1. The creator would like to ask a few questions, if you are in fact reading this:
"Why are you reading this?"
A fair question, the creator thinks. He understands that he has put this blog on the internet for all to see, but he is leery, in the sense that he is not a published author, or even a well known writer - posing the question above. Although, he does think it is cool if you stumble upon his blog and decide to read its contents.
"Do you have friends?"
The creator thinks that if you are taking the time to read this, you might not have many friends. Which is not to say that you aren't popular; but were simply attracted to the blog because of the title - The Befuddled Work of Strange Times - which, in the opinion of the creator, is a potentially reasonable explanation.
"Isn't there a better way to spend your time?"
The creator would like to say that he laughs at people who say that they are bloggers - thus making him a hypocrite, but wishes to say he doesn't care. There are many things that the creator can think of that people could do instead of reading blogs (although he wishes you read his blog):
- Put your clothes on backwards
- Bang kitchen utensils on hardwood or marble surfaces
- Put toilet paper down the garbage disposal
- Throw tomatoes at house cats
- Write a letter to your local congressman wishing that he/she too, could have an extramarital affair and resulting scandal
- Scavenge through a forest, collect organic material, and smoke it
Obviously, there are many things that the creator hopes you would do instead of taking the time to read - gasp - a blog.
But in the event that you are not deterred, the creator now wishes to tell you this:
2. The order in which one should read the postings of the blog:
The creator thinks that you should go over to the archives and choose for yourself what you want to read. The creator says that this is not Russia, and that there are such things as 'civil liberties.' Although, the creator is saddened by the disintegration of the Soviet Union, even though he was not alive at that point in time.
"Asn;gajkdfngiao;dfbhioadf"
The creator would like to let you know that the quote above, is purely for his enjoyment.
The creator is now deciding that it is time to stop writing the farcical guide, in which he believes this is.
If you are reading this, the creator says, God bless you - but would like to let you know that he is not that religious. But he wishes you well, and is now, done.
Monday, December 28, 2009
The Terror Is Over
As of right now, I am done posting. The carnage is over. You unsuspecting browsers, the suffering is over. Rejoice!
Perhaps I will update this thing at a later point in time - add to the already immeasurable pain that is this blog.
Perhaps I will update this thing at a later point in time - add to the already immeasurable pain that is this blog.
Allie
Allie,
I want to tell you that I am an emotional mess. I have been today. I feel like what I said earlier was only part of the truth. I want to tell you exactly how I feel, in full detail. I cried today. You were not just a hook up to me, I think you know that. You were not just someone to help me get over Bailey. You are Allie. I just think back to last night/this morning. You are amazing. Am I only saying this because I feel bad about everything? I don't know. I just get the feeling that somehow I just used you, and the thought of that makes me hate myself. I'm writing to you because there is something wrong. Maybe it's just me. I've caused you a great deal of pain, which I never intended to do. I told you this morning that it's not about changing the past, but how you deal with the future. Well, I'm not taking my own advice.
"I just get the feeling that somehow I just used you, and the thought of that makes me hate myself."
I need to clarify this. The reason I say this is because that is what Kevin told me that I did. What I did. What did I do? How does he know what I did? That look – the instant suspicion of guilt. He wasn’t there! My best friend. I am a convict in an orange jumpsuit. Guilty. That’s it. Just it. No questions – just guilty. I do not know how Kevin knows, I can only assume it was her, Bailey. Your sister, Bailey. Of course she knows, how could she not know. But Kevin? Why would she tell Kevin? Of all people, Kevin. Kevin the kid who launched her life into turmoil. Why does Kevin care? God that sounds like horseshit. Why. Why. Why. Why.
Fuck it. This is much more complicated then it has to be. Or is it? (You are not required to read this and have sympathy) I have no one to talk to about this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why didn't I think more clearly about this? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I am stuck talking to a computer screen. I am pathetic. Your parents have respect for me... I AM AN ASSHOLE. And it's sad because I was completely myself with you. There was no show, no mask, no facade - it was me. How could I do this? It's bullshit. I am bullshit. Right now I want to talk to you, want to be with you again, but what does that mean? What am I saying? For Pete's sake I don't know what I am saying.
Why didn't I talk to you? Why? There is something wrong with me. All I could think about was the moment. That's it. My body and yours. I need guidance. I feel like this letter only complicates the matter, but I can't stop. I can't stop typing. I can't stop feeling, thinking. Am I overreacting? I feel like I could be overreacting. All I could think about last week was seeing you this weekend. All I could think about yesterday was seeing you last night. And then this morning I said that I did not feel like we would work? Can we work? We did work. You probably aren't even going to read all the way down here. I'm sure you stopped awhile ago, these are wasted words. Useless. Dumb stupid words that I can't help but type. Fuck.
I sent you a few messages before, which you did not respond to (rightfully so). I want to give you privacy, but at the same time, I just want a chance to talk to you. Please stop reading now. Please. This is terrible, I am writing awful things - am I giving her hope? Is that what I am trying to do? Is there hope? Am I hoping that there is hope? - Too many questions. I just think back to the way I watched you think, sit there in silence. What am I doing? What am I doing right now?
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. This is all wrong. All of this. I should just let you be.
I texted you, I hope you don't mind that. You have not responded. Does that mean 'fuck off, don't speak to me,' or maybe your phone is off? I am being weird. Very weird. I should not be analyzing every facet of this. Why am I still typing? It's useless. All I can imagine is you sitting somewhere in your house crying, but I feel bad making the assumption that you are crying. You don't have to be crying. You could be listening to music, or something, at your computer, typing, as I am. You sit there, screen blank, because you deleted the words. Line by line you type, look, stare, and then delete. Your head in your hands as you try to express something, try to tell me something. But you just sit there, frozen, the glow of the computer screen on your face.
Why am I such a mess? Don't answer. Never mind. Forget it. I'm stupid.
And somehow I believe this will make a difference. I don't know why I would think that. I am immature, just as bad as the rest of them. I thought I was a better person. Kevin looked down at me today. Kevin Casey. Kevin the kid who treats women like shit. I am Kevin. I am becoming Kevin. God. I always talk about how wrong Kevin is and how it makes me sick...I AM DOING IT. I am dishing out the same bullshit. It's hypocrisy, utter and total hypocrisy. Yet I continue to write. I don't believe I am turning into Kevin because I know that I did not intentionally do this. Fuck. I should listen to Nick, my Mom, anybody – oh give it time, time heals all wounds, talk to them, talk to anyone – anyone else has a better opinion than I do.
Nick was right. Fuck. Goddammit Nick. He should have warned me, stopped me. He should have driven to my house, when I was with you, and stopped it. But we were happy? It was right. After all I had been through with Bailey, I needed you. She killed me. Over. And Over. And Over. And Over Again. Each time more painful than the next. But I didn’t stop it, I didn’t stop the killing. Here I go again, talking about her. But why! This is not about her. God. I didn’t want to drag her into this, but she was already here. You are reading this, maybe reading this, reading about her, the one I should have been with. Each word scrapes open the wound that I gave to you. The one that I swore I would not give. You gave me the knife, looked at me, trusted me. I stared into your eyes as we sat there, alone, me with the knife. You watched as I drove it into your side and held you as you quivered.
We knew the risk. There was a risk. Should we have taken the risk? I told you I was not sure – I thought I did. I did. I didn’t. We were there, on the rocks, on the bed, in the car, we were there. Where was I? You saw me, touched me, spoke with me. I was with her, Bailey, trapped. I sat with you, deceived you, told you it was not about her. We laid there, hands locked, looking at the ceiling, trying to break the ceiling. We tried to rip down the walls, the drywall and wooden beams – tried to break through, break out, out into the night.
Why didn’t I try? I think this is me trying. But what am I trying to do? To you? To me?
The questions, the questions, they don’t stop coming. The tsunami of questions. I sit on the beach, watch, the waves they come in, slowly, and then faster. They engulf me, I see you. I look up and I see you. The water pours into my lungs, faster, I see you. I want you to be smiling. I want you to look at me and see me swallowing the water. I deserve to inhale the water, have it spill down into my lungs. The news reports, they would say it was an accident, my death, but I know it was not. The waves were on purpose. I put down my hands, ripped open the bottom of the sea, the water welling up. I watched, watched as the water rippled, shook, expanded. I was still on the beach, the sand, watching the waves come in, waiting. I looked back at you before they hit, engulfing me. You stood there, tears in your eyes, wishing I had come at another time.
I know you understand. You told me you did. You understand, yet, I feel you shouldn’t. I don’t understand. It was not faux. It was not. I don’t want to give you that hope again, the hope that everything is going to be alright; the reality as you laid there in my arms. We wanted this to be real, it was. Was. That’s past-tense – was. Dammit. I want to go back. I want to move on.
Allie, what the hell am I doing.
I want to tell you that I am an emotional mess. I have been today. I feel like what I said earlier was only part of the truth. I want to tell you exactly how I feel, in full detail. I cried today. You were not just a hook up to me, I think you know that. You were not just someone to help me get over Bailey. You are Allie. I just think back to last night/this morning. You are amazing. Am I only saying this because I feel bad about everything? I don't know. I just get the feeling that somehow I just used you, and the thought of that makes me hate myself. I'm writing to you because there is something wrong. Maybe it's just me. I've caused you a great deal of pain, which I never intended to do. I told you this morning that it's not about changing the past, but how you deal with the future. Well, I'm not taking my own advice.
"I just get the feeling that somehow I just used you, and the thought of that makes me hate myself."
I need to clarify this. The reason I say this is because that is what Kevin told me that I did. What I did. What did I do? How does he know what I did? That look – the instant suspicion of guilt. He wasn’t there! My best friend. I am a convict in an orange jumpsuit. Guilty. That’s it. Just it. No questions – just guilty. I do not know how Kevin knows, I can only assume it was her, Bailey. Your sister, Bailey. Of course she knows, how could she not know. But Kevin? Why would she tell Kevin? Of all people, Kevin. Kevin the kid who launched her life into turmoil. Why does Kevin care? God that sounds like horseshit. Why. Why. Why. Why.
Fuck it. This is much more complicated then it has to be. Or is it? (You are not required to read this and have sympathy) I have no one to talk to about this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why didn't I think more clearly about this? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I am stuck talking to a computer screen. I am pathetic. Your parents have respect for me... I AM AN ASSHOLE. And it's sad because I was completely myself with you. There was no show, no mask, no facade - it was me. How could I do this? It's bullshit. I am bullshit. Right now I want to talk to you, want to be with you again, but what does that mean? What am I saying? For Pete's sake I don't know what I am saying.
Why didn't I talk to you? Why? There is something wrong with me. All I could think about was the moment. That's it. My body and yours. I need guidance. I feel like this letter only complicates the matter, but I can't stop. I can't stop typing. I can't stop feeling, thinking. Am I overreacting? I feel like I could be overreacting. All I could think about last week was seeing you this weekend. All I could think about yesterday was seeing you last night. And then this morning I said that I did not feel like we would work? Can we work? We did work. You probably aren't even going to read all the way down here. I'm sure you stopped awhile ago, these are wasted words. Useless. Dumb stupid words that I can't help but type. Fuck.
I sent you a few messages before, which you did not respond to (rightfully so). I want to give you privacy, but at the same time, I just want a chance to talk to you. Please stop reading now. Please. This is terrible, I am writing awful things - am I giving her hope? Is that what I am trying to do? Is there hope? Am I hoping that there is hope? - Too many questions. I just think back to the way I watched you think, sit there in silence. What am I doing? What am I doing right now?
Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. This is all wrong. All of this. I should just let you be.
I texted you, I hope you don't mind that. You have not responded. Does that mean 'fuck off, don't speak to me,' or maybe your phone is off? I am being weird. Very weird. I should not be analyzing every facet of this. Why am I still typing? It's useless. All I can imagine is you sitting somewhere in your house crying, but I feel bad making the assumption that you are crying. You don't have to be crying. You could be listening to music, or something, at your computer, typing, as I am. You sit there, screen blank, because you deleted the words. Line by line you type, look, stare, and then delete. Your head in your hands as you try to express something, try to tell me something. But you just sit there, frozen, the glow of the computer screen on your face.
Why am I such a mess? Don't answer. Never mind. Forget it. I'm stupid.
And somehow I believe this will make a difference. I don't know why I would think that. I am immature, just as bad as the rest of them. I thought I was a better person. Kevin looked down at me today. Kevin Casey. Kevin the kid who treats women like shit. I am Kevin. I am becoming Kevin. God. I always talk about how wrong Kevin is and how it makes me sick...I AM DOING IT. I am dishing out the same bullshit. It's hypocrisy, utter and total hypocrisy. Yet I continue to write. I don't believe I am turning into Kevin because I know that I did not intentionally do this. Fuck. I should listen to Nick, my Mom, anybody – oh give it time, time heals all wounds, talk to them, talk to anyone – anyone else has a better opinion than I do.
Nick was right. Fuck. Goddammit Nick. He should have warned me, stopped me. He should have driven to my house, when I was with you, and stopped it. But we were happy? It was right. After all I had been through with Bailey, I needed you. She killed me. Over. And Over. And Over. And Over Again. Each time more painful than the next. But I didn’t stop it, I didn’t stop the killing. Here I go again, talking about her. But why! This is not about her. God. I didn’t want to drag her into this, but she was already here. You are reading this, maybe reading this, reading about her, the one I should have been with. Each word scrapes open the wound that I gave to you. The one that I swore I would not give. You gave me the knife, looked at me, trusted me. I stared into your eyes as we sat there, alone, me with the knife. You watched as I drove it into your side and held you as you quivered.
We knew the risk. There was a risk. Should we have taken the risk? I told you I was not sure – I thought I did. I did. I didn’t. We were there, on the rocks, on the bed, in the car, we were there. Where was I? You saw me, touched me, spoke with me. I was with her, Bailey, trapped. I sat with you, deceived you, told you it was not about her. We laid there, hands locked, looking at the ceiling, trying to break the ceiling. We tried to rip down the walls, the drywall and wooden beams – tried to break through, break out, out into the night.
Why didn’t I try? I think this is me trying. But what am I trying to do? To you? To me?
The questions, the questions, they don’t stop coming. The tsunami of questions. I sit on the beach, watch, the waves they come in, slowly, and then faster. They engulf me, I see you. I look up and I see you. The water pours into my lungs, faster, I see you. I want you to be smiling. I want you to look at me and see me swallowing the water. I deserve to inhale the water, have it spill down into my lungs. The news reports, they would say it was an accident, my death, but I know it was not. The waves were on purpose. I put down my hands, ripped open the bottom of the sea, the water welling up. I watched, watched as the water rippled, shook, expanded. I was still on the beach, the sand, watching the waves come in, waiting. I looked back at you before they hit, engulfing me. You stood there, tears in your eyes, wishing I had come at another time.
I know you understand. You told me you did. You understand, yet, I feel you shouldn’t. I don’t understand. It was not faux. It was not. I don’t want to give you that hope again, the hope that everything is going to be alright; the reality as you laid there in my arms. We wanted this to be real, it was. Was. That’s past-tense – was. Dammit. I want to go back. I want to move on.
Allie, what the hell am I doing.
Train Story (This Piece Is Much Better Than The Title May Suggest)
I just put my book away, laid it in my backpack, in front of the folded up newspaper.
Lake Forest.
That’s the next stop, probably a minute or so from Lake Bluff. I’m sitting here, writing, as the train heads towards Chicago; my destination being Wilmette. We’re at Lake Forest, and people are now entering the train, coming up the steps, past where I am sitting. It’s quite a gloomy day out. The window, to my right, is foggy and scratched; but it’s not actually foggy with fog, maybe I would describe it as cloudy. There’s also a green tint as I look out. I was perplexed by this odd coloring as a child. I would look at the train at night and the windows were green. The obvious explanation is that they were ‘tinted windows,’ but how unimaginative is that?
Possible explanations of the ‘green tinted windows’ phenomenon worthy of consideration:
-The lights inside of the train could have been green
-The train could have had an Irish ethnicity
-Aliens bought out the exclusive rights to the Metra Union-Pacific North Line and only rode it at night, which caused the green coloring
Fort Sheridan.
I’m looking around the rest of the car, and the people of the train, well, they are tightly shrouded in their own little environments. Perhaps ‘personal bubbles.’ Some are reading, listening to music, or sitting in complete silence. The conductor passed by me, he went down to punch someone’s ticket, I haven’t paid for mine yet. I’m wondering if I will have to pay it. I fit in well. Do I look like somebody who has paid? Maybe I have the savvy, ‘I always pay for my ticket,’ sort of look? That’s why he hasn’t asked me to pay; I’m deceiving him without knowledge of my own deception. I can hear the conductor’s hole puncher punching the hole into some passengers ticket. He’s passing by me again.
Meet the New Turkey Rae.
Apparently, that is a twist on the turkey sandwich; according to Potbelly’s. There was a small billboard promoting the sandwich at the last stop. I don’t feel compelled to buy one.
Highwood.
The horn sounds, you know what? I would be pretty pissed if somebody decided this should be the day that they jump in front of the train, which would then cause a massive delay, thanks to the terribly depressed person. But how depressed are they really. If they were truly manically depressed, would they actually have the motivation to jump? Can you really be so depressed that you can’t even carry out your own suicide plans? Maybe they were on prescribed anti-depressants, which made them feel better, better enough to have the will to jump, making them just depressed enough, but not too depressed, to throw themselves over the edge, or, in this case, fling them self at a train. My dad sometimes tells stories about how people used to commit suicide by jumping in front of CTA trains back when he was in college. My mom would add in that the platforms would become crowded with ‘rubberneckers’ who wished to catch a glimpse of the mangled body.
“I would have given them the gun myself,” my dad would say. “Maybe then they wouldn’t have stalled my train.”
Highland Park.
It’s still rainy out and the asphalt actually looks pretty slick. More people are getting on the train now, each of them are craning their necks looking for seats. The guy in a wheel chair, an electric wheel chair, who got on at my stop, just entered the bathroom below me and across the car. Is he missing his legs? He could quite possibly be one of those amazing survivor stories, you know, man stuck under boulder in wilderness cuts off legs to save himself. Highly doubt it. It was probably much more simple, like, he is a war vet or has some sort of disease. Is he even missing his legs? I know a guy who is a quadriplegic. He has claws. I shook them once.
Ravinia.
We just passed my cousin’s street, they live in Highland Park. There are four of them; three triplets and Frank. My brother and I are pretty close in age, too close to be ‘friendly,’ per say, so they were kind of like the brothers I never had. I remember one time when I was little, well, not exactly. I was between one and two years of age, I don’t remember it, but I’ve been told about the incident. So my mom decided to leave my brother and I alone for a second, I think she wished to use the bathroom, I don’t know. But she turns her back for a second and hears a ‘whack,’ followed by crying. John’s standing over me with a blue plastic golf club, the imprint of the club face in my forehead. To this day I still don’t understand why he smacked me with the club.
Well this is slightly annoying, there seems to be some commotion in the lower part of the car, diverting my attention away from writing; a kid is hopping around on crutches. The conductor walked by again, I can hear him talking. I think he might be conversing with the crutches kid, not too sure.
I hear the punching of the tickets again.
Braeside.
I find it interesting how towns become progressively larger as the train moves closer towards the city. I mean, it seems logical, you know, that that would happen. But the fact that I can visually see it I find rather interesting. You might not think so, but I’m the one writing this. The conductor just walked by again, I wonder when, or even if, he is going to ask me for my ticket.
Glencoe.
There are an abundance of leaves on the ground, I’m marveling at this as I glance out the window. Last night, actually, that’s when I really noticed all of the leaves, on the ground, for the first time. I was coming home from practice and the leaves were all over the road. In a way it sort of sucked to drive; the streets were slick, I couldn’t really see with the glare from the headlights of the oncoming cars. I was approaching a light, going about 50 miles per hour, and there was a car that wanted to turn. Don’t do it asshole. There really wasn’t that much room for him to turn, I was barreling down on the light, not to mention the utter lack of traction too. Anyway, the son-of-a-bitch turned, luckily, I anticipated the shithead doing that, so I slowed down. For the next quarter mile, I laid on the horn until the driver finally left my lane.
Hubbard Woods.
It’s funny to think that I used to take the train to Wilmette when I was younger, about third grade or so. A few block’s from the train station, that’s where one of my best friends lives. Actually, a few of my best friends live relatively close to that station. I was literally in walking distance from their homes. I could have seen my future best friends, bumped into them, given them dirty looks because they brushed up against me. Not that I gave, or even now give, dirty looks; just the fact that I could have quite possible run into them when they were just ordinary people, that amazes me.
Winnetka.
I just texted my friend to come and pick me up from the train station, I am three stops away. The train has gotten so full that people are standing in the aisle and up on the steps. I’m sure they will be thrilled when I get up to exit the train. Perhaps there will be a scuffle over my seat. Maybe two people will converge on it and look blankly at each other, not knowing who will take it. The conductor passed by me again.
Indian Hill.
The clicking of the puncher is quite loud, trumping every other noise that is around me. The clicking is above the chatter, the clacking of the tracks, the other diverse sounds of a Metra train; such as the strangely voiced train operator who I find barely audible – it sounds like he is hooked up to a ventilator. Anyway, I didn’t happen to notice when the wheel chair guy left the bathroom, his departure was fairly smooth I take it. I most likely would have noticed if he blew a fuse on his wheel chair, or, accidently yanked all the toilet paper out of the bathroom, which would drag on the floor all the way back to his seat.
Kenilworth.
I’m getting up now to head towards the area between the two cars, where the doors reside. The conductor is standing there.
“I wrote about how you didn’t collect my ticket.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah. I’m writing about the train ride, and, I had an inner-personal debate about whether or not you would collect my ticket. In fact, I wrote down the conversation we are having right now while I was up there.”
“That’s not possible, it hasn’t happened yet. You need to pay for your ticket sir.”
“I wrote down that you said that.”
“I don’t have time for this, you’re getting off at the next stop.”
“Would you like to take a look? I have this exact conversation verbatim. You can read what the rest of our dialogue will look like.”
“Impossible. There is no way in – no. I’m done with this.”
Wilmette.
It’s time for me to get off now. I think I might have freaked the conductor out a little bit, maybe more like weirded him out, really. It’s drizzling, the doors closed behind me and I’m standing underneath an overhang in the Wilmette station. People must think I am silly, standing here with a notepad and a pen. The train is thundering away, down towards Chicago, its final destination.
I’m stuck at a train station with nothing to do, so I write. I wait.
Lake Forest.
That’s the next stop, probably a minute or so from Lake Bluff. I’m sitting here, writing, as the train heads towards Chicago; my destination being Wilmette. We’re at Lake Forest, and people are now entering the train, coming up the steps, past where I am sitting. It’s quite a gloomy day out. The window, to my right, is foggy and scratched; but it’s not actually foggy with fog, maybe I would describe it as cloudy. There’s also a green tint as I look out. I was perplexed by this odd coloring as a child. I would look at the train at night and the windows were green. The obvious explanation is that they were ‘tinted windows,’ but how unimaginative is that?
Possible explanations of the ‘green tinted windows’ phenomenon worthy of consideration:
-The lights inside of the train could have been green
-The train could have had an Irish ethnicity
-Aliens bought out the exclusive rights to the Metra Union-Pacific North Line and only rode it at night, which caused the green coloring
Fort Sheridan.
I’m looking around the rest of the car, and the people of the train, well, they are tightly shrouded in their own little environments. Perhaps ‘personal bubbles.’ Some are reading, listening to music, or sitting in complete silence. The conductor passed by me, he went down to punch someone’s ticket, I haven’t paid for mine yet. I’m wondering if I will have to pay it. I fit in well. Do I look like somebody who has paid? Maybe I have the savvy, ‘I always pay for my ticket,’ sort of look? That’s why he hasn’t asked me to pay; I’m deceiving him without knowledge of my own deception. I can hear the conductor’s hole puncher punching the hole into some passengers ticket. He’s passing by me again.
Meet the New Turkey Rae.
Apparently, that is a twist on the turkey sandwich; according to Potbelly’s. There was a small billboard promoting the sandwich at the last stop. I don’t feel compelled to buy one.
Highwood.
The horn sounds, you know what? I would be pretty pissed if somebody decided this should be the day that they jump in front of the train, which would then cause a massive delay, thanks to the terribly depressed person. But how depressed are they really. If they were truly manically depressed, would they actually have the motivation to jump? Can you really be so depressed that you can’t even carry out your own suicide plans? Maybe they were on prescribed anti-depressants, which made them feel better, better enough to have the will to jump, making them just depressed enough, but not too depressed, to throw themselves over the edge, or, in this case, fling them self at a train. My dad sometimes tells stories about how people used to commit suicide by jumping in front of CTA trains back when he was in college. My mom would add in that the platforms would become crowded with ‘rubberneckers’ who wished to catch a glimpse of the mangled body.
“I would have given them the gun myself,” my dad would say. “Maybe then they wouldn’t have stalled my train.”
Highland Park.
It’s still rainy out and the asphalt actually looks pretty slick. More people are getting on the train now, each of them are craning their necks looking for seats. The guy in a wheel chair, an electric wheel chair, who got on at my stop, just entered the bathroom below me and across the car. Is he missing his legs? He could quite possibly be one of those amazing survivor stories, you know, man stuck under boulder in wilderness cuts off legs to save himself. Highly doubt it. It was probably much more simple, like, he is a war vet or has some sort of disease. Is he even missing his legs? I know a guy who is a quadriplegic. He has claws. I shook them once.
Ravinia.
We just passed my cousin’s street, they live in Highland Park. There are four of them; three triplets and Frank. My brother and I are pretty close in age, too close to be ‘friendly,’ per say, so they were kind of like the brothers I never had. I remember one time when I was little, well, not exactly. I was between one and two years of age, I don’t remember it, but I’ve been told about the incident. So my mom decided to leave my brother and I alone for a second, I think she wished to use the bathroom, I don’t know. But she turns her back for a second and hears a ‘whack,’ followed by crying. John’s standing over me with a blue plastic golf club, the imprint of the club face in my forehead. To this day I still don’t understand why he smacked me with the club.
Well this is slightly annoying, there seems to be some commotion in the lower part of the car, diverting my attention away from writing; a kid is hopping around on crutches. The conductor walked by again, I can hear him talking. I think he might be conversing with the crutches kid, not too sure.
I hear the punching of the tickets again.
Braeside.
I find it interesting how towns become progressively larger as the train moves closer towards the city. I mean, it seems logical, you know, that that would happen. But the fact that I can visually see it I find rather interesting. You might not think so, but I’m the one writing this. The conductor just walked by again, I wonder when, or even if, he is going to ask me for my ticket.
Glencoe.
There are an abundance of leaves on the ground, I’m marveling at this as I glance out the window. Last night, actually, that’s when I really noticed all of the leaves, on the ground, for the first time. I was coming home from practice and the leaves were all over the road. In a way it sort of sucked to drive; the streets were slick, I couldn’t really see with the glare from the headlights of the oncoming cars. I was approaching a light, going about 50 miles per hour, and there was a car that wanted to turn. Don’t do it asshole. There really wasn’t that much room for him to turn, I was barreling down on the light, not to mention the utter lack of traction too. Anyway, the son-of-a-bitch turned, luckily, I anticipated the shithead doing that, so I slowed down. For the next quarter mile, I laid on the horn until the driver finally left my lane.
Hubbard Woods.
It’s funny to think that I used to take the train to Wilmette when I was younger, about third grade or so. A few block’s from the train station, that’s where one of my best friends lives. Actually, a few of my best friends live relatively close to that station. I was literally in walking distance from their homes. I could have seen my future best friends, bumped into them, given them dirty looks because they brushed up against me. Not that I gave, or even now give, dirty looks; just the fact that I could have quite possible run into them when they were just ordinary people, that amazes me.
Winnetka.
I just texted my friend to come and pick me up from the train station, I am three stops away. The train has gotten so full that people are standing in the aisle and up on the steps. I’m sure they will be thrilled when I get up to exit the train. Perhaps there will be a scuffle over my seat. Maybe two people will converge on it and look blankly at each other, not knowing who will take it. The conductor passed by me again.
Indian Hill.
The clicking of the puncher is quite loud, trumping every other noise that is around me. The clicking is above the chatter, the clacking of the tracks, the other diverse sounds of a Metra train; such as the strangely voiced train operator who I find barely audible – it sounds like he is hooked up to a ventilator. Anyway, I didn’t happen to notice when the wheel chair guy left the bathroom, his departure was fairly smooth I take it. I most likely would have noticed if he blew a fuse on his wheel chair, or, accidently yanked all the toilet paper out of the bathroom, which would drag on the floor all the way back to his seat.
Kenilworth.
I’m getting up now to head towards the area between the two cars, where the doors reside. The conductor is standing there.
“I wrote about how you didn’t collect my ticket.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah. I’m writing about the train ride, and, I had an inner-personal debate about whether or not you would collect my ticket. In fact, I wrote down the conversation we are having right now while I was up there.”
“That’s not possible, it hasn’t happened yet. You need to pay for your ticket sir.”
“I wrote down that you said that.”
“I don’t have time for this, you’re getting off at the next stop.”
“Would you like to take a look? I have this exact conversation verbatim. You can read what the rest of our dialogue will look like.”
“Impossible. There is no way in – no. I’m done with this.”
Wilmette.
It’s time for me to get off now. I think I might have freaked the conductor out a little bit, maybe more like weirded him out, really. It’s drizzling, the doors closed behind me and I’m standing underneath an overhang in the Wilmette station. People must think I am silly, standing here with a notepad and a pen. The train is thundering away, down towards Chicago, its final destination.
I’m stuck at a train station with nothing to do, so I write. I wait.
Report: Student Suffers Emotional Breakdown Following Discovery of Withered Crops
Lake Forest – Students were given the day off following the emotional breakdown of Jack Green today at Lake Forest High School.
“It was the worst I have ever seen,” remarked Casey Boreman, the school’s psychologist. “We’ve set up a hotline for the other students who might have been traumatized by this event.”
Around 10:19 this morning, Green was reported to have received a text message from a friend, revealing that his Artichokes had withered.
“He was on edge this morning, you know, as soon as I walked in the door,” senior Grace Lowell recalled. “He was pacing around the classroom, saying that his Artichokes were at 99% when he left for school this morning. In his defense, Artichokes take four days to harvest. I feel for him.”
Upon reading the text message, eyewitnesses claim that Green yelled ‘No’ loudly, numerous times. He then took the microscope sitting on his lab table and began to smash his cellular phone as neighboring students looked on, horrified.
“Mrs. Barron rushed over to find out what was going on,” says Mack Freedman, Green’s lab partner. “He put the microscope back on the table and lay down on the ground, curling into the fetal position. I believe he then said something, like, ‘I knew I should not have come to school today. I needed the artichokes to advance to level 8.’”
Mrs. Barron tried to console the grief stricken Jack Green, but was unsuccessful. Green began to cry, and then threatened to “find that bastard-farmville-motherfucking-creator,” and then “inundate his house with dead artichokes.” Following the outbreak, Chelsea Weinner ran over and punched the emergency button and Mrs. Barron summoned the office to send the school’s psychologist.
“You always prepare for the worst-case scenarios,” says Boreman. “But this one took me by total surprise.”
Farmville – the highly addictive simulated farming game, on the popular social-networking site Facebook – has baffled mental health experts all over the country. “We’ve simply never studied the effects of Farmville,” said Associate Professor Barry Kaufman of the Addiction center at the Fienberg School of Medicine, Northwestern University. “We are not prepared to handle addictions of that nature, currently. Last year we were overcome by Barack Obama addictions. We found countless numbers of people who were repeating campaign slogans. God, if I had one more patient tell me about ‘change I can believe in,’ I would have kicked their fucking ass.”
With concern for the wellness of the students, Lake Forest High School dismissed class for the remainder of the day and issued a statement:
“Due to an incident concerning a Lake Forest High School student, the school will be closed for the day. Classes will reconvene tomorrow at the normal time.”
An administrator at the school has commented on the issue, saying “We held an emergency meeting following the incident and have reached the conclusion that computers will be made available for students to check on their crops throughout the day.”
“It’s a relief,” added Boreman. “The only way to prevent future breakdowns, such as Jack’s, comes from an increased understanding of the withering process. I definitely think that the installation of computers, specifically for Farmville, gives us hope. But, I would encourage those who have been affected by this incident to talk to our guidance counselors. We are doing our best to cope with the situation.”
“It was the worst I have ever seen,” remarked Casey Boreman, the school’s psychologist. “We’ve set up a hotline for the other students who might have been traumatized by this event.”
Around 10:19 this morning, Green was reported to have received a text message from a friend, revealing that his Artichokes had withered.
“He was on edge this morning, you know, as soon as I walked in the door,” senior Grace Lowell recalled. “He was pacing around the classroom, saying that his Artichokes were at 99% when he left for school this morning. In his defense, Artichokes take four days to harvest. I feel for him.”
Upon reading the text message, eyewitnesses claim that Green yelled ‘No’ loudly, numerous times. He then took the microscope sitting on his lab table and began to smash his cellular phone as neighboring students looked on, horrified.
“Mrs. Barron rushed over to find out what was going on,” says Mack Freedman, Green’s lab partner. “He put the microscope back on the table and lay down on the ground, curling into the fetal position. I believe he then said something, like, ‘I knew I should not have come to school today. I needed the artichokes to advance to level 8.’”
Mrs. Barron tried to console the grief stricken Jack Green, but was unsuccessful. Green began to cry, and then threatened to “find that bastard-farmville-motherfucking-creator,” and then “inundate his house with dead artichokes.” Following the outbreak, Chelsea Weinner ran over and punched the emergency button and Mrs. Barron summoned the office to send the school’s psychologist.
“You always prepare for the worst-case scenarios,” says Boreman. “But this one took me by total surprise.”
Farmville – the highly addictive simulated farming game, on the popular social-networking site Facebook – has baffled mental health experts all over the country. “We’ve simply never studied the effects of Farmville,” said Associate Professor Barry Kaufman of the Addiction center at the Fienberg School of Medicine, Northwestern University. “We are not prepared to handle addictions of that nature, currently. Last year we were overcome by Barack Obama addictions. We found countless numbers of people who were repeating campaign slogans. God, if I had one more patient tell me about ‘change I can believe in,’ I would have kicked their fucking ass.”
With concern for the wellness of the students, Lake Forest High School dismissed class for the remainder of the day and issued a statement:
“Due to an incident concerning a Lake Forest High School student, the school will be closed for the day. Classes will reconvene tomorrow at the normal time.”
An administrator at the school has commented on the issue, saying “We held an emergency meeting following the incident and have reached the conclusion that computers will be made available for students to check on their crops throughout the day.”
“It’s a relief,” added Boreman. “The only way to prevent future breakdowns, such as Jack’s, comes from an increased understanding of the withering process. I definitely think that the installation of computers, specifically for Farmville, gives us hope. But, I would encourage those who have been affected by this incident to talk to our guidance counselors. We are doing our best to cope with the situation.”
Senate Finally Passes Bill Aimed At Killing Senior Citizens
Much has been made over Section 1233 of House Bill HR 3200, the section with alleged euthanasia policy.
The obvious question to be asked is: should euthanasia be our principle health care policy?
The answer, resoundingly, is yes.
The U.S. Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor & Pensions met today to discuss the controversial section of the bill. Obvious ethical questions arose, but none prohibited the group from approving policy with a 21-1 vote.
“We feel that this was a step in a positive direction,” said Committee Chairman Tom Harkin (D). “There were a number of studies conducted and the medical costs to keep the sixty-something-year-olds alive are astounding. A hip replacement here, a quadruple bypass there – they’re going to die anyway, so we might as well pull the plug before they digress back into diapers.”
The lone dissent was from Alaskan Senator Lisa Murkowski (R) who stated that euthanasia was still way too expensive and that it would be more effective to “truck all of the old people into the great state of Alaska, where they can be dumped in the wilderness to fend for themselves.”
The Senator also stated that the dead bodies could be used to feed polar bears, or provide fertilizer to the barren tundra making the region better suited for agriculture.
To catch local reaction of the passing of the bill by the Senate Committee, our crews managed to make it to a town hall meeting in the North Shore suburb of Lake Forest, Illinois. The meeting began shortly after 4 P.M., when the local congressman Mark Star began the meeting by addressing the crowd, “Hello, on behalf of congressional district 115, I would like to welcome you to this town-hall meeting to discus House Bill HR 3200.”
Shortly after the congressman began to discus the bill, a heckler stood up, unfurled a poster and shouted, “Why do you support a Nazi health plan? Euthanizing is the first step to genocide. You should be ashamed of yourself.” There was a gasp as peopled looked at the poster; which had a printed picture of an African-American man with an ink-splotch on the area between his upper-lip and nose. However, the name under the poster, Adolf Obama, was not found in our internet registry. Pending further investigation, we are unable to identify the man on the poster.
The crowd awaited the congressman Star’s reaction, who responded to the heckler with kind words, encouraging the woman to sit down. She refused, proclaiming, “I will not adhere to your fascist demands.” The congressman pulled out a sawed-off shotgun from his suit coat and shot the heckler in the chest, which the crowd enthusiastically applauded. In an effort to carry on with his speech, congressman Star acknowledged his supporters with a wave and declared “She was getting on all of our nerves wasn’t she.”
“I just don’t get it,” Gregory Restil said. “I talked with Congressman Star when he was running for election. I told him that I was about to undergo my second quadruple by-pass and that I was going to fight until my last breath, to, uh, make sure that I could be euthanized. But it was too late, I had the surgery and now I have to live.”
“Wait a minute. This ‘euthanasia’ is not legal? What are they doing at the rehabilitation center?” Peter Barac slowly evaded our staff in his walker before we could follow up his comment.
We caught up with the spokesperson for the Senior Citizens of Lake Forest, Margaret Anderson, who offered a statement. “We have been following the legislative process very closely, and I think they might have finally gotten it right. The seniors might not have to ‘fall’ down the stairs anymore, because lets face it, nobody dies from broken hips anymore. They are sick of playing chess and pretending to fall asleep when family comes in to visit them – it’s truly quite simple, they want to be injected with poison and quickly have their respiratory systems collapse.”
We were able to catch up with congressman Star after the meeting to address the seniors concerns.
“You know, there are a lot of ethical questions that we dealt with when drafting the bill, especially section 1233,” the congressman told us. “Our biggest question was which drug company we wanted to contract this job out to. I’ve received campaign contributions from both Mizer and Maggot Laboratories, so I guess the decision is going to come down to which one will give me the best chance of getting re-elected.”
It appears that the government has finally connected with the will of the people on the policy of euthanasia.
“Our interest is the American people,” said Harkin. “We will stop at nothing until we can pass a law that gives the senior citizens what they want. I’m tired of going into nursing home after nursing home, and hearing the horror stories of these people going through countless surgeries, only to wake up back in their rooms to live for another ten to fifteen years. It time we finally put them, you know, the old people and their stories, to rest.”
The obvious question to be asked is: should euthanasia be our principle health care policy?
The answer, resoundingly, is yes.
The U.S. Senate Committee on Health, Education, Labor & Pensions met today to discuss the controversial section of the bill. Obvious ethical questions arose, but none prohibited the group from approving policy with a 21-1 vote.
“We feel that this was a step in a positive direction,” said Committee Chairman Tom Harkin (D). “There were a number of studies conducted and the medical costs to keep the sixty-something-year-olds alive are astounding. A hip replacement here, a quadruple bypass there – they’re going to die anyway, so we might as well pull the plug before they digress back into diapers.”
The lone dissent was from Alaskan Senator Lisa Murkowski (R) who stated that euthanasia was still way too expensive and that it would be more effective to “truck all of the old people into the great state of Alaska, where they can be dumped in the wilderness to fend for themselves.”
The Senator also stated that the dead bodies could be used to feed polar bears, or provide fertilizer to the barren tundra making the region better suited for agriculture.
To catch local reaction of the passing of the bill by the Senate Committee, our crews managed to make it to a town hall meeting in the North Shore suburb of Lake Forest, Illinois. The meeting began shortly after 4 P.M., when the local congressman Mark Star began the meeting by addressing the crowd, “Hello, on behalf of congressional district 115, I would like to welcome you to this town-hall meeting to discus House Bill HR 3200.”
Shortly after the congressman began to discus the bill, a heckler stood up, unfurled a poster and shouted, “Why do you support a Nazi health plan? Euthanizing is the first step to genocide. You should be ashamed of yourself.” There was a gasp as peopled looked at the poster; which had a printed picture of an African-American man with an ink-splotch on the area between his upper-lip and nose. However, the name under the poster, Adolf Obama, was not found in our internet registry. Pending further investigation, we are unable to identify the man on the poster.
The crowd awaited the congressman Star’s reaction, who responded to the heckler with kind words, encouraging the woman to sit down. She refused, proclaiming, “I will not adhere to your fascist demands.” The congressman pulled out a sawed-off shotgun from his suit coat and shot the heckler in the chest, which the crowd enthusiastically applauded. In an effort to carry on with his speech, congressman Star acknowledged his supporters with a wave and declared “She was getting on all of our nerves wasn’t she.”
“I just don’t get it,” Gregory Restil said. “I talked with Congressman Star when he was running for election. I told him that I was about to undergo my second quadruple by-pass and that I was going to fight until my last breath, to, uh, make sure that I could be euthanized. But it was too late, I had the surgery and now I have to live.”
“Wait a minute. This ‘euthanasia’ is not legal? What are they doing at the rehabilitation center?” Peter Barac slowly evaded our staff in his walker before we could follow up his comment.
We caught up with the spokesperson for the Senior Citizens of Lake Forest, Margaret Anderson, who offered a statement. “We have been following the legislative process very closely, and I think they might have finally gotten it right. The seniors might not have to ‘fall’ down the stairs anymore, because lets face it, nobody dies from broken hips anymore. They are sick of playing chess and pretending to fall asleep when family comes in to visit them – it’s truly quite simple, they want to be injected with poison and quickly have their respiratory systems collapse.”
We were able to catch up with congressman Star after the meeting to address the seniors concerns.
“You know, there are a lot of ethical questions that we dealt with when drafting the bill, especially section 1233,” the congressman told us. “Our biggest question was which drug company we wanted to contract this job out to. I’ve received campaign contributions from both Mizer and Maggot Laboratories, so I guess the decision is going to come down to which one will give me the best chance of getting re-elected.”
It appears that the government has finally connected with the will of the people on the policy of euthanasia.
“Our interest is the American people,” said Harkin. “We will stop at nothing until we can pass a law that gives the senior citizens what they want. I’m tired of going into nursing home after nursing home, and hearing the horror stories of these people going through countless surgeries, only to wake up back in their rooms to live for another ten to fifteen years. It time we finally put them, you know, the old people and their stories, to rest.”
The Thanking
A few seconds ago, I was involved in a situation that brought me into contemplation. About fifteen minutes prior to this event, I had asked a girl if I could borrow her textbook. Because of my outstanding charm, she decided to let me borrow the book. I used the textbook to decipher what was going on in class.
I finished trying to teach myself six-days of class work and came to the conclusion that in my class, we are a bunch of blind sheep being herded by a blind shepherd…across a highway. So hopefully picking up upon this description, you can understand that walking into class is like walking into a slaughter.
So, upon conclusion of my self-taught lesson, I returned the book to its owner. After accepting the delivery, she responded by saying “thanks.”
Now this might not have seemed that unusual or subject to contemplation, but I was perplexed as to why she thanked me for giving her book back. After all, I was the one that borrowed it. Shouldn’t I be the one thanking her? Was she really thankful that I had returned it? It’s not like I was heading off to Pakistan with an “I love India” t-shirt and might not have returned to hand back her book…
The issue at hand, or at least the issue I have, is that I am the one who is supposed to be saying thank you. She didn’t have to let me borrow the book; it was out of her kindness.
Another phenomenon which occurs that perplexes me: a guy is walking at a trepid pace when he rams into an unsuspecting, uncorrupted girl and after the contact, she blurts out “SORRY!”
But wait a sec, didn’t walking asshole just ram into you? Didn’t he initiate contact? He should be saying sorry, not angel girl.
To put it another way, suppose that you are driving up to a red light. You stop, and then the light turns green. You gently step on the pedal, and meander into the intersection. All of sudden, BAM! A driver runs the red light and t-bones your car! After impacting the airbag, the recoil from the crash cracks your septum and blood pastes the inside of your car. You manage to pull yourself out of the twisted metal frame of your vehicle, glass littering the road as you crawl out, gashing your palms. You make it to the other driver and motion for him to roll down his window. Gasping for air, struggling to remain conscious, you collect yourself and tell the driver, “…*gasp*… I’m so sorry you hit me…the light was green…I never should have gone…*blackout*…”
Now my incident is no where near as dramatic, or as outlandish, as the one that I just presented, but nevertheless, it represents the same issue: person, who makes an action or forces an issue, should take responsibility, and therefore say “sorry” or “thank you.” But for many of the instances I have seen, this has been reversed.
I don’t want to blame society for this problem, but you know what? It is society’s problem. There is this inexplicable fear of offending others, for whatever reason, I do not understand. Perhaps this figures into my situation today, with the girl thanking me for returning her book. Yes, it is polite to thank someone after a courteous gesture, but I should have been thanking her for letting me borrow her book. Would I have been offended if she did not thank me for returning her book?
I would have ripped her head off…
No…the likelihood of that event taking place is almost as great as the Middle East becoming a peaceful land…In any instance, my reaction wouldn’t have been anything significant.
No matter what I do, the question still looms:
Why was I being thanked?
I did not do anything worthy of praise. The book was not in my hands long enough to bring up question or doubt as to whether this girl would have seen her textbook again or not. I simply fulfilled the act of borrowing, which is to be expected, I don’t see the shock in that.
I could have been thanked for being alive or wearing pants, but instead I was thanked for returning a book. It would have been shocking if I had neglected to return the book to its rightful owner. After all, the terms of our agreement were that I would be the guardian of the book for only a short period of time. I feel that under these circumstances, an expected act of returning the book and the brief period of time that I had the book, I didn’t deserve any recognition for my actions. It was common courtesy on my part.
Bottom line: I don’t believe that I should have been thanked for my actions, and because I was thanked, I wrote about it.
I finished trying to teach myself six-days of class work and came to the conclusion that in my class, we are a bunch of blind sheep being herded by a blind shepherd…across a highway. So hopefully picking up upon this description, you can understand that walking into class is like walking into a slaughter.
So, upon conclusion of my self-taught lesson, I returned the book to its owner. After accepting the delivery, she responded by saying “thanks.”
Now this might not have seemed that unusual or subject to contemplation, but I was perplexed as to why she thanked me for giving her book back. After all, I was the one that borrowed it. Shouldn’t I be the one thanking her? Was she really thankful that I had returned it? It’s not like I was heading off to Pakistan with an “I love India” t-shirt and might not have returned to hand back her book…
The issue at hand, or at least the issue I have, is that I am the one who is supposed to be saying thank you. She didn’t have to let me borrow the book; it was out of her kindness.
Another phenomenon which occurs that perplexes me: a guy is walking at a trepid pace when he rams into an unsuspecting, uncorrupted girl and after the contact, she blurts out “SORRY!”
But wait a sec, didn’t walking asshole just ram into you? Didn’t he initiate contact? He should be saying sorry, not angel girl.
To put it another way, suppose that you are driving up to a red light. You stop, and then the light turns green. You gently step on the pedal, and meander into the intersection. All of sudden, BAM! A driver runs the red light and t-bones your car! After impacting the airbag, the recoil from the crash cracks your septum and blood pastes the inside of your car. You manage to pull yourself out of the twisted metal frame of your vehicle, glass littering the road as you crawl out, gashing your palms. You make it to the other driver and motion for him to roll down his window. Gasping for air, struggling to remain conscious, you collect yourself and tell the driver, “…*gasp*… I’m so sorry you hit me…the light was green…I never should have gone…*blackout*…”
Now my incident is no where near as dramatic, or as outlandish, as the one that I just presented, but nevertheless, it represents the same issue: person, who makes an action or forces an issue, should take responsibility, and therefore say “sorry” or “thank you.” But for many of the instances I have seen, this has been reversed.
I don’t want to blame society for this problem, but you know what? It is society’s problem. There is this inexplicable fear of offending others, for whatever reason, I do not understand. Perhaps this figures into my situation today, with the girl thanking me for returning her book. Yes, it is polite to thank someone after a courteous gesture, but I should have been thanking her for letting me borrow her book. Would I have been offended if she did not thank me for returning her book?
I would have ripped her head off…
No…the likelihood of that event taking place is almost as great as the Middle East becoming a peaceful land…In any instance, my reaction wouldn’t have been anything significant.
No matter what I do, the question still looms:
Why was I being thanked?
I did not do anything worthy of praise. The book was not in my hands long enough to bring up question or doubt as to whether this girl would have seen her textbook again or not. I simply fulfilled the act of borrowing, which is to be expected, I don’t see the shock in that.
I could have been thanked for being alive or wearing pants, but instead I was thanked for returning a book. It would have been shocking if I had neglected to return the book to its rightful owner. After all, the terms of our agreement were that I would be the guardian of the book for only a short period of time. I feel that under these circumstances, an expected act of returning the book and the brief period of time that I had the book, I didn’t deserve any recognition for my actions. It was common courtesy on my part.
Bottom line: I don’t believe that I should have been thanked for my actions, and because I was thanked, I wrote about it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)