IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?

So, here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie


***********
Opening Credits: Futures - Jimmy Eats World

First day at High School: Rockaway beach - Ramones

Falling in Love: How you ever gonna know- Garth Brooks ( appropriate for us chickens)

Fight Song: Voice of the voiceless - Rage against the Machine

Breaking Up: Tennessee Waltz

Prom: Times like these - Jack Johnson

Life: Two step- Dave Matthews Band (one of my favorites YAY!)

Driving: If you ever did believe -Stevie Nix and Sherryl Crow

Flashback: Truth - Seether

Getting Back Together: You will be loved - Death Cab

Wedding: Grind with me - Pretty Ricki... HAHAHA dirty bastard

Birth of Child: The future freaks me out -Motion city soundtrack

Final Battle: I am cow -Arrogant Worms... what????

Death Scene: I don't mind - Buzzcocks

Funeral Song: Signed sealed and delivered - Stevie Wonder ( maybe I die across seas?)

End Credits: I've been everywhere- Johnny Cash

The funny thing is I know a little old lady, we will call the Queen of Innisville, that has this as a real life plan.... DO NOT PLAY THE WRONG SONG OR I WILL HAUNT YOU! ( that is a direct quote)

Hell's belles

The thing I love most about my house is that I can hear the bells at the cathedral and the other churches around the neighborhood. There is something very comforting in the sounds of church bells in the evening. Especially tonight with the snow softly falling and the streets lights muted. It feels soft and inviting just to enjoy a moment of quiet in the bustle of downtown.



********

You know when you think that things are going good then the other foot drops.... well the other foot dropped on me.
I thought that the whole dorky Dave thing was over.... I figured that jesus had left the building and that my world would never have to hear from him or his stupid ass again. Never would my world would collide with his. I phoned the prosecutors this week, in the thought that no news was good news theory.... and the hearing date had been pushed back, as his right was to move the court date if needs be.
AS if he has some sort of rights...
February 5
another weeks of waiting patiently
I figured that it was over but now it is not.
so again I patiently wait.
maybe I will go
maybe I will take a big stick
maybe I will take my Brother or worse my mother and let her rage at him. No one rages like my mom!

hormones

Oh my fucking GOD. I hate PMS. I turn from a logical fun luvin carefree mess that resembles a person into a a pile of weirdness. Now I am the first one to say I love me, but PLEASE could we turn down the hormones?? Just a little. It makes me hate people I like and like people I hate and the indifferent bunch becomes different.
BUT it does make chocolate taste so much better.
GAH! Just put me out of my misery!

EYELASH MONSTERS.... but they don't poop!

Demodex folliculorum, or the demodicid, is a tiny mite, less than 0.4 mm long, that lives in your pores and hair follicles, usually on the nose, forehead, cheek, and chin, and often in the roots of your eyelashes. (A follicle is the pore from which a hair grows). Demodicids have a wormlike appearance, with legs that are mere stumps. People with oily skin, or those who use cosmetics heavily and don't wash thoroughly, have the heaviest infestations ... but most adults carry a few demodicids. Inflammation and infection often result when large numbers of these mites congregate in a single follicle. The mites live head-down in a follicle, feeding on secretions and dead skin debris. At the left, you can see three demodicids buried in the follicle of a hair, and you can also see the hair's shaft. If too many mites have buried into the same follicle, it may cause the eyelash to fall out easily. An individual female may lay up to 25 eggs in a single follicle, and as the mites grow, they become tightly packed. When mature, the mites leave the follicle, mate, and find a new follicle in which to lay their eggs. The whole cycle takes between 14 to 18 days.Sometimes demodex is called the 'face mite', since it is often associated with blackheads, acne and other skin disorders (although it is not the cause of these). Demodex are harmless and don't transmit diseases, but large numbers of demodex mites may cause itching and skin disorders, referred to as Demodicosis. The mites have tiny claws, and needlelike mouthparts for eating skin cells. Their bodies are layered with scales, which help them anchor themselves in the follicle. The mite's digestive system results in so little waste that the mite doesn't even have an excretory opening. So although there may be mites in your eyelashes, there isn't any mite poop! Thank goodness! However ... did you know that you go to sleep at night on a pillow that is home to many thousands of dust mites ...which help keep our homes clean by consuming the tens of millions of skin cells we shed each day? Just pretend they're not there

that was great I think you should read it again!

geriatric gladiators

AS the population ages the options of what to do with all the old people keeps coming up. Now I propose this, extreme survival of the fittest!
to gain admittance into a old folks home you have to fight, to the death, one of the residence. AND the day that you leave the stove on or you run over your wife in the parking lot, that is the day that you must enter the arena.
A bit harsh yes, but, you have to admit it would make retirement a lot more purposeful. True some industries would suffer, the grown up scooter industry for instance BUT I am sure that the razor wire wheel chair spokes industry would make up for it.

just a thought
enjoy your day

I have a class!
YAY!
tuesday
Parrots
people want happy shiney pictures
oh I am so excited

Today

today has been a great day.
I woke up with a purring cat.
hung out and coffeed with a Cat.
non-shopped with a friend.
and NOW I get to go see an epic tale with my favorite person!
today is a great day indeed!
;) almost good enough to write a book or a screen play on. HAHA

when is it enough coffee?

uhhhh so
a traditional pot?
is that too much?
is there a chance that I can actually achieve orbit if the tapping and internal vibration gets to be too much.
let me talk a little about my love of coffee.
I love it so much I seriously want to go to a farm and see how it is grown. to meet the workers . Maybe bring back a little coffee plant of my own! Agriculture Canada thinks this is illegal. I will have to find a way to make it happen. My theory is if you can grow grapes then you can grow coffee..... oh the euphoria of it! its all in the heat units..... I digress....
mmmmm
coffee my Sweet love!

YOU ARE HERE, BY CHUCK PALAHNIUK, AN EXCERPT.

In the ballroom at the Airport Sheraton Hotel, a team of men and women sit inside separate booths, curtained off from each other. They each sit at a small table, the curtains enclosing a space just big enough for the table and two chairs. And they listen. All day, they sit and listen.
Outside the ballroom, a crowd waits in the lobby, writers holding book manuscripts or movie screenplays. An organizer guards the ballroom doors, checking a list of names on a clipboard. She calls your name, and you step forward and follow her into the ballroom. The organizer parts a curtain. You take a seat at the little table. And you start to talk.
As a writer, you have seven minutes. Some places you might get eight or even ten minutes, but then the organizer will return to replace you with another writer. For this window of time, you’ve paid between twenty and fifty dollars to pitch your story to a book agent or a publisher or movie producer.
And all day, the ballroom at the Airport Sheraton is buzzing with talk. Most of the writers here are old—creepy old, retired people clutching their one good story. Shaking their manuscript in both spotted hands and saying, “Here! Read my incest story!”
A big segment of the storytelling is about personal suffering. There’s the stink of catharsis. Of melodrama and memoir. A writer friend refers to this school as “the-sun-is-shining-the-birds-are-singing-and-my-father-is-on-top-of-me-again” literature.
In the lobby outside the hotel ballroom, writers wait, practicing their one big story on each other. A wartime submarine battle, or being knocked around by a drunk spouse. The story about how they suffered, but survived to win. Challenge and triumph. They time each other with wristwatches. In just minutes, they’ll have to tell their story, and prove how it would be perfect for Julia Roberts. Or Harrison Ford. Or, if not Harrison, then Mel Gibson. And if not Julia, then Meryl.
Then, sorry, your seven minutes is up.
The conference organizer always interrupts at the best part of the pitch, where you’re deep into telling about your drug addiction. Your gang rape. Your drunken dive into a shallow pool on the Yakima River. And how it would make a great feature film. And, if not that, then a great cable film. Or a great made-for-television movie.
Then, sorry, your seven minutes is up.
The crowd out in the lobby, each writer holding his story in his hand, it’s a little like the crowd here last week for the Antiques Road Show. Each person carrying some burden: a gilded clock or a scar from a house fire or the story of being a married, gay Mormon. This is something they’ve lugged around their whole life, and now they’re here to see what it will fetch on the open market. Just what is this worth? This china teapot, or crippling spinal disease. Is it a treasure or just more junk.
Then, sorry, your seven minutes is up.
In the hotel ballroom, in those curtained cubicles, one person sits passive while the other exhausts himself. In that way, it’s like a brothel. The passive listener paid to receive. The active speaker paying to be heard. To leave behind some trace of himself—always hoping this trace is enough to take root and grow into something bigger. A book. A baby. An heir to his story, to carry his name into the future. But the listener, he’s heard it all. He’s polite, but bored. Hard to impress. This is your seven minutes in the saddle—so to speak—but your whore is looking at his own wristwatch, wondering what’s for lunch, planning on how to spend the stipend money. Then . . .
Sorry, your seven minutes is up.
Here’s your life story, but reduced to two hours. What was your birth, your mother going into labor in the backseat of a taxi—that’s now your opening sequence. Losing your virginity is the climax of your first act. Addiction to painkillers is your second-act build. The results of your biopsy is your third-act reveal. Lauren Bacall would be perfect as your grandmother. William H. Macy as your father. Directed by Peter Jackson or Roman Polanski.
This is your life, but processed. Hammered into the mold of a good screenplay. Interpreted according to the model of a successful box-office hit. It’s no surprise you’ve started seeing every day in terms of another plot point. Music becomes your soundtrack. Clothing becomes costume. Conversation, dialogue. Our technology for telling stories becomes our language for remembering our lives. For understanding ourselves. Our framework for perceiving the world.
We see our lives in terms of storytelling conventions. Our serial marriages become sequels. Our childhood: our prequel. Our children: spin-offs.
Just consider how fast everyday people started using phrases like “fade to black.” Or “wipe dissolve.” Or fast-forward. Jump cut to . . . Flash back to . . . Dream sequence . . . Roll credits . . .
Then, sorry, your seven minutes is up.
It’s twenty, thirty, fifty dollars for another seven minutes. For another shot at connecting with the bigger world. For selling your story. To turn that misery into big money. Book-advance money, or movie-option money. That big mega-jackpot.
A few years ago, only a few of these conventions shipped industry players from New York and Los Angeles, put them up in hotels, and paid them a stipend to sit here and listen. Now there are so many conventions that organizers must scrape the barrel a little, looking for any producer’s assistant or associate editor who can spare a weekend to fly out to Kansas City or Bellingham or Nashville.
This is the Midwest Writers Conference. Or the Writers of Southern California Conference. Or the Georgia State Writers Conference. As a hopeful writer, you’ve paid to get in the door, for a name badge and a keynote lunch. There are classes to attend, lectures about technique and marketing. There’s the mixed comfort and competition of other writers. Fellow writers. So many of them with a manuscript under one arm. You pay the extra money, the seven-minute money, to buy the ear of an industry player. To buy the chance to sell, and maybe you’ll walk away with some money and recognition for your story. An experiential lottery ticket. A chance to turn lemons—a miscarriage, a drunk driver, a grizzly bear—into lemonade.
Straw, but spun into gold. Here in the big storytelling casino.
Then, sorry, your seven minutes is up.
In another way, this hotel ballroom, it’s filled with people telling about their one awful crime. Spilling their guts about how they aborted a child. How they smuggled drugs stuffed up their ass all the way from Pakistan. Here’s how they fell out of grace, the opposite of a hero’s story. Here’s how they can sell even their bad example—how it can help others. Prevent similar disasters. These people are here to find redemption. To them, each curtained booth becomes a confessional. Each movie producer, a priest.
It’s no longer God waiting in judgment. It’s the marketplace.
Maybe a book contract is the new halo. Our new reward for surviving with strength and character. Instead of heaven, we get money and media attention.
Maybe a movie starring Julia Roberts, bigger than life and pretty as an angel, is the only afterlife we get.
And that’s only if . . . your life, your story is something you can package and market and sell.
In another way, this is so much like the crowd here last month, when a television game show was auditioning contestants. To answer brain teasers. Or the month before, when producers for a daytime talk show were here, looking for troubled people who wanted to air their problems on national television . . . fathers and sons who’ve shared the same sex partner. Or mothers suing for child support. Or anyone getting a sex change.
Then, sorry, your seven minutes is up.
The philosopher Martin Heidegger pointed out how human beings tend to look at the world as a standing stock of material, ready for us to use. As inventory to be processed into something more valuable. Trees into wood. Animals into meat. He called this world of raw natural resources: bestand. It seems inevitable that people without access to natural bestand such as oil wells or diamond mines, that they’d turn to the only inventory they do have—their lives.
More and more, the bestand of our era is our own intellectual property. Our ideas. Our life stories. Our experience.What people used to endure or enjoy—all those plot-point events of potty training and honeymoons and lung cancer—now they can be shaped to best effect and sold.
The trick is to pay attention. Take notes.
The problem with seeing the world as bestand, Heidegger said, was it leads you to use things, enslave and exploit things and people, for your own benefit.
With this in mind, is it possible to enslave yourself?
Martin Heidegger also points out that an event is shaped by the presence of the observer. A tree falling in the forest is somehow different if someone is there, noting and accenting the details in order to turn it into a Julia Roberts vehicle.
If only by distorting events, tweaking them for more dramatic impact, exaggerating them to the point you forget your actual history—you forget who you are—is it possible to exploit your own life for the sake of a marketable story?
But then, sorry, but your seven minutes is up.
Maybe we should’ve seen this coming.
In the 1960s and ’70s, televised cooking shows coaxed a rising class of people to spend their extra time and money on food and wine. From eating, they moved on to cooking. Led by how-to experts like Julia Child and Graham Kerr, we exploded the market for Viking ranges and copper cookware. In the 1980s, with the freedom of VCRs and CD players, entertainment moved in to become our new obsession.
Movies became the field where people could meet and debate, like they did over soufflés and wine a decade before. Like Julia Child had, Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert appeared on television and taught us how to split hairs. Entertainment became the next place to invest our extra time and money.
Instead of the vintage and bouquet and legs of a wine, we talked about the effective use of voice-over and back story and character development.
In the 1990s, we turned to books. And instead of Roger Ebert it was Oprah Winfrey.
Still, the really big difference was, you could cook at home. You really couldn’t make a movie, not at home. But, you could write a book. Or a screenplay. And those do become movies.
The screenwriter Andrew Kevin Walker once said that no one in Los Angeles is ever more than fifty feet from a screenplay. They’re stowed in the trunks of cars. In desk drawers at work. In laptop computers. Always ready to be pitched. A winning lottery ticket looking for its jackpot. An uncashed paycheck.
For the first time in history, five factors have aligned to bring about this explosion in storytelling. In no particular order the factors are:
Free time.Technology.Material.Education.And disgust.
The first seems simple. More people have more free time. People are retiring and living longer. Our standard of living and social safety net allows people to work fewer hours. Plus, as more people recognize the value of storytelling—but strictly as book and movie material—more people see writing, reading, and research as something more than just a highbrow recreation. Writing’s not just a nice little hobby. It’s becoming a bona fide financial endeavor worth your time and energy. Telling anyone that you write always prompts the question “What have you published?” Our expectation is: writing equals money. Or good writing should. Still, it would be damn near impossible to get your work seen if not for the second factor:
Technology.
For a small investment, you can be published on the Internet, accessible to millions of people worldwide. Printers and small presses can provide any number of on-demand hard-copy books for anybody with the money to self-publish. Or subsidy publish. Or vanity publish. Or whatever you want to call it. Anybody who can use a photocopy machine and a stapler can publish a book. It’s never been so easy. Never in history have so many books hit the market each year. All of them filled with the third factor:
Material.
As more people grow old, with the experience of a lifetime to remember, the more they worry about losing it. All those memories. Their best formulas, stories, routines for making a dinner table burst into laughter. Their legacy. Their life. Just a touch of Alzheimer’s disease, and it could all disappear. Besides, all our best adventures seem to be behind us. So it feels good to relive them, to share them on paper. Organizing and making all that flotsam and jetsam make sense. Wrapping it up, neat and tidy, and putting a nice bow on top. The first volume in the three-volume boxed set that will be your life. The “best of” NFL highlights tape of your life. All in one place, your reasons for doing what you did. Your explanation why, in case anyone wants to know.
And thank God for factor number four:
Education.
Because at least we all know how to keyboard. We know where to put the commas . . . kind of. Pretty much. We have automatic spell-checking. We’re not afraid to sit down and take a swing at the job of book writing. Stephen King makes it look so easy. All those books. And Irvine Welsh, he makes it look like fun, the last place you can do drugs and commit crimes and not get arrested, or fat, or sick. Besides, we’ve read books all our lives. We’ve seen a million movies. In fact, that’s part of our motivation, the fifth factor:
Disgust.
Except for maybe six movies at the video store, the rest is crap. And most books, it’s the same. Crap. We could do better. We know all the basic plots. It’s all been broken down by Joseph Campbell. By John Gardner. By E. B. White. Instead of wasting more time and money on another crappy book or movie, how about you take a stab at doing the job? I mean, why not?
Then, sorry, your seven minutes is up.
Okay, okay, so maybe we’re headed down a road toward mindless, self-obsessed lives where every event is reduced to words and camera angles. Every moment imagined through the lens of a cinematographer. Every funny or sad remark scribbled down for sale at the first opportunity.
A world Socrates couldn’t imagine, where people would examine their lives, but only in terms of movie and paperback potential.
Where a story no longer follows as the result of an experience.
Now the experience happens in order to generate a story.
Sort of like when you suggest: “Let’s not but say we did.”
The story—the product you can sell—becomes more important than the actual event.
One danger is, we might hurry through life, enduring event after event, in order to build our list of experiences. Our stock of stories. And our hunger for stories might reduce our awareness of the actual experience. In the way we shut down after watching too many action-adventure movies. Our body chemistry can’t tolerate the stimulation. Or we unconsciously defend ourselves by pretending not to be present, by acting as a detached “witness” or reporter to our own life. And by doing that, never feeling an emotion or really participating. Always weighing what the story will be worth in cold cash.
Another danger is this rush through events might give us a false understanding of our own ability. If events occur to challenge and test us and we experience them only as a story to be recorded and sold, then have we lived? Have we matured? Or will we die feeling vaguely cheated and shortchanged by our storytelling vocation?
Already we’ve seen people use “research” as their defense for committing crimes. Winona Ryder shoplifting in preparation to play a character who steals. Pete Townsend visiting Internet kiddie-porn websites in order to write about his own childhood abuse.
Already our freedom of speech is headed for a collision with every other law. How can you write about a sadistic rapist “character” if you’ve never raped anybody? How can we create exciting, edgy books and movies if we only live boring, sedate lives?
The laws that forbid you to drive on the sidewalk, to feel the thud of people crumbling off the hood of your car, the crash of bodies shattering your windshield, those laws are economically oppressive. When you really think about it, restricting your access to heroin and snuff movies is a restriction of your free trade. It’s impossible to write books, authentic books, about slavery if the government makes owning slaves illegal.
Anything “based on a true story” is more salable than fiction.
But, then, sorry, your seven minutes is up.
Of course, it’s not all bad news.
There’s the talk-therapy aspect to most writers’ workshops.
There’s the idea of fiction as a safe laboratory for exploring ourselves and our world. For experimenting with a persona or character and social organization, trying on costumes and running a social model until it breaks down.
There is all that.
One positive aspect is, maybe this awareness and recording will lead us to live more interesting lives. Maybe we’ll be less likely to make the same mistakes again and again. Marry another drunk. Get pregnant, again. Because by now we know this would make a boring, unsympathetic character. A female lead Julia Roberts would never play. Instead of modeling our lives after brave, smart fictional characters—maybe we’ll lead brave, smart lives to base our own fictional characters on.
Controlling the story of your past—recording and exhausting it—that skill might allow us to move into the future and write that story. Instead of letting life just happen, we could outline our own personal plot. We’ll learn the craft we’ll need to accept that responsibility. We’ll develop our ability to imagine in finer and finer detail. We can more exactly focus on what we want to accomplish, to attain, to become.
You want to be happy? You want to be at peace? You want to be healthy?
As any good writer would tell you: unpack “happy.” What does it look like? How can you demonstrate happiness on the page—that vague, abstract concept. Show, don’t tell. Show me “happiness.”
In this way, learning to write means learning to look at yourself and the world in extreme close-up. If nothing else, maybe learning how to write will force us to take a closer look at everything, to really see it—if only in order to reproduce it on a page.
Maybe with a little more effort and reflection, you can live the kind of life story a literary agent would want to read.
Or maybe . . . just maybe this whole process is our training wheels toward something bigger. If we can reflect and know our lives, we might stay awake and shape our futures. Our flood of books and movies—of plots and story arcs—they might be mankind’s way to be aware of all our history. Our options. All the ways we’ve tried in the past to fix the world.
We have it all: the time, the technology, the experience, the education, and the disgust.
What if they made a movie about a war and nobody came?
If we’re too lazy to learn history history, maybe we can learn plots. Maybe our sense of “been there, done that” will save us from declaring the next war. If war won’t “play,” then why bother? If war can’t “find an audience.” If we see that war “tanks” after the opening weekend, then no one will green-light another one. Not for a long, long time.
Then, finally, what if some writer comes up with an entirely new story? A new and compelling way to live, before . . .
Sorry, your seven minutes is up.

Nuggets

I have been pondering lately about the things people do. In my extensive people watching role I have noticed that people are more likely to tell you about the crappy parts of their day than about the wonderful parts. it makes me wonder at the nature of us when we are quicker to share a story about being hurt, or wronged than a story about the wonders we saw that day that others may not have experienced. Are we afraid that the good feeling that we have will be taken? perhaps. Do we hold them tightly like a loot bag, reluctant to share them even with the people that we love? Or is that we want others to feel the misery of our pain, so we feel better about the fact that we have this one beautiful nugget to treasure? Some times it feels like other will not take the joy that we see or feel and savour it. I know that makes me more reluctant to share, and when I find a person who will make the effort to understand my joy in the moment I savour that person too.


....


there are a lot of people in my life trying to have babies, just had babies or having babies. I find the different perspectives very interesting. One lady I know thinks that she can not be happy unless she has a baby.... life is not worth celebrating unless she has a child of her own. The idea of adoption she totally dismissed with a wave of her hand. " No my own". that made me sad. At breakfast she confided that she goes to church in hopes that " god will turn on her ovaries". Her husband is an atheist and it seemed that she resented him for not going with her. Other than prayer, there has been no other treatment....it makes me wonder about the other afflictions in her life.... does she treat a cold with scripture? No. the adage that god helps them who help them selves comes to mind

I have another friend in a very similar situation. she stops at nothing though, rather than waiting for her life to start because of a child, she has taken a, "when the time is right" attitude. She is pro-active seeking medical treatments, traditional and non traditional. In the mean time though she has a life. she fields the insensitive questions and the heartless mummers of others with grace and poise. mostly I respect her because she has not become bitter in the ordeal. she hasn't damned her Deity or her mates faith. She looks at the prospect of a baby as a addition to her life rather than a conclusive feat.

I have a sister, she has babies, they are her life. To my eyes she gave up her future in exchange for a family. My nice and nephew are beautiful. They are her life. she is her family. to her the sacrifice was worth it, maybe it wasn't even a sacrifice.... that is thought... when does it become a sacrifice? my understanding is when "a noun" is given up selflessly for a better "cause" that is a sacrifice. hmmm

Bouncing Buck on Christmas day

spaced out

I am a space cadet today.
I am anxious about Monday.
I am worried about Becky.
I am miffed at Adam.
But mosty I am so angry at Dave today I could just scream.
instead I repress.
and it makes me feel like less of a person.
I hate him.
Damn the emotions!
I am afraid I will take out thenegative emotions on people around me
just give me a little time

Thursday, I never could get the hang of thursday.

SO here I am. Its Thursday. Thursdays are odd days in general. though its not like my planet was destroyed today to make way for an intergalactic highway, so it could have been worse. There were cute babies and much napping. if the day was rated simply by the amount of napping it definitely would be a super A +.

It feels like a nice evening to just hide out. I think I will build an old fashioned fort in my living room, eat some ice cream and watch some TV. I should have had class tonight, but alas no one signed up. I am going to take it as some ill gotten hermiting time and not inform the world I am available! HAHAHAHA sneaky bugger am I!

So my pet peeve at the moment is the salon next door has clients parking in my parking space. not just IN my parking space (like last week) but ACROSS my parking space also. Man that just bites my ass. And the worst part is there is a parkade like 1/2 a block away that these morons could be parking in or around the block, but noooo. gah! This summer I fixed it by threatening to tow their cars.... honestly I want to ask them for their address' so I can go and park in front of their houses and see how they like it! AND I will throw litter on their lawns! AND kick their dawg! AND make inappropriate advances on their teenage sons..... GRRRRRRR
Take that as a warning: Do no take my parking spot!

Janny

Feeling a little home sick today.
It will pass.

my next acquisition?

thoughts

life is good
I am happy
things seemed balanced
panic doesn't seem to be so close to the surface today
and I am trying to to think so hard about things I can not control
though I have been getting phone calls about retribution.
what a great word.
I doubt in fact if retribution can be had.
If only after other ppl that are abolished from my life, I could have someone fight for things that they broke or took. how much can you charge for your unjaded look on life, or your trust? could a lawyer track him down and try to make a man give back the fire that was in your soul, or the spirit that he broke in his attempts to tame you into something that he could introduce to his mother, his father and his friends?

A few months ago a friend I hadn't seen in years was pleased to see that "I hadn't changed" little did he know, that the road I took these last few years has finally put me back on to a road that I am happy to be on. I feel like I have a plan not plan a map, so I know where I want to go and the different ways that are possible for me to get there. it even has the scenic parts!

I have been thinking alot about my family lately. Mostly about how different all of the kids in my family have turned out. Chad once, in a fit of frustration, accused me of wanting Missy's life. My brother Adam, when I told him about it, simply stated that in a bastardized way we all want what she has, and she has it and can't appreciate it or be happy in it. Granted in growing up Missy and I have ended up in reversed roles.... and it doesn't make me sad in the ways that it once did. I have ended up being a person that I really like for the most part, and my life follows form.