah… too many thoughts at once.

In a few months, I’m gonna be in a house with someone I love very much. It’s gonna be tits, and I am choosing to just shut the hell up and be happy about it.

Lady Ru’etha commented to me this morning over the phone that I should respond to comments on my blog more often. And I don’t doubt that She’s right (boy, is that an overused phrase around here…) It’s just that I’m never quite sure what to say. “Thank you!” seems both so obvious as to forbear saying, while at the same time always seeming so trite as to be almost insulting. (And I always worry that it will sound less sincere with every repetition, despite being deep and heart-felt every time.)

So instead, I’m writing about what it means to get comments. Your comments, specifically. (This is an old writerly trick to get you feeling personally involved in the story I’m telling, here. I’m hoping it will work anyway.) What does it mean to hear from a reader?

Everything. Everything in the world. Writing is an act of desperation in some ways, taking a piece of your soul and giving it to someone else. (And I mean that in the literal sense. I think of my writing as an attempt to share with others what it means to think like I do, and if there’s a better description for the soul than that, I don’t know it.) And the only reward for that act that’s worth having is the knowledge that another person accepted that piece of your soul into themselves. Whether it’s something deep and meaningful, like “True Colors” (probably my magnum opus as far as my short stories are concerned) or something light and silly like this blog, it still matters just as deeply. We writers want to get paid for our writing (as witnessed by my selling my books, shameless plug shameless plug) but that’s just because we can’t eat praise. Actual feedback trumps money every day.

And the fact that it’s erotica makes the act of giving feedback all the more precious, because I know that it takes an act of courage to admit to liking stories involving not just sex, but sex that involves a deeply personal fetish like mind control. (My original comment on the subject went something like, “Telling Neil Gaiman you like his stories means that you enjoyed his cunning use of wordplay, his deep and insightful themes, and his emotional insights into human nature. Telling me you like my stories means admitting you masturbated.”) So every letter I get, every review I get (yes, even the bad ones), every comment I get is immensely important to me. Other forms of feedback, like website hits (and yes, sales reports) are nice, because they show people are reading. But listening to people talk about my stories, knowing that I touched them emotionally? It means everything in the world to me. I save every piece of fanmail I get.

So seriously, with the greatest of sincerity, now that you’ve gotten this little explanation as to what it means when I say it, to everyone who’s ever commented on anything I’ve written…

Thank you.

Feeling quite down seriously. D:

I’m alright when I’m with someone, cos I can talk and stuff. But when I’m alone at home (even though my family’s around) I feel so fucking depressed. I just plug in my ipod and listen to sad songs. I don’t know where this is going.

BWAH. and we miss you alr beef! hope you have a great time at japan yes ;D (bill’s sad in the pic)

why do i try? i know i’m gonna fall down DDDDD: