Disjunction.

I write one for my dad too. 

Hey dad, guess what! It’s Fathers Day.

That means you get 24 hours to say

Whatever you want, compliment or taunt

To be humble and gracious or to boldly flaunt

Your sartorial style, a pearly smile, you’re king of the jungle, big dad crocodile

Zebra fools cry you a river, call that shit denial, those emerald green peepers got lady lizards beguiled

Buy both park place and boardwalk and all the while

Your hand gets shaken, picture gets taken, wake up in the morning your farts smell like bacon

9-5 every day that money you makin’ has fools steppin’ to but their will you be breakin

As they see you stack up that paper like some leaves you be rakin’

Naw I’m just kidding you see those were jokes I was making

Not that it ain’t true but that glamour I’m fakin’

Day in and day out you steady slinging no doubt

Business gets taken care of, trash gets taken out

It ain’t easy but no one knows what it looks like, your pout

Cuz you ain’t on that weak shit, no time to spout

Off some whining or nonsense, you know both what to do and what you’re about

Got a family who loves you, let there be no doubt ‘bout the fact that you got the dad game figured out

Look at me going off like a water spout talking bout stuff people know all about

They know because your game’s on point, blessed patriarch comes through and anoints,

Reminds us of the finer points of being a G, how to be a role model for urchins one, two and three

Things going beyond stacking paper, beyond dashing good looks

Like how to be steadfast and how to not get shook up by life’s tribulations, you wrote the book

On knowing your shit, got that healthy outlook on what’s really important and how not to get took

By surprise, for a fool, play the game, know the rules, start an empire with the family jewels

Every once in awhile take a dip in the pool, make an effort not to be petty or cruel

You’ve accomplished all this watch those other dads drool

Not that you care about competition, why would you, you rule

Like a king!

Every year I write a poem (by "request") for my mom. This is this years. Quote by Shel Silverstein.

“Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.”

Who do you think came up with that? Not me! It has a noteworthy duality

I thought it good to start a quote

For though I thought it not, perchance it is worthy of note

I look upon these rhymes and think of all our fights and all the stink

I’ve raised and brought some flash and fire, born of misguided deed, desire

Brought disquietude, unsettled ire, of these things I am now tired

To move along, a different song, to walk in tandem I now aspire

Childish method, adolescent crier, these versions of my being retired

I always write of our fights, arguments had, who was right? Ahem

I recollect not out of spite, but to shed unerring light

On events now passed, not as pestilence or blight

But bonding clashes, drawstrings drawn tight

To know the past means to repeat it not

No lesson learned of instruction forgot

I refuse to be wrought with being caught

Of doing the same thing, making the same mistakes

To have whined and wailed, and all for naught?

No thank you! I refuse. Our past has more pragmatic use

Looking back I can deduce that through our fights though at times obtuse

They serve to illustrate not just your love, but of moving forward, rising above

As I look now to make something of myself, fix damages done, bolster my health

Work hard play hard, accrue some wealth, dirt off my shoulder, I come down off the shelf

White light passes through crystalline pressure, rainbow spectrum now colours the self

These experiences can only be evidence of duality, light and dark, of dove and lark

Not just to have and to hold but to heed, and say hark!

Take note of what is said and done, of darkest deed and shining sun

We’ve had some of both! A bond not easily undone and one cherished by your FAVOURITE son

The world can be cruel, a shroud on your mind takes its toll, makes you ill

To have strife in your heart and your home, crueller still

It can be dark and ugly and your joy it would smother, it seems it goes but one way

But it can also be the other. Love and faith and caring for one another

As an example of such I have you as a mother

  Happy Mothers Day

  P.S.      In striving for wholeness I do require

Shawn is a Don Juan and this bike is no excep-shee-on. Ponder on wandering the concrete jungle on this long-necked prospect of two-wheeled sex. Old school canti brakes means that you can make OR break, give AND take, stop is just as good as go and if you were pro that's something you'd know. 21 speeds though, that's a lot of options so don't feel greed for excessive speed lest you feed your need of baller deeds, which this bike is made for, guaranteed. New gears and cables are on the table, plus new housing to make it arousing. Carnal lust is always a plus, and if you've dealt with us then you know it's a must. Super strong GT frame sheds no tears, feels no shame dropping panties, dissing lames, bring glory to your house and name, never feel sadness again, only radness, hella badness, lightspeed warp drive fueled by madness. Cop this ride and heed these words, going slow is for the birds, mikethebike drops truth on you, improves your life and bike game too. Comes with a 30 day service warranty, a talk about the birds and bees, hard like concrete bike post style and of course our trademark smile. - Juggernaut Jesus

He hung his head and heard a rap

A gavel spitting "tap tap tap"

"Order in the court!"

A chuckle, a snort

A shipwrecked sailor at his last port

A man stands, ruffled and grand

the personification of the law of the land

"HEAR YE HEAR YE BE IT KNOWN

THE MAN BEFORE YE HA' A HEART O' STONE

NIGH A FORTNIGHT AFORE OFF THE COURSE OF SORBONNE

DID PARTAKE IN AN ACT WHICH HAS SINCE SEEN HIS SOUL GONE

AYE INDEED HE FORSOOK THE OATH THAT HE TOOK

THE BREAKING OF WHICH MAKES HIM MORE THAN A CROOK"

At this the crowd murmured and wondered aloud

Little old ladies peeked from their shrouds

"Order GODDAMMIT I won't have this fuss

Bailiff, make ready your blunderbuss"

There was a vigorous shuffling and a small cloud of smoke

Lest anyone present think it was joke

"Now then, proceed, if you would be so kind"

"WHY THANK YOU YOUR HONOUR, IF YOU DON'T MIND

I DIRECT YOUR ATTENTION TO THE CRIME AT HAND

WHILE DIRTY AND DASTARDLY IS CERTAINLY GRAND

HE HATH ERRED AGAINST THOUGHT, YEY AGAINST RHYME AND REASON!

THE MOST APT DESCRIPTION COULD ONLY BE TREASON"

"Treason you say? That's quite the charge"

"IF IT WERE UP TO ME I WOULD HAVE IT ENLARGED

FOR THIS TREASON IS AGAINST NOT THE FLAG  NOR THE QUEEN

BUT AGAINST COMMON DECENCY

THE DEFENDANT IS MEAN"

The prisoner sat, his mind ill at ease

As his stomach did feel lost on the seas

Aching and empty as his telescope

1600 miles from the port of Cape Hope

Adrift on the sea with a consuming thought

His humanity sacrificed

A little time bought

A young man lay dying 

Slowly slipping away

17 years but not one more day

He lays still, weak

Too weak to stir

His last moments come to him as noises and blur

Hands find a penknife, the boy says with a slur

"What, me?"

Red meets blue as his blood wets the deck

Desperate fingers glued to his neck

A plunge, a sigh, a man turned to meat

Death walks on water

Standing in a steamy shower. Ladies and gentlemen, elapse with ellipses!

"..."

"..."

"..."

Smoke slinks to the ceiling.

Loooong exhale.

A sultry thought slinks in.

"I'm going Linsane".

Their eyes met. He sucked his breath in and strode over to her table. He could see her face change to recognize his approach: not anxious, but not necessarily welcoming.

M: Hi, I'm Kenneth.

C: I'm Camille.

M: Do you mind if I join you?

C: No, have a seat.

He could feel the sweat accumulate in the upper crack of his buttocks.

M: What are you eating?

C: It's a chicken.

M: Nice. I'm sorry to interrupt your meal.

C: Don't worry about it. I saw you looking at me and wondered if you would join me. 

M: Were you anxious?

C: Not necessarily.

M: Do you mind if I eat as well?

C: Not at all.

M: Thanks

He stands and exposes himself.

C: What the fuck

She sweeps the food off the table and flips it, its edge landing on and crushing his toe. He raises his left hand and lashes out wildly with his right leg. Fooled by his feint, she raises both arms to protect her face. His foot goes sailing into thin air, exposing his bare testicles to a crushing strike from Camille's knee.

M: Lord have mercy.

She breaks a glass bottle across his face. He swallows three teeth and spits blood onto a random Passerby.

P: You bastard! I'm allergic to blood!

The passerby grabs a belt and whips it, buckle first, at Kenneth's face. He misses and instead strikes Camille square on her right breast, causing it to lactate uncontrollably. It splashes onto a lactose-intolerant person, who happens to be Kenneth. His skins immediately begins to blister, his boils bursting on contact throughout the ongoing tussle.

M: My one weakness.

 They continued to fight in that way for hours, no quarter given nor asked for. Copious amounts of blood was spilled, and there was much thrusting.

C: Hand me that baby!

A baby comes flying through the air.

M: Wait! That's my baby!

Kenneth shakily produces official documentation, which the Passerby quickly grabs and fashions into a prison shiv using white glue and a hair dryer. He stabs Kenneth.

M: All I ever wanted was

He is pushed out of an open window and falls into a bush.

C: Wait!

The Passerby freezes, his fist raised, housekeys protruding from between his fingers. Their eyes lock. A drip is heard.

C: Is that Jay-Z? 

Jay-Z: That's my baby.

P: Oh my God.

Beyoncé: Me too. 

C: Ok. Ok.

Camille slowly inches towards Hova. He kicks his New-Era fitted cap smoothly across the blood-stained floor, it coming to rest at her feet. She slowly lowers the infant into the soaking wool. Beyoncé and the Passerby are now pointing pistols at each other, the room silent save for the drip. As she slides the infant back to Jigga she meets his eyes.

C: 7 5/8ths. That's quite the noggin'. 

Without warning and with great commotion, Kenneth appears at the window brandishing a fire hose spewing water at a tremendous rate. The stream knocks Beyoncé into the Passerby, both of them firing shots as they go down. A round connects with Jay-Z's left palm, another into Kenneth.

C: NOOOO

As Camille leaps to her feet the Passerby is executed by Beyoncé with two quick shots to the head. Time slows: Jay-Z has fallen to his knees and is reaching for a gat; Beyoncé is turning to take aim square at her chest; the lifeless eyes of the Passerby and, outside behind the bush, Kenneth, both staring into nothingness. She seizes her right breast with both hands and leaps towards Beyoncé.

C: I'm a survivor!

This was a liveblog of a story my roomie told. I haven't edited anything out, and I corrected grammar after I finished. Obviously the story wasn't told like this - I embellished as she went along. Some people might say this is private but it isn't.

School was almost out. They were all friends, much to her astonishment. Her old friends slowly fell out of touch as she she became a part of the adolescent elite. Goddesses of the academic world. Brushing shoulders was a huge boost in the social hierarchy, much help provided by her talented painting and wit. Plans made to mingle away from the peasantry, a relationship changed just like that. Jumping on beds, hanging out, it was a good life. Life turned upside down, happiness was overflowing, suffocating Meghan within the tight confines at the top the pecking order. Haters were HATIN', but the hottest guys swung by once in awhile. Old crushes pay you visits to swap saliva. To quote Weezer: it was the best time of my life. Sleepovers every night! Sleep in every day! Go skinny dipping EVERY DAY. Independence and sexuality were what was on the menu, and they dined with delight. 

She just has a really good memory. She doesn't wanna bone.

And then, high school. And the gravy train kept on rollin': sexual interactions, fitting of ancient goddessess and their gods. Athletic young winners on the brink of ruin. All the time spent upon their golden perch made them unfamiliar with the brightness of the sun, and they did become blind. They marveled in their own wonder, modern age Narcissus gazing at his pool. And so as they gave themselves away came dark and unfortunate deeds. 

Perhaps a project on group dynamics is called for. Its about asking the stories of women through the secondary school system, no doubt an important part of our life and controlled by these weird cliques of people.

Jealousy drove the lesser girls mad. They began to plot to clutch the ankle of their idol, snatching them away from the spotlight and into the despair their lives had become. The art class had been copied: her skills cheapened by the immorality of thieves. Hot musicians, oh my god. If they proved they could get those guys, they might be worthy of a sideways glance. 

University. Parties and friends, conversations had about drama drama drama. No best friends to be seen. A lack of comparative minds until lo, a gifted group of youngsters naturally drawn together to make stories with. Shane among them, who broke the poor girl's heart. Went things went bad with Christina, Sarah was there for her. Paul overseas, his girlfriend showering with another girl all the way across the ocean. Wyatt claimed the crown as their wiser, more mature leader. 

Within the group of friends came bonds, but not attraction. Not for her at least. Friendships remain intact, boldly going forward into New York despite a torrent of dirty deeds no one was willing to speak of. 

And then, life turned to shit. Everyone is really busy young. The drama keeps coming, no backup in sight. The group polarized with only one friend for a posse. Hatred for her eventual steady boyfriend, and a peace offering in the form of an invitation to a barbeque. 

Lost my last post using the Blackberry mobile Tumblr app for the first time. If I can't get it back, I demand to be avenged by my loyal followers. Also if anyone has it, send it to me. Will pay in racy pictures.

She could feel the strength in her legs again, old but firm. Inexpensive jewellery whipped and flew around her face and hands as her fleshy mottled body flew through a field of wild green wheat. She ran her hands across their brushy tips and sucked in their musty scent. Her armflaps were gaining momentum, threatening to take her tender naked body high into a sunny cloudless sky. She looked down and saw that the while the stalks of the wheat remained green and fresh, their tips had become newspaper coupons, pre-clipped and waiting to be plucked. She gasped and scratched at her ears: she could get a Glazed Honeysuckle Ham for $8.99, a savings of over 35%. A spasm of pure joy sent her airborne and headfirst into a tumble down a hill.

Over and over she rolled, legs whipping apart uncontrollably at the furious speed at which she was now moving. Faster and faster she went, indiscriminately knocking birds out of the air at random, some as large as an urban pigeon. As feathers and eggs began to pelt her from above, she gained what precious protein she could catch with her mouth for what could potentially become a life-threatening post-hillroll injury. As if by fate, at that very moment she collided headlong with a massive, solitary redwood tree, the sharp crack of the contact sending an echo through the hidden mountain valley. She lay there for several days, during which time small animals, such as badgers and snakes inspected her lumpy body for food, of which there was plenty. 

Due to the lack of response from the Coen brothers regarding my first post, I have taken the liberty of replying on their behalf.

Mr Paiva,

First and foremost may we congratulate you on your elegant prose and articulate reasoning, it isn't often in our line of work that we get to see a young man such as yourself write so eloquently. That being said, where do you get off critiquing our films? Not only are you not involved in the industry in any way shape or form, but it would appear you lack even a cursory understanding of the process of evaluating a film's merit.

You have chosen to focus upon, rather than fundamentals of storytelling, cinematography, character development or any number of relevant factors, an arbitrary and infrequent fabrication of your own creation to judge the merit of our films. I mean, in all seriousness, did you really expect us to take time out of our hectic film schedule (True Grit 2: the Re-Understandaning) to address your wild accusations of follicular irresponsibilty? Young man, you ask too much.

You can't just go around comparing Woody to Satan with reckless abandon, for God's sakes my daughter is in the other room. If she had stumbled upon your post and given even a sideways glance at your heretical jibberish my wife would have made me sleep in the garage. One time I woke up to night-pee and I found the car running. I ran to unlock the door to the house only to find a shovel and bucket of lye placed deliberately in front. I had to fashion myself a makeshift gasmask using my son's bong and a screenplay for Black Swan I use as a grease rag.

In addition, Nicholas Cage is a fine actor and we were determined to have him play the role of Tom Chaney in True Grit, but he insisted upon playing the role of Mattie Ross sans negotiation. Upon questioning him, the only "reasons" we ever got were the words "final frontier" and "goddamn keratin deficiency". He insisted upon looking us (both) in the eye as he said it and it was more of a murmur than anything. His voice is so musky.... upon realizing he had a raging erection we had no choice but to give the whole cast and crew the day off. He was so determined that he showed up on set in a dress. The movie was already in theatres.

To sully Tom Hanks and George Clooney is to sully two of the finest actors on the face of the Earth. Were it not for Tom Hanks' stirring performance in Cast Away, I would not have been inspired for my new screenplay. It features three intrepid explorers searching for tigers at an abandoned Belorussian mine who discover a bicycle standing unsupported upon a patch of wild daisies. Only the worthiest of the trio can ride it you see, as he put on his pants both legs at the same time that very morning. Upon straddling the magnificent steel steed, he immediately enters a wormhole through space and time and finds himself impregnating a dinosaur. The dinobaby born as a result of their unholy union serves as the direct ancestor to the human crotchspawn who later becomes Tom Hanks, who then discovers his hidden Repto-DNA in his role as Prof. Curt Connors in the Spider-Man musical. Upon rampaging and slaughtering every man, woman, and child in attendance at the show he then eats Aaron Sorkin and the entire supporting cast of Cheers before self-destructing into a shower of asexually reproducing dino-sperms who serve as the stars in the long-awaited modern-day Godzilla sequel starring Matthew Broderick. Imagine an army of dinosaurs saying "there's a snake in my boots". Shit, every time I talk about it I get so excited. One time, we had no choice but to send everybody home lest I receive another sexual harassment charge from the lady who wires my microphone. And without George Clooney's role in The American, I might have forgotten to take my Metamucil that afternoon. What I'm saying is the movie is shit.

But now it is I who digress....es. Your post was bunk. You were just shamelessly trolling our movies to achieve what, I don't know. You had literally zero followers and your blog looks like it was designed by a white supremacist. Seriously, did colours pick on you as a child? Live a little why don't you. 

To conclude, we are actually both very sorry about Richard Jenkins. We only realized after we had finished the film that he was even in it as we were both concerned over Brad Pitt's guylights. Truthfully my brother and I have been smoking meth-amphetamines ever since we discovered my son smokes pot. His bongwater kept me alive overnight from my horrible wife and it's something I live with every day. I'm sorry about your neighbours dog.

Joel & Ethan Coen

ARTHUR and MARGARET sit in a small kitchen bathed in twilight. A cigarette burns in a stone ashtray upon an otherwise bare table. Their hands are entwined. 

ARTHUR: You're saying all the right things.... people will think we're in love. 

MARGARET: Oh Arthur! I can't! What would the townspeople say... 

ARTHUR: I don't give a damn Margaret, I love you and I always have. 

MARGARET: And Roscoe? What of him? 

ARTHUR: I would sooner see his head on a pike than his ring upon your finger.

MARGARET: Oh Arthur... you tempt the hand of fate. 

ARTHUR: Damn the gods! Damn it all Margaret, can't you see that we're just two people? Do you know what it is to love so deeply? When I thought you were going away... why, it was then that I knew real loss. 

MARGARET: Oh Arthur! 

ARTHUR: Yes Margaret... I thought I had known of loss during the war, seeing my comrades gunned down like dogs... But I truly did not understand until I had loved something more than I loved myself. That something is you, Margaret. 

MARGARET: ...they gunned down dogs in the war? 

Allow me to paint you a picture.

WASHINGTON - APRIL 19th, 2011 - GIRL'S BEDROOM SHELLY is sitting at her desk, surfing the Internet, a look of melancholic stupor upon her face. Around her lies an assortment of open textbooks, bottles of nail polish and a dog-eared copy of "Angus, Thongs and Snogging". She occasionally utters simplistic musings. SHELLY: Cats? On the Internet? How novel!  SHELLY is a bright girl of 17 years of age with wispy red hair, freckles and an upturned nose. She is spritely, possessing the awkward grace of ginge adolescence. DOWNSTAIRS, she hears her BLACK IRISH FATHER playing the spoons.  BLACK IRISH FATHER: -clikkety clikkety clikkety clikclikclick clikkety clakkety clik- SHELLY (UPSTAIRS): I love the spoons.  Whilst browsing Perezhilton.com, she sees a paid advertisement for Miss Cleo: internationally-renowned clairvoyant and soothsayer. For no apparent reason she clicks it.  Instantly, dozens of pictures of poorly-photoshopped celebrity nudes flood the screen. SHELLY: oh sweet fuck She frantically tries to close the ads before her brother WHEELS bursts in unannounced, which she doesn't know is on account of his desire to accidently intrude upon an intimate scene so as he might superimpose his face over his sister's fictitious partner and entertain the notion of one day knowing the warm touch of a woman's embrace.  The last ad catches her eye: a Calvin Klein piece. An aboriginal model, lithe yet unmuscular, laying upon a stone step. Something about it caught her eye. The coyness of his hand on his breast? The intense awkwardness that seemed to give the picture a tangible smell? The bulge in his left pant leg? She didn't know. What she did know was that she, for the first time in her life, was supremely aroused. She felt as capable and sensual as a woman can be, a fierce Knower of Things, Sayer of Words. 

SHELLY: Who am I to decline the hand of fate She slowly grabs hold of her trusty tool, always in arms reach of the computer. A unique invention composed of a rubber dish glove and Pogs, she settled in for a few minutes of what was sure to be bliss.  The image resonated within her, the feelings inside growing stronger. She stretches out her athletic legs and feels the tension and energy stored within. Pogs and glove in hand, she grips the table hard as her temperature rises. With one long, last meaningful glance into the eyes of the boy in the picture, she is completely overcome by the feelings of carnal bliss and, as if possessed, groans loudly to the heavens: SHELLY: FUCK YOU PATRICK NGUYEN, FUCK YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL She crumples off her chair, lying exposed upon the floor, Pogs and dish soap strewn over the carpet. Her mind is a blur: she briefly wonders where this mystery man may be. She slowly lowers her head and turns to gaze out the window. WHEELS gazes back at her. 

I used to be in cadets. Was for quite some time, 8 years give or take a few months. As a member from ages 12-18, I learned a lot, traditionally concerning drill, dress, deportment. 

My old squadron parades at HMCS York on Lakeshore in Toronto once a week, prime real estate for training over which most of TAG (Toronto Air Group) is supremely jealous.* It's a gorgeous naval base, we were lucky to have a full-sized parade square on which to holler, classrooms, a real supply room, security booth, perpetually malfunctioning front gate and an Officers Mess (generally referred to as O's Mess, or O's) where the higher-ups could lament the decrepitude of the youths in quiet dignity. Impressive models of majestic wooden ships are liberally scattered throughout the building commemorating the Canadian fleet circa 1995.

It was here where a great many of the best experiences of my teenage years took place. I met my first girlfriend,* my best and oldest friend with whom I get drunken Chinese food with to this day, and learned a bit about what a little afforded authority does to people albeit on a smaller, pubescent scale. It was at this place where I first inquired about lady boners. Yes, first inquired.

It was immediately following a regular training night, and I was waiting to be picked up by my parents at the front doors with some other cadets. I was young. Waiting with me were Maharaj, Jacobs and Ruiz, in that order. They were collectively referred to as the Dream Team due to their desire to be promoted up the ranks despite their inconstant discipline and general thug life attitude. Others came and went, even a second generation comprised of Koca, Khondker and Mannan, but they were the Haterade to the originals' Jesus Juice. The Dream Team were great guys, except the time they walked out on the TAG sports competition after losing basketball in the semi-finals. They were our only good players and after they got to steppin' the whole team comprised of awkward tweens whose pre-game consisted solely of long drags from a puffer like a wide-eyed sheepdog sucking back mountain air. But I digress. 

I assumed these guys knew about girls. I had only ever been regretfully aware of the female existence, due primarily to the certainty that they were deliberately unaware of mine. I had often heard the guys talk about receiving handies and other such nonsense and asked them a question that I had just (see: previously) thought of.

"Hey Maharaj"

"Yeah"

"You know how guys get boners when they get aroused"

"Yeah"

"Well... how can you tell if a girl is aroused?"

"Her nipples get hard"

Thus concluding my knowledge of all things romantic until that moment in time, waiting for my parents to pick me up from cadets.

Fast-forward to the present day, and a wide variety of literature has informed me that there are other more tell-tale signs. I am now sitting here in my apartment, 22 years old, having just had a discussion on what to call such a sign. I was informed that "wettie" is used by at least one person in the general Ottawa area, and that more often than not people recoil in horror upon hearing it. Is the wettie not deserving of a more regal name? There are any number of names that a guy can call his wettie, even adaptations suited to bro-induced wetties, and others which I do not know but am sure exist. Let us now discuss the topic of wetties.

In looking for a new name, the word ferection came to mind, a meshing of the words "female" and "erection". Then the word "sherection", although while grammatically less correct, more obvious as to it's meaning. The problem with these two words is that they're based on male terms. Women should have their own word for it! Not some frankenword based on a completely separate part of the male anatomy, but a word that is exclusively theirs. There might be another one, I don't know, but at this point in time the only one I'm aware of is wettie. It's simple, descriptive, memorable, off-colour, all necessary things. But just as my peers and I sucked back sweet puffer-juice and took to the court in full knowledge of the crimes against humanity that were to ensue, I too am determined to see the mountains of feedback from all zero of my followers regarding a different, inappropriately appropriate name for lady boners. 

I have purposely disabled photo replies. This is not one of those blogs. 

*SUCK IT, 180.