Today I got this suspicious e-mail, usually I get the e-mails where some one wants your help to move some money into a bank account or something along those lines. But this is the first time I get an email which claims to be a love letter, I'm leaning more on the thought that it's a scam. Duh, of course it is, who actually does this? Anyway, I found it hilarious if not borderline creepy. It came with a link to a "blog website" that I shall not click. So here it is:
"Hey Valerie, Can't take in I'm finally
doing this. The act of beginning this letter has my heart beating fast.
To tell you the truth, I haven't really decided if I'll send it. Ok....
I think I have a crush on you. I thought up this plan to show u.. I
posted a invisible blog for u ..... hidden blog for Valerie**. It 's kind of hard for me to create this, u'd know why if u knew who this wsa.. but now I know I have to email this."
Well, I don't intended to reply to this e-mail because he is probably a spam-robot, but if I did I would say:
Mr. "Their05thousand2@aol.com" crushes are what you get in second grade. Writing a blog about me is a odd way to show your anonymous affection. Call me a post modern girl but I'd have gone for the straightforward type of confession. Preferably at that time I would have already known your first and last name and a valid mental image of your persona. Oh and if you are gonna write me an email, please use "spell check".
On a completely unrelated note, I can't wait for college to start.
Well thanks for reading, if you got this far.
With Great Un-anonymous love, Valerie.
**the link leads you to a place that says this:
If you're reading this I guess you got my e-mail. I'm still not
completely sure about this but I can't hide my feelings any longer. I
want you to guess who I am and approach me yourself. To help you out
with your guessing I made a few pictures and videos with Valerie
written on my body. Theyre kind of risque photos so I had to make a
profile at http://www.newfriendly.com
and post them there. My username in the members area is ILuvValerie09.
Its a free website but you might need a CC or Debit to verify your age
because I had to. Sigh. But anyway sign up at http://www.newfriendly.com
and once you are inside search for me. I want you to guess who I am and
then approach me yourself. I'm shy and this is the bravest thing Ive
probably ever done but you need to do the rest.
I am a cold hearted unpassionate friendless bitch.
Current mood: depressed
Yesterday I had a "Dress rehearsal" in case you don't know what that means it's basically just me getting on the stage with a fake mind set that I'm actually singing on the actual day of my first opera recital performance.
Well unfortunate for me, yesterday was a disaster and the performance is tomorrow. I hate myself and want to die, yes I know it's a Nirvana song. It was a "private" practice session and although I protested, my father decided it was a good idea to bring the whole family along to this joyous event, including my loud toddler of a sister, my Nazi step mother and my other sister.
As soon as I entered the doors to the area where I'd be performing I felt sick, I held the baby in my arms as she let out happy yelps as she saw the colorful arrangement of god based literature. We had arrived their 10 minutes prior to my scheduled time. Which was good, but as soon as my vocal instructor heard the creature, he magically popped from the cracks of the doors telling me if I could please shut it up and the he couldn't think. He irritatedly shook his head as if the baby was a cellphone I should just have put on vibrate before entering the room.
My father probably realizing that his idea wasn't the best took the small child and walked her around the area. 14 minutes later my vocal instructor or Oscar calls for me and tells me that he wants my father to be in the room while I perform, the only problem was I couldn't find him, so I frantically searched through the church, the parking lot and the male bathroom stale. After a few minutes I found him, as I walked in the room with my father, the vocal instructor nodded his head in disapproval and disgust as if it was my idea to bring along a screaming and easily irritated child into a opera recital practice.
The little control I had over the situation was making me unglued, nervous and had me completely worn out. I just wanted to do what I came here to do and that was to sing and quite possibly to get harshly critique on my performance.
It was 8:09, I was supposed to have start at 7:50, which made me more nervous and extremely irritated if not frustrated cause apparently I was late for something I came 10 minutes early too.
I went up three dark blue velvet stairs and stood my place by the beautiful black grand piano. I do not lie when I say I did my best, I tried to forget my frustrations and just let the Aria of a old Italian love song flow out of my lungs the way I've practiced countless of times.
When I finished my performance, I did a curtsy like was previously discussed I would do when the people clapped, but since their was no one there I did anyway. I immediately got scold for that cause in my teacher's head the imaginary people haven't clapped yet. Then I walked up to my vocal instructor who called my name from a distant chair and told me to sit down.
While I waiting for my father to catch up I look at a black book I accidentally sat on and got scolded for that, He said and I quote "could you please stop looking at that silly book and wake up already, you don't look like you care at all about this at all, do you know how to care at all? Can you please be passionate about this? Is that so much to ask? I'm I wasting my time on you?"
It was all the scolding I could take for a day not only was this man saying I was passionless and did not know how to care about anything, he was also suggesting wither I really had my heart in singing or not. I felt insulted to say the least. The only thing I passionately wanted to do at the moment was to throw the "silly book" with full furry in the direction of his fat little head and say something within the lines of "fuck you and the horse you came in" and steal his car and drive it over a bridge and walk into the nearest pub where I would proceed to get wasted. Anything to calm me down. Anything to make me feel better.
But no, it wasn't proper etiquette, so I sat there catatonic like a real life barbie doll. I nodded and walked away after the criticism was finished with my head high ignoring the few tears running down my cheek and walked to the car, where me and family drove back home.
There was something about my step mom rudely demanding why I was crying and the screaming baby that made me want to jump out of the car while it was going 50 MPH.
I didn't feel hungry when I came home and ignored my family. It didn't help that my father agreed with the teacher. So I woke up with this urge to rant and rave, I still feel like shit. And to top is all off the performance is tomorrow.
My dad keeps on telling me I should stop using the computer and do something more productive. I tell him I want to get a job, he doesn't let me. He says I'm antisocial but he knows I have no friends cause I just moved here. He tells me that I have no passion for music. He says I should talk to him, but talking to him is the equivalent to talking to a doorknob with the personality of a splinter.
So he thinks I am a cold hearted passionless friendless bitch, fuck this, I haven't lived with a man since I was 9 and now that I'm 18 and living with my dad, I realize that I don't need one or want one.
I really do care about this. I am passionate. Someone please believe me, please.
A series of events lead me to live in Miami Florida. Which is very different from little no name town I lived in.For example, In Puerto Rico a drive to the closest Home Depot is a little under an Hour. A drive to the nearest Starbucks is over two hours. Here everything is literally ten minutes away.
I'm sort of homesick but I have things to do. So I have a couple of things I'd like to do while I live here, first off. Get into the next term of college for art.
Secondly, Get in to the music scene. I already have a place in mind I'd like to play in called "Wall-Flower" where I was told they have a Original night, so I'd totally like to do that. I was invited to sing in a place called "Magnum" because of my opera back ground, But I have to get my act together before I sing again publicly. I'm super excited about it.
Thirdly, I'd like to get a job. Which is sort of exciting for me cause I've never been in a payroll. Don't get me wrong...I have worked before,it's just that I got payed in sandwiches.
Well Send me a friend invite, cause I'm pretty bored here till I can get my plans on the roll.
I realize how easy it is to complicate or frustrate yourself in a situation eleven-fold by imagining the worst case situation scenario.
It happens to everyone. E V E R Y O N E.
Something you didn't bring in time. And than after a heart attack you realize no one did and than you feel awfully dumb for worrying so bloody much.
Or that person you liked. You might have tried your best to make situations, conversations anything to try to talk to this person, you either absolutely obsessed or in love. And one day you talk to her and realize that all the rabid squirrels in the park are likely to be more smarter and charming than her and you feel stupid as hell again for once again over thinking the situation; when in reality all you had to do was give her a trail mix with acorns and peanuts in it and she would have been impressed.
Here I present to you a list of things that come to mind as frustrating and complicated: -Love (All kinds) -Parents -Optimistic people (Why are you so happy? Damn it) -Hope and Faith -Pessimistic People (Why are you so emo? Damn it) -Sickness -Indecision -Expectation -Over thinking
I listened to a feather and it told me a story. I feel obligated to share it, not for my sake but for yours.
It is a story about a girl who once said she feared nothing a very long time ago. And this was her tale:
There once was a boy, oh how I loved him so. He was my treasure a jewel of jewels. Who darkly smiled with hope. It is contagious really. He whose thoughts seem interesting in every way abstract, yet so charming, you’d wish you could play in his imagination all day long. Where it is never dark. Where we all have wings.
You want your desires to be fulfilled. Well, we all do. However, not everyone should be granted that courtesy so easily. Cause if we got want we want what would be the point of living, I suppose.
So back to this boy, the one I wanted, still do, but he‘s gone too far.
We meet on an apple tree. Yes, on top of an apple tree. I was collecting apples and feathers from a nightingale’s nest. I held the feather to the sun and admired it, the small soft brown feather between my fingers and there he was waiting for me too fall. And I fell. He did not catch me, he did not need too.
He called himself Icarus, he held a candle. He had a bag full.
I had fallen into the lake. Indignant at first I did not look at him, his voice velvet smoove cleanly floating words of concern, real concern. Not like my father’s sarcasm. Not as sharp as my brother’s insults, just pure unadulterated concern. He waited for me; I got out of the water. In my hand, I held a feather, a bag full.
It was dark, getting darker. When I left the water, He smiled the boyish sport he is. About my age eighteen or so. He said he was waiting for the sun to go down.
You are fearless, Icarus said. It felt natural to disagree to his remake. In response I asked why did he think this, I am just a silly girl who fell. A silly girl in the water.
You climbed to the top of the tree, on a limb and did not fear falling. You fell into the lake and did not fear drowning. Now that it is dark, do you fear the moonless sky?
It was not pride, it was not humility. It just was the way I am. I had fears, as silent as they were. An anesthetic life I lived. Feeling numb was what I traded for feeling hurt continuously by thoughtless words and objects, hate and more hate reserved for myself. What did I do to deserve this? Nothing. No one deserves this.
I told the boy, who held the candle, that I did not fear the moonless nights, nor the parasitic insect bites or the sounds of nocturne life. I told him I had run away from a place now very far from here.
The looks were exchanged. The boy’s eyes resembled an ocean on a quiet shore or maybe a sky before a storm. She did not fear hurt from him.
Then he pleaded to me, to stay because he was afraid of the dim night and the magic it held. I too ran away too, he had said. But my journey just started today. And when the sun is up, he asked if he could go with me.
You can stay as long as you wish, I said with a smile and a nod. I took the feathers and put one in my hair, an eagle feather. My long dark hair a home for flowers, small twigs and light bugs, Skin the color of driftwood. She is beautiful; I am Beautiful, one with nature.
I put my feathers together and sew them with a needle and a thread, a red thread the glistered in its damp state. Why do you carry feathers? The beautiful boy asked politely.
Because they are, pretty, soft, magical in a sense. So elegant they must have looked while they still hanged on the skin of the bird that once carried them everywhere like a good luck charm. Nevertheless, the bird grew old, died or just needed a new coat of charm.
I find it such a pity really, I do. To see them on the floor when they once were part of an adventure, in the sky, floating above the seven seas, perched on different exotic trees. Now doom to ruminate with filth and mud. A pity indeed.
In a way, I feel like I am collecting an echo of experience, a quiet story. The talk to me. They comfort me, with each I collect, I feel more confident, and now I have hundreds in my threads. May be I was once a bird, another life.
The boy looked at her with curiosity her words stayed with him. He began to make a fire and place a few candles around the apple tree and they sat their. Leaning on the tree eating apples, crisp and juicy. He did not seem to judge her odd way of thinking, he understood.
Why do you carry candles, wax, strings, and all? I asked.
I do not like the dark, like I’ve said I am scared of it. He whispered this.
Why it is no more dangerous than the day? She assured him in a very unassuring way.
Did you know that this darkness is the excess of color? He said a with a bit more strengh in his voice.
And that light is the lack of it. Light make me feel secure, it is simple and more importantly it does not hide things from me. But darkness it does, it is unsecure, deceiving, it is complicated, so much more complicated.
You know…Where I came from people loved to complicate everything.
Their Lives. Other’s lives. Work. Money. Love. Everything.
It does not always make things better, just is a bigger grave to bury yourself in. But I don’t want that for me… I want to live. I want to live for real. He coughed a bit, then some more. The smoke of the fire intertwined with the cool air in a dance, a very slow dance over the water. Into heaven desending.
At that moment, I understood him. What he meant. I understood completely.
We kissed, so easy, so simple, and so soft. No complications.
We woke up side by side that morning with our fingers in each other’s hair.
Then we promised that day under an apple tree that they would stay together and in a year would revisit the apple tree by the lake. Where we both fell. A day full of oxymoron. Symbolism.
We always agreed on where to go and we were happy. Wither it was deep in the forest of south america, in a boat in the middle of the pacific ocean or walking through the slums of India. We never said we loved each other, not too complicate things.
The girl with her feathers. The boy with his wax. A needle and red thread wove them together loosen and pulled and spun.
A candle always burned a light, a way out I suppose. Living, experiencing and adventuring the world and each other.
Icarus never did stop coughing. Once in a while I saw the trickle of blood as he coughed up and the boy with his soft blue eyes told me not too worry, it would pass. I believed him.
Just like a storm we had witnessed once togther before. It was the ending of a hot sticky summer day and we took cover in a cave, the rocks glittered and moved with the thunder and lighting. It felt good to rest our bare skin on the damp moss. He told me the thunder did that because there are air currents that create strong updraughts and water droplets and ice particle that rub against each other and “boom” we have static electricity.
He seemed to know everything about the world around him. All this interesting information he kept in his mind, it sort of reminded me the silly facts in the bottle caps of fruit drinks. Always with something clever to say. It was admirable.
Everytime he touched my skin by accident I felt that silent boom. I feel the quake, the tremble and the lights going off and on. Flickering like the candle light in the cave every time a breeze came in. Some candles blew out. But he wasn’t as afraid of the darkness as he had been at the beginning of our journey at least for my sake. It is easier to be brave when you have someone you care about he said to me.
His skin had darken since the encounter under the apple tree, colored by the candle light and sun he adored and trusted. His hair dark grew long, but he cut it short around his ears in a trip to a small village in italy where he lost a bet. A silly bet really, not worth mentioning.
We drank wine which was cheaper than water, probably a bit too much wine. I remember singing chants a chaman had taught us too scare away the snakes and pumas in central america, some sort of protection while we slept in trees and tents. The Chaman had given me the new blue feather now in my hair and something for fertility, oh naughty chaman. I also recalled angry Italian men muttering drunken words at us, telling us to be quiet. We just laughed it off, dizzy from the alcohol we fell into a sweet slumber. We lived a nomadic life, one of gypsies traveling the world.
Once in awhile he would write letters and send them when we travel past a post office. He said it was too his parents. He told me all these lovely stories about his mother and father, they seemed so nice and sweet. It was a mystery to me why he would ever have wanted to run away from their loving care. They were not as nice as my father or my brother. I never knew my mother really, so I can’t say much about her, she had died in some odd car accident when I was still in her. They couldn’t saved her, but they saved me. I think my father resented that.
The next day we met a lonely old Spanish doctor, named Rodrigo Rodrigez de la Luz who resembled Don quijote, spoke good English and had a hobby or as he called it “a passion” for taking photographs. He had asked me to be his model for some pictures he wanted to take. Saying I resembled his mother in his youth he dressed me up in a beautiful red dress and put flowers in my hair.
Icurus laughed as I tired to imitate the graceful Spanish dancing we had seen a couple of times in street shows in Madrid. Fluttering a elegantly decorated fan in the air, like a butterfly net. The Doctor was a kind old man, yet lonely, the past had not been to kind with him. He later offered to take me and Icurus in for the night, he had noticed that Icurus had been coughing and noticed some blood in some napkins he found in the little restaurant we ate together. He told me a list of things he could have had. Stomach ulcer, Pneumonia, a Nosebleed that drips blood down into the lungs, Laryngitis, tumors…some serious conditions and some not as serious.
The doctor told him that he should go and get tested but Icurus had told him he rather not. This troubled the doctor servilely. If you care about the girl you should go to the doctor. Icurus stood quiet there for a moment realizing a unspoken emotion.
That night at the doctors guest room I pressed my ear to Icurus’ chest to hear him breathe as he slept. No water in his lungs, but he seemed weak in a way I could not understand. I kept my face there, comforted by the rhythmic breathing. He wasn’t telling me something. I began to worry and now things became complicated.
And like that storm I waited for the coughing to stop. But it didn’t stop. We left that morning, I gave the old man a kiss on the cheak making his Spanish blood rush into his face.
And Icarus and Me, hand in hand walked again ready to walk on some unforgettably adventure. Something was eating me up inside, words, thoughts, questions, I had dared not ask till now. But just as I was about to speak them out loud something happened.
Icarus started to cough loudly, he feel to the ground and he coughed more blood. I was about to scream for help, but he held his finger to his lips. In a gesture that said not to say a word. He got up, slowly but he got up.
You are dying aren’t you? I said.
He nodded slightly to conform her fear, her only fear.
She kissed his forehead and held him close, she didn’t seem sad. She didn’t realize she was crying till she saw that her tears were damping up his hair. He looked at her, stupefied. He had never seen her cry, only out of happiness but these weren’t tears of joy, but of a deep sadness.
Her evergreen happiness wasn’t there anymore… Things were getting complicated.
They said I only had one year left, the doctors… a severe lung cancer (or tuberculocuis the feather didn't say clearly ). I refuse the treatments. I didn’t want that for me, living my last days in a hospital. Treatment after treatment, pill after pill. Just to prolong my life just a bit more. I didn’t make me feel better, It made me lose hope. I didn’t want to waste my last days moping with ennui about the things I’ve never done. Death is the last thing we all get to do, why did I have to worry about it so much?
But mother cried, sweet mother. Her red and white hairs in a bun. And my father only grew silent. I was complicating their lives, they were so much more happy before I got sick. So I left. So that they could be happy again. So they could laugh again.
Please don’t cry, he asked of me softly. I did eventually and we drifted, to a new land closer to the land they had both meet for it was almost a year. A blessed year. And soon we would return to the apple tree near the lake.
He saw things were getting complicated, finally the happiness we had had been tainted with blood, death.
And once again he found himself wishing for light, not candles but a eternal sun. He wanted to live on the sun. To some it may have seemed to be a silly idea, but for him it was utopia dream a world of only light and no darkness.
That night we kissed in candle light under a slither of a moon, the choppy water lapped like a panting dog. Once again, under the apple tree that marked the beginning of our adventure. I feel asleep and suddenly hours before dawn, Icurus had an idea. He got all his wax that conquered fear of the dark and my feathers full of confidence and silent experiences and made wings. He climbed up the apple tree still strong and alive just as before. The Tree would stay like that long after he was gone he thought to himself as he climbed on the branches until he reached the top.
The morning sun stung my eyes. I looked around to find my lover on the apple tree. He smiled at me. I smiled back. I told him to be careful Icurus, do not fall, I called out with the same concern he had showed me once a while back.
He jumped from the branch. Then something truly amazing happened. Icurus did not fall but flew. Up into the sky, like the birds I envied so much. I wanted to be there up with him in the sky. He flew too high, his wax melted, and the feathers loosened. The red string loosened as well.
I screamed, Could he hear me? No, he was too far, way too high.
I watch terrified as he went higher and higher in to the morning sky. I watched twice as terrified as he fell faster and faster to the unforgiving earth. Then the dreadful sound that would haunt me forever “boom” like electricity in the sky, he was gone. He had missed the lake by not that much. I ran toward him. His bones crushed, he was not breathing, my poor Icurus. I silently hoped for him too get up and put his finger to his warm lips and calm me down again, but he never did. The feathers from his waxwings flew twirling eerily down into the lake. My lovely charms with their silent stories floating on water. My dear, dear Icurus, the sun betrayed you.
I dug your grave with my nails. They bleed, Icurus, I lost my mind, cause I couldn’t take it. I just couldn’t. Sorry. I, a girl once stood fearless here by this very tree. Until I meet you Icurus. Love in a way is fear. I did not want to admit I could do either. However, I fear I love you.
I craved your name on our tree, with my fingers and now I am bleeding Icurus. I whisper our love story to the birds, so they could carry them on their wings, so someone would know our adventure, our experience and our story.
I burnt a candle so you would not be afraid of the darkness, my dear Icurus. I will do this every day. I sent the letter you had in your backpack, it was too your sweet mother and quiet father.
I did not want to be alone, not again. Please understand. I wanted to be with you. My mind is lost, it is winter and there are no apples in our tree. So I climbed up the apple tree for the last time and jumped out, I feel into the water, frozen and cold. This time I did not bother to get out. And why would I? I am just a silly girl in the water.
So as I did please listen to the stories the flutter of wings can tell. You may learn something. Just as I did, A story of Wax, feathers and red string.
-The End-
-------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------- ---------------------- Dedicated to my Icarus, you never fail to inspire. I hope to never see you fall.
I haven't updated my profile in such a long time. The little story I had started writing has been rumbling through my mind but I don't have had the inspiration spark or motivation to continue it.
I notice that I still get Views once in awhile, I feel so unworthy.
I'm right now at my dad's place in Florida. I'm pondering wither I should stay here or go back to my beloved island. Sometimes I find myself humming "we don't need no education" repetitively, but that's not what my father thinks... I really do want to study art; or agronomy. Mostly art.
But where? The art universities here are abundant, although I have a hefty amount of university to pick from in Puerto Rico I have to meet the restrictions of my mother. Being a minor can be so troublesome. I've come to the conclusion that the answer is in front of my face but I'm either too ignorant or just love to complicate my life.
This is an essay I was made to do for my English class about Stereotypes. The situation Puerto Rico is in with Rock music maybe similar to other places in the world, so I'm sure people might be able to relate to this, Plus I had fun writing this up so I'm posting it for the heck of it.
Rock In Puerto Rico: Where do we stand?
In the history of mankind, music has always existed. It is a form of expression and for even some, music is a way of life. It brings us together and it tears us apart, it influences, informs, perverts and inspires. Although it has only existed for half a century, the music genre known as Rock has been able to develop into one of the most opinionated genres of music.
The themes of rock music touch every social and political issue due to this, Rockers are branded renegades for their rebellious attitude towards society. This genre has spread all over the world and Puerto Rico is no acceptation. In Puerto Rico the rock scene is still under construction although it has managed to make a few break through with Spanish rock bands, for example “La Secta” or “Circo” can be heard on almost any Puerto Rican radio Broadcast. Yet it is seldom to hear Metal being played in radio stations. Only about ten percent of the radio stations play rock and less than five percent specialize in broad casting Rock. The unfortunate reality here is that on this island of ours, rockers are a minority which is a major detriment for Puerto Rican rock Musician. Most of the myriads of flourishing Puerto Rican rock bands are stuck playing underground due to the fact that Reggaeton is what most Puerto Ricans of this generation are listening too and want to hear.
Even though the view of rock musicians is polarized, Puerto Rican rock has many followers but the situation for the musician who plays in a band and simply wants to live a life of music is difficult.
The way a Rocker dresses up all hinge on the genre of rock listened too. On just observation sometimes it is easy at times to catalog what people may listen too. People tend to be so influenced by the music they hear, that they may at times imitate the manner a musician dresses, prior to genre.
If you were to visit the mall, which seems to be breeding ground for most teenage rockers, you might see a boy dressed in black, with long hair, various piercings, with chains dragging along their side making a jingle as their leather combat boots hit the cement floor aggressively; it would probably be a good guess to say that that person may be Goth, into death Metal, or is involved some satanic organization. Then you turn your head to look at the guy wearing skinny jeans with a colorful stud belt and a extensive motley collection of bracelets on one arm, a tight shirt that looks like he may have stole it from his little sister, and a hairdo that conveniently covers half his face, but not the fact that he’s wearing eyeliner; some might think he’s Emo, he listens to Screamo/Emo bands, cuts himself and quite possibly homosexual. It is Stereotypes like these that make rock shine in a somewhat negative light in Puerto Rico and sometimes even feared. Some people skeptically might draw to the conclusion that all rockers cut themselves, put on makeup, sacrifice small animals and worship Satan.
What most rock musician want is to send a message to society, and how we interpret the message is something personal. It is hoped that established prejudicial stereotypes will little by little demised as the rock scene in Puerto Rico grow, although that might take awhile, many stand determined.
I'm gonna keep writing "Caught in Barbwire". I'm not sure how often I'll be able to summit the stories, but I'll try to be consistent.
I've taken in consideration ALL the advice given to me. Except the suggestion about my female characters "kissing toplessly". (I can take a joke)
On a side note, recently I have had nightmares where my neighbors creepy goats threaten to murder me because of my bad grammar. So in consequence I've re-read the next part of my story at least 28 times, I really hope I made no grammatical errors.
Thanks again to all those who have encouraged me to continue.
The truth is I sent this to UG a long while back. I thought they did not accept it at this point.
Wither I continue it or not depends on the feedback I get from UG. I personally like the way it came out and already have a weird plot in mind, so I'm crossing my fingers.
Thanks for those that have already read it. I appreciate it.
I'm still wondering what that means. Legally I can now; smoke, get married, drive, and drink, of course I'm not planning to do all this at the same time. I'm hoping that maybe this year I'll find more happiness, I've been feeling kind of miserable.
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FreakAddiction's blogs, last updated : December 18, 2009
