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Northern Michigan has got some pretty twisted people  but call themselves decent, God faring Christians. Copy pasting two typical posts on rants & raves forum exchanged between two typical Northern Michiganders. Not like them but think they are weirdos and get a good old belly laugh at the ignorance in the good old deep south errrr, I mean northern michigan. We got spared today from reading that Obama was chief ***** head but did get to read his racist post faking being  American Indian.

From northern michigan craigslist poster #1

RE; Curious in Fairview (TC)
You sure were quick to figure out what "passes for" debate on this place.
Good Job!

Here's what I do....first, I don't give a hoot what any of them say or do to my posts.
The name calling, and personal bashing are simply humorous to me. Truthfully though, I sometimes egg them on....It simply helps prove that the common IQ level
is somewhat ( ???? ) LOW!
Secondly---"Chief Itchybutt" is the ONLY one worth reading---he tells some
pretty incredible stories....he should probably write a book in my opinion.
As for all the rest of the spew---let it roll off your back like water on a wet
duck...just read it and be glad your not one of "them"...
Advice from:
YBBB--the one, the only!



Craigslist poster #2 with pic of Obama with huge photoshopped lips.

Special for Bob, a deer hunting story (in my woods)

Ugg! How! Chief IIttccheebutt of the Neverwiippee Tribe here to tell all what I see in woods hunting for deer, Ugg! Me go out with boomstick early in morning when turkeys are on roost to sit by deer trail to **** a buck.Very windy out, see no deer, me not even see a tree rat with fuzzy tail. Me wait and wait and wait, still no deer. It get dark now so me go in and try next day. Next day come, same thing,no deer, me think I pick a different spot tomorrow. Tommorrow come and I sit by the edge of a big field with sand holes and short grass with flags in little holes, it very quiet and me hear leaves crunching, me crouch down and get gun ready. Noise get closer and closer then it stop so I look out from behind tree and put gun down and pick up I-phone and snap pic of most stupid looking buck me ever see... then me start big belly laugh, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.
Ugg! How!

a familiar tightness and shortness of breath
slips into my chest...
college always does this to me.

it's not even the work.
i can do the work
like a prisoner doing his time
it's the people that i can't do.

why am i so socially awkward?
i am a triumph among those younger than me
but people my own age
make me feel like a snail
hiding in a shell in plain sight
where i could easily be stepped on.

i must sink into my comfortable stereotype
yes, that will help
i am a gamergirl who wears batman shirts
and plays assassin's creed in the library
move along, ugg boots.
nothing to see here.

It is angel impact bullwhip vivid
Stampede fingers landscape obedient
Jail bust escape laughing run
Spillway thought stream fuzzy essence
UGG boot toe tubs and water stings
Earthquake tyrant Celsius fools
Pin lake petrol ice filled deserts
Spiky flames in outer space
Sculpture freak show withering exhibit
Fathom emergency breathe and ****
Nut shell gorillas invisibly cracked
Cow fed nirvana BBC
Shades of zero audio cauldron
Same vein madness virus mansion
Culinary horror infection procedures
Geyser rich nutrient pea-pod turmoil

Alot of websites have web auctions for just about anything you can dream of, while others specialize. There are some just for tools, and others just carry clothing, shoes, and accessories. If you cant find something on eBay, you may find it on one of those other sites.

Americans possessing airsmax counterfeits often take a humorous, tongue-in-cheek approach to their display. Take Britney Spears for example: in a 2005 video for her song o Somethin, Britney and her friends are depicted driving a souped-up Hummer, trimmed in fake, Louis Vuitton upholstery, to a night club. (Britney and MTV were subsequently sued by LVMH, who won the copyright infringement lawsuit in 2007.

There are other reasons for buying womens shoes online. Those who need narrow or wide sizes can actually find them. There are eco-friendly shoes and diabetic-approved shoes.  Since you have an online business, you will be able to offer a wide variety of shoes and styles to customers around Womens Nike Air Max 87 the globe. However, you need to be able to differentiate yourself from the rest of the competition. Here are some tips to make it easier to sell your shoes.. (babyandyUSA-March-11)

In addition to these daily routines, your home needs to be thoroughly cleaned at least twice a month (once every other week). If you do not have a professional housekeeper to do it, then divide up the cleaning among all of the capable members of your household and schedule specific days and times for the chores to get done. Hold yourself and everyone else in your household accountable.

Not only that, you can collect them from traveling where you can get it from the gift shop in the destination you are in. One way to get them without having to go on vacation or globe trotting all year round is to have your friends and family members pick up one on their vacations and send one to you. They're small enough and cheap enough to pick up while they're away, and it'll add to the interest of your collection..

The most important thing you have to remember when shopping around for this footwear is this: UGG boots is not a brand name - it is the appellation given to the style of boots. This goes pretty much in the direction of Flip-Flops and Orthopedic Shoes. Lower quality or cheaply made boots can have the same markings simply because they follow the same standard pattern for the making of the boots.

Also, you may want to notice the location of the person you are buying from if you are buying online. Again, guys, use your brain here... If the seller is NOT WILLING to disclose their location or other normal info in the auction listing then that is a giant red flag.

Luckily, criminals can be quite sloppy when creating counterfeits of articles of very detailed clothing. Owing to the consistent, high-quality finishes and details in the average pair of True Religion Mens Jeans, it is usually a simple task to determine the general authenticity of the item. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with these details, have a read through the following points as these attempts t explain them to you..  2013-03-13.nike.com nike air max

YOU HAVE
TO WANT IT



MAN
“go outside,” the doctor says,
“stand on the grass for fifteen minutes a day.”
you’re here because today you want to get better.
“tell me how you’re feeling.”
“I’m scared.”

“I mean physically.”
“so do I.”




ANGEL
an angel can come in a burst of a blister,
on the tip of a finger.
he always starts small
with the whispers,
         “i know about love,”
   like you asked for it.

he prefers to come at the end of the month,
            amid deadlines, another set of blood-soaked, ruined *******,
some traces
     of the relationship with your father and failure.
but you like that: having an excuse that sends you
   scrambling for car keys.

    at first it’s forests, their fires,
the flowers that follow once the ash and skin and soil
are mixed. at first it’s earth and rubbing it in,
     seeing god behind your eyelids.

so you clean the pipes, keep washing sheets.
      the voices they stop coming; once in a while you
      read online how many kids this week have overdosed
    on ****** and it’s foreign. kids with dirt
under their fingernails, kids in basements, kids
with ***** canvas shoes and overgrown cuticles.
           they don’t look like you. you still look like
you.




MAN
                   mike sparks a j in the basement.
        we chew on xanax and no one’s paying attention to the TV.
some white static and early afternoon rain. it’s made me gone
ghost, sitting on a leather recliner, silent with a cigarette.
              it’s a right of initation to carve your name in mike’s
coffee table and sign on the back wall. this summer I added
   mine alongside the kids I used to get nervous around in high school.
                       his mom comes downstairs with a joint of her own rolled
and a French manicure. her lip liner is too dark for her
lipstick, and phil’s warmly lit and ivan leans so far into the
couch he isn’t human.

mike sits up, “ma,
you know you owe me some money?” he changes the channel.
she laughs throaty, her insides a swamp. she’s
prettier when she’s high like this.
                       “I got your money,” she promises. it gets soft
from there and phil smiles over his body and ivan moves
further into the couch. she touches mike’s hair.

“good kid,” she tells me and I smile up at her. I wish I had
a body but I left it wandering through
the thunderstorm outside. ivan nods his hazy head.
          mike hands her a diet coke and she hands him a fifty and she goes—through the walls—
       phil digs his hand into the couch cushions to find papers. I go
ghost in the seconds it takes him to spark his lighter.

the ghost lights herself a cigarette.
   the ghost lights herself another cigarette.
               the ghost lights herself a cigarette. “are you chain
smoking now,” phil slurs playfully. “yes,” the ghost agrees.
     “are you having fun,” ivan turns to her.
                “yes.”

HUMAN
i don't want to know what love is like i want
                                       air that
                     tastes like apples and
       i want real raw
         brown sugar
       i want to shoot up every
grey second for two weeks— get frantic then
       take benzodiazepine until i shred my
stomach lining, singing
                                                    
            i want bud light and
a backyard. bed time stories and
            white furniture and ritz crackers
             with fancy party cheeses
                              i want to complain about the drinking age,
                              new york’s black-dusty wind charm. complain like the
                              moon is still lonely and not a destination
                                          i want to wake up in the sun spot
                                          i want to wake up to a baby crying
                          soft like mothers do, going to
                                     that dear one to quiet them down,
                                        i can be here to kiss you calm
                                                              i want to get out of bed
                                                              i want to call friends back
so winter can come and i can still
                              go home.



       WANT
         throwing on the rag&bon;; jeans,
         neither rag nor bone more milky skeleton-ized, eyes
         pin headed. faces struck yellow all tops of the heads
         with umbrellas and sorry throats. "here take mine" no
         "you'll get sick" it's fine
                                                        the gothic church with social strangers
                                                       ­ tweakers and nodders all smiley side-
                                                        eye­-Y
                        i know the gimme gimme
                        i know the routine
         and blondie (they think) here she comin she twenty years clean
         blondies a baby she weak as **** she dont know what she got
but i know the "i want" "i want"
         and the ok baby,
         Got U




HUMAN
i dont want to know what love is like,
                  i want to walk the manhattan bridge at sunrise
                  i want
                       grass wisps and capers
                       chicken noodle soup
                       a night at the new york city ballet
                       and pauses in sentences, in breath
                       the breath before a kiss or the breath
                       after it. i want instant hot chocolate
                       and reality television, ugg slippers with
                       faux trim. a bicycle painted lilac with a
                       basket, and clear skin. i want pier 63 on
                       a 70 degree day, the weepies playing
i want to be a ghost
            where ghosts are white sheets with two button eyes
             and make jokes about halloween and their past lives
i want to go there
to street fairs
and watch fireworks and write out names
in fresh concrete patches
                                                     i want to eat blackberries in the bathtub
                                                     i want skin to make me feel safe again
                                   i want to want to live
                                   but i know the "i want" "i want" and the ok baby,
Got U




WANT

they were right,
                               they were all
              going (right
they were righjt
they were right

air hanging eyes to dry
blood pull in push out brown golden push IN
  

they were right they were all right
nothing could ever make me as happy again



WANT

it’s a hold on something so quiet and soft in your hands and no one knows what it is and you dont know what it is. it’s the pin drop in a hospital room and so lemonade refreshing. im in a snowstorm and i cant see the city, cant see past my own two feet. im on a long highway drive and it’s rain that comes in sheets so hard i cant move. i walk and the world writhes underneath me and we put needles in our arms. and we wait for the blood push. and i watch my life go away in warm *******. and i watch it go this way like it’s not me. and i’m going home to ****** and i’m scared, i say outloud to maggie, “i’m scared i’m going to do something stupid,” and she is so quick to say “like what” that i know she knows what it is. and i’m so scared.





WANT

give up on me , I Know where im going. don’t follow. don’t even look for me. keep
Counting sugar cubes and stirring your coffee , it is my wish for you that it always tastes sweet.
I love you












WANT


i just wanted to be kept warm by something that looked like love



MAN
i walk slower on the streets of manhattan; stop at
   the strand, look for the man with eyebrow rings
asking "do you know where a girl in this city could get some relief?"
         he laughs, says he just looks like someone who would know
            that. he asks, "is that Monster Blood?”
                             &nbsp

It was going to be a beautiful Saturday morning - and the wind was still. Wind mattered because Peter and I had borrowed a friend's lime green Fiat and trekked 30 minutes north to play the Lufbery (frisbee) disc course. We teed-off just after sunrise. It’s a beautiful, wooded course. I used to be a frisbee-golf addict and I’d brought my gear to Yale - but only managed to play twice. I finished 8-under (for 18 holes) and Peter earned a little participation, something or other, to be awarded later.

Peter lives in a doctoral frat-house they call doc-house (the 8 guys who live there are all doctoral students). It’s a typical frat house, remarkably dark and filthy. Every surface seems carpeted and there’s a dizzying cocktail of smells - old beer, dust, pizza, cigars, whisky, popcorn, cigarettes and *** - ugg! Yes, If you need to carouse, this is the house. You hear, “You’re in the DOC-HOWWSE!” (said like dog-house) when a group of new girls show up.

In the basement, there are arm chairs that I’m sure haven’t been cleaned since someone in the class of 1955 spilt beer on them. If I sit on one - and I try not to sit on one - I keep my arms crossed in my lap so they don’t even touch the armrests. Peter’s room is clean - I had a service come to clean it (and the shared 2nd floor bathroom) before he moved in. I got him a new mattress and topper too.

My favorite of his roommates is called “Melon” (His real name is Milton). He’s a big guy, 6’3”~ish and probably 450 pounds. He’s the sweetest guy but a slob in the classic, Chris Farley mold. Peter says he already has two PhDs (One in ‘computational mathematics’, a second in ‘mathematical modeling’) and he’s working on a third in ‘decision sciences.” He owns doc-house, having bought it when the owner hinted at moving to Florida.
“Melon makes a bag-and-a-half consulting,” Peter explained, admiringly.

The house is on a wooded hill and the driveway, about 400 feet long, goes straight uphill. One time, I’d brought a couple of bags of groceries and Melon, as usual, came bounding out of the house to help me. The uber could only get half way up the crowded drive and by the time Melon got to the car he was completely out of breath. I half expected I’d have to give him CPR, but he rallied after a couple of minutes - talking non-stop, all the while - and leaning heavily on the Uber which ran up my bill (I found it endearing).

Back to my story (a lot of that was background). Peter and I were going to Geronimo’s (a Mexican restaurant). I was sweaty from golfing, so I decided to shower. I’m showering away and I hear the bathroom door open (I’d absolutely locked it). So, I assumed it was Peter. The next thing I hear is someone taking a loud ****. Then the guy starts humming - and it wasn’t Peter.

There I was, shower running, behind a flimsy, opaque-plastic, flowered shower curtain. What now? I was thinking. “Occupied!?” I said loudly, like a question - standing stock-still naked.

“Fukk” I hear him say, “Sorry, sorry, SORRY - I thought you were one of the guys!” he said, flushing, dashing out and slamming the door.

I waited a moment, killed the water, wrapped up, climbed out of the shower and wrapped my hair in a second towel while leaning against the door. It had been locked - well, the little *** was pressed in anyway. I picked up my stuff and dashed across the hall to Peter’s room.

Peter was propped up on his bed with his laptop as I rushed in, closed the door and leaned on it. “The lock on the bathroom door doesn’t work,” I said in a rush.
“Did something happen?” he asked, looking up.
“No,” I said - thinking about it, “Not really,” and I started to towel dry my hair.
That’s when I noticed that his index finger was turning back on itself in a “come hither” motion. Then it occurred to me that, wound as I was, in a small white towel, I might look like a loosely wrapped participation trophy.

Sometimes you face an army of desires - without armor.

We chimpanzees proceed
With all available evidence

Oog said Ogg will attack
Bash Ogg’s brain; now!

Wait, Zegg said, we can’t do that
It’s against the chegg convention

Dash the convention!
Rescind what Zegg said

Restrain her, retrain her with
Extraordinary rendition

My petition for retribution
Is my absolute authority

Find Oog; restrain him
Waterboard retrain him

Truth through torture
Trogg exclaimed

Ugg saw all debasement
From Ogg through to Zegg

And what she exclaims
Remains ———————

What’s acted is redacted
And still remains the same

if i could say that i wanted to go to college
i would also tell you that i want the obscene white lighting in the dorms
the sticky notes on the doors
the toothpaste on the bathroom mirror
and the hair on the floor.
i want the dry-erase boards
with the list of rules
for the kitchen
(because college girls
are nasty *******
and let **** mold all over the place)
i want the plastic bowls
and the old coffee cups
and the rugs that smell like dead popcorn.
i'll even take all the cliches
all the girls in ugg boots and yoga pants
all the weird kids who follow you and talk to you all the way down the hall
the ****** professors
the too-hard classes
and the cafeteria food

i want to go to ******* college.
a real one
a four-year school
i want to live in the ******* dorms
i want to be out on my own.

baby wants to be
a college baby
baby is tired
of being a *******

i wish i wasn't
trapped
here

the air is crisp
as i sit on the front
verandah, snuggled up
in wooly hoodie, flannel
pyjamas and ugg boots
hands wrapped around
a large mug of steaming
coffee
watching those with more
enthusiasim, than nouse
riding up the hill in bright
lycra body suits.
the weekend pelaton rides
on to  wherever.

the wisdom of the
ages ugg killing something
with a big ol rock

There she was,
staggering down the evenly-paved road--
passers-by wrote her off as drunk,
but really the tears were impairing her vision--

clad in Ugg moccasins that barely covered her
heels anymore, that embarrassing pair of
heart-covered pajama pants from middle school,
and the ever-too-big softball sweatshirt.

Tears cascaded down her face
in a waterfall, while her chestnut-colored hair
shrouded this natural phenomenon
as if it were sacred.

Her shadow stretched far taller
than the girl's actual height,
adding those always-sought-after inches
to her petite frame.

Ironically, her thoughts overshadowed
her own shadow; those pesky, ferocious demons
causing the salty tears of frustration
to stubbornly leak from her green eyes.

A young girl shouldn't be tortured by
her own thoughts, the worries of her elders,
carelessly blown in her face
like secondhand smoke.

She needed to get away,
escape the smoke-worries
that weigh her down in her own home--
but it was too late.

*The damage is already done...

It’s boxing day (the Brit name for the day after Christmas) and Pamela, Lisa’s grandmother is visiting our little pandemic ark. Pamela’s a Cowboys fan so we’re watching them slaughter Washington - between commercials - but now a Tesla commercial is running. “Those electric cars,” Pamala says dubiously, “seem problematic.”

“You’ve heard of global warming, haven’t you, Pamala?” Leeza says. Leeza addresses everyone (even her grandmother) as if they were her age (12). It’s both seductive and lazy. “This whole system,” she raises her arms to include the apartment, the city and America, “will collapse - we’re DOOOOMED,” she concludes, as if speechifying to an eager crowd.

“Everyone’s heard of climate change,” Pamela says, sipping her eggnog. Pamela is as well informed as any of us and seems rather envious of the future, even the coming awfulness.
“Leeza’s her own theatre,” Her mom says, grimacing indulgently.
Leeza’s full attention was now on the pastry tray - having spotted two small eclairs under the bear claws - she'd lost interest in the conversation and saving the planet.

“The system won’t collapse,” Will says. Will received his early acceptance letter from Harvard the other day and now he knows everything. “We’ll lose Florida, South Carolina and New York,” he pronounces calmly, “so there’ll be some.. migrations.”
“Thank you, professor,” Lisa says, rolling her eyes as if to say ”Harvard people.”
“I think the Covid might get us all - before climate change,” I say, in the spirit of the holiday.
“Well,” Will says, grinning, “that’s what ALL the people at inferior colleges think.”

Leeza, passing by my easychair, curls into my lap like a cat, gently petting my hair. “Don’t be mean to MY friend,” she says, purringly - I was suddenly her possession. Lisa comes out of her chair, a sly smile on her face, to lay crosswise atop Leeza (and me).
“Ugg,” I managed to say, squirming to get comfortable, then “Akkkk.”
Lisa says, “Leave my poor roomie alone!” and starts baby-kissing my head.”
Will starts in our direction like HE’S going to pile on. “Egggg! I shrek, “HELP!”
Pamela whoops with glee as Dallas scores another touchdown.
“Like beating a dead dog with a stick,” she says.

There's this cold. It’s a feeling. It's a cold that isn't obvious to anyone else, but it’s very much present. It’s the kind of feeling that makes your whole body tremble. The icy feeling of being unloved by that one person, who has the power to shake your entire being.

It happened in ... the year is irrelevant. I loved him and that’s all that matters. This is probably going to end up being a clichéd love story, but it’s my story, and it’s meaningful to me. It affected me in a way that nothing has done before.

It was cold the night we met. My friend and I were having a sleepover and we were getting pizza from our favourite Italian place down the road. It’s a tradition for sleepovers. We were in our pyjamas, with big hoodies and Ugg boots.  We were simply getting supplies for our movie night.  

You walked in, clearly a regular because everyone knew your name, yet I’d never noticed you before. There was something about you that intrigued me. I knew immediately that I wanted to find out what was different about you. You stood next to me in the line and started chatting. You even offered to pay for my pizza and then you wrote your number down on a napkin for me. I left the restaurant with a spring in my step and a twinkle in my eye. You had shown an interest in me. You were the first boy to ever show an interest in me. I guess that’s why I fell for it. You made me feel like you loved me and I believed you.

You gave me a warm feeling inside and when I was with you, it felt like I was burning. It sounds painful, but it was the most exhilarating feeling I have experienced in my long lifetime.

It was too good to be true because within two months, I found out that you had slipped my friend your number, that very same night we met. She didn’t tell me. She betrayed my trust. Wholeheartedly and knowingly.

An ocean of tears burst from me and I locked myself in my bathroom for hours on end. I don’t know what hurt the most; the fact that she had betrayed me or what you had done. The loneliness echoed around me while I sat in the cold bathroom listening to my own sadness.

She was my best friend and he was my first love. I haven’t spoken to either of them since that day. They’re married now. I still see them around town every now and then, but I refuse to acknowledge them. That is simply because it still hurts so much. Thirty years later and it still hurts. Unfortunately real life never works out the way it does in the movies.

I have grown up terrified of falling in love, but am still in search of it. This was my fatal flaw. I keep telling myself, if only he could have truly loved me and hadn’t played with my heart as if it was a simple child’s game. I would have made him the happiest man in the world and I would now be basking in the warmth of his love. That never happened and so I am faced with the fact that he didn’t love me and never will.

So here I am, thirty years later. Lying in my bed, covered in blankets and still feeling the cold. I still tremble uncontrollably every night. All I long for is to feel his love, to no longer suffer the cold of his absence.

- F.T

Her Holister Clothes, her Ugg boots,
The 600 hair products in her bathroom,
and the ruby red smile she paints on every day.
The house of cards that is her so called perfect life
toppled by a gust of wind.
She's in the bathroom crying again.
A rusty blade glides across her wrist
like a snake in the grass
a crimson river runs off her fingertips
forming a heart shaped puddle at her feet
but she cant see
mascara running down her cheek
she gets to the sink
washes off her face
wraps her wrist in a blue cloth and a bracelet that says peace
paints on her ruby red smile
and picks up the 52 tear stained cards that is her so called perfect life.

One day I woke up in the middle of a train station that belonged to a city I never even been to. And when I pulled apart the curtains that covered the windows to my soul. I saw this girl standing over me. She had on my mothers smile l,she had my sisters eyes,she was wearing this perfume called 1620 and the scent reminded me of a slave ship. She had middle passage stamped to her back, a noose around her neck and a shackle still dangling from her left wrist. I grabbed her by the arm whispered in her ear, I said "Sweetheart no one escapes history." See our ancestors they had wings like butterflies and we are tornados on the other side of the planet disconnected to our story and this girl she wears the generation Gap like she bought right next to Banana Republic. I found this poem in the basement of her self esteem, it was mounted to the wall right next to her ethnic background as if they were both hunted before. She wears these coats made with the skin of black men that have found her attractive, she shoots them down like LAPD,she's the KKK's stunt devil. A menstrual show turned upside down, with a white face, lip gloss, and UGG boots. She's a blonde hair,blue eyed, black girl praying for lighter skin. She tells me that she is so ******* tired of being ugly. And I know, I knew that she was drunk on the Molotov cocktails that the media has thrown through her eyelids. Deep down inside really, I wanted to blame it on the alcohol but when she said those words I felt like she stabbed me in the chest with a sharp shank made out of her broken heart. I felt like she sliced my throat with the jagged edges of her shattered dreams, I was hurt and it took everything in my power to try to hold back the tears but they were stronger than me. My eyes,felt like 300 Spartan soldiers trying to hold back the Persian army. That day, yo that day I cried for her. I cried so hard, that my eyes bled three frozen lakes and gave birth to the coldest winter ever. Despite my mixed emotions, despite our differences I still spread my branches as far apart as I possibly could and offered to keep her warm but she said.......she looked at me an said.....I would much rather die.

Fall break came at the perfect time. And it's a memory I'll cherish forever -- waterfalls and falling leaves and sunshine and cold waterbottles and plaid flannel shirts named Rufus and milk bottles and miles of blue sky. Monday. Rain on my umbrella, smile for the camera. Tuesday. And then like waking up from a magical dream, blue carpets and textbooks and shifty-eyed girls in Ugg boots and my anxiety. Wednesday. Back to studying for midterms and I'll throw in a pair of borrowed shoes.

I've got hours to wait, so I went outside and Ron said "it's people like me and you who give a **** that'll get A's." Then I went back in and found a side hallway. I wrote down what he said and listened to the janitorial staff. She opened the supply closet and told her friend "come into my office" with a laugh. Five minutes later they came back out talking about how Jamie was ******* about them at nights but it looked to me that they were more ******* about Jamie, and whoever she is, she's apparently worthless. And I wonder if this is how to make friends, by chilling with the cleaning ladies. Actually, that would be a family tradition. Is this how you find your niche?

Now they've moved from talking about Jamie to school shootings and all the good cleaning closets to hide in. And I wonder if this is why I spent 17 years "sheltered", because I'd rather be safe than normal. I'm writing all of this in the back of my science notebook because when I write my fingers don't feel the need to pull at my scalp. Rifle my hair, maybe, but no snapping. And I have 45 minutes before I get another hour to wait.

Sometimes I walk by the art department and I always want to go in, but what would someone like me be doing there? I'm not an artist by any sketch of the imagination. But it's always dark in there and I wonder what goes on in that back hallway. Like this back hallway where I'm sitting with these collegiate white cinderblock walls. How much misery from the cleaning crews have they heard?

Everyone says I'll find my niche, but it's looking to me like all I'll ever find is empty corners and solitary benches. People are okay, but the only person I really have to fall back on seems to be myself.

here in the little wee hours
on the night so cold
my toes ache
i sit pondering
life and such
by the light
of fire and tablet

wrapped in blanket
threaded with memories
i think nonsense and ingenuity
and watch cinders fly

on the hearth the dog and cat slumber
wrapped around each other pretzel-like
defying with casual snores,
both physics and laws of natural enmity.
there is an ease to their bromance
that both confounds and humours me

behind me spreading on the couch
like slow(very slow) moving lava is
the surf god, encased in flannel and ugg
he gargles breathe like an old Harley
soon I will escort him to bed and leave
him to the embrace of his new lover
Madame Cpap...and they can share
a night of slumber in a wind tunnel
then in the morning , he is mine once more

the golden boy sleeps elsewhere tonight
having come into the season of sleepovers
he resides in a tent,  in a bedroom
half a suburb away ,oblivious to
the sound of stretching apron strings
he too shall return to me tomorrow
older and with new cultural references
to share with his increasingly
dim witted parents

for now, in the wee hours
i stare at the cinders
and see the old man as younger
and the boy as babe
as my toes ache
and my eyes leak
just a tad....

Madame LeCarvennec had asked the chauffeur to be at Manoir Tregont Mab by 7 PM, the start of civil twilight during the vernal equinox, which would give them plenty of time to get to Pointe du Raz by nightfall at 8:52 PM.

It would be bitterly cold and windy at Enez Sun, so Gaëlle put on her black Lululemon cold weather leggings, long sleeved top, fleece vest, black hooded Patagonia puff down jacket, and black military style UGG leather boots.

Madame LeCarvennec had her druidess clothes and things taken to the island this morning, so she could travel and fly unencumbered.

Gaëlle walked down the stairs, where Madame LeCarvennec was waiting for her. They kissed twice cheek to check in silence. Then Madame LeCarvennec gave her a quarter baguette, ham, and butter sandwich.

Gaëlle walked out into the drizzling cold and stepped into a black Evoque Range Rover. The chauffeur, a middle aged man, armed and former  1st Marine Infantry Paratrooper, gave her a quick glance in the rear view mirror and started to drive.

They drove  in silence up D783 to Quimper, then D784 east to Pointe du Raz. She looked at the windows at the ghostly landscape, houses passing by in a blur. The seriousness of the situation weighed on her, as she slipped deeper into her thoughts, watching the endless landscape of cornfields.

They pulled into the deserted Pointe du Raz gravel parking lot. The sound of muffled crunching rocks bring her back to the moment. The driver stopped. She got out, and gasped at the cold vicious wind. She closed the door, and the chauffeur drove off. She was alone, in the dark Finistère shoreline.  

She walked down the paved trail towards the Sémaphore de la Pointe du Raz, a modern lighthouse, equipped with the latest in high-tech lighting, electronics, and microwave communication equipment. Then pass the Notre Dame des Naufragés, Our Lady of the Shipwrecked statue, till she got to the edge of the jagged rocks jutting into the Atlantic.

Directly in front of her was La Vieille, a lighthouse built on a rock, to the north Phare de Tévennec, a lighthouse built on a big rock and said to be haunted, and to the northwest, the infamous lighthouse Ar Men, called the hell of hells by keepers.

Lighthouses were classified by keepers into three categories, according to the harsh working conditions: "Hell" for houses at sea, "Purgatory" for island houses,  and "Paradise" for houses on land.

5 miles out, she could barely make out Enez Sun. The island was dark. The residents had left. The island was deserted except for the nine priestesses. Gaelle jumped into the air, placing her hands to her side as she picked up speed and altitude. The wind was blowing hard, forming white caps on the waves below.

She saw the bonfire, outstretched her hands, lowered her legs, and started her descent, landing several meters away from the circle of priestesses. A priestess pointed to a sack with Gaelle’s clothes: a white heavy cotton dress, a thick green woolen cloak, and turnshoe soft leather shoes.    

The priestesses were standing, holding hands, around two standing stones called Les Causeur in a field south of Eglise Saint-Guénolé in the center of town. Gaelle watched as they chanted and swayed rhythmically as a group. She knew from her days as a priestess, she could not be part of the circle, as the individual priestesses gave their power to the circle and leader, the eldest of the priestess, to amplify and see into the future.  

The priestesses swayed, tilting their heads back, chanting, but the eldest, Kermorian, bowed her head, concentrating and focusing her Sight. Images would come into focus, and she could make out their meaning, front the context of the subject or their surroundings. It was up to her to piece together the visions and make sense of what she’d seen.

Kermorian dropped to her knees. Her head bowed low. The circle stilled and quieted. Kermorian spoke, “ I see her. She has returned to Paris. She seeks her mother, to bring her back. She had killed many girls and many more will die to resuscitate the mother. She is manipulating men, and one in particular, to unearth her mother. That is all that I can see this night.”    

Kermorian, fell back on her ***, exhausted from the vision. Her second attending to her. The priestesses broke their circle and gathered around the fire, breaking breads, cakes, and drinking wine.  Kermorian weakly got up and walked to the fire, sat down on a cut tree stump and stared into the bonfire.

Kermorian spoke, and the priestess quieted. “She is back. Our sisters in Čachtice had been watching her. It is clear why she is back. To resurrect her mother, whom the French archeologists from la Musée Carnavalet are excavating her coffin.”

Kermorian waved Gaelle to her. “You are the closest to the archeologist and the mother. He will lead you to the daughter. Only then will we know how to deal with her and how to stop her from resurrecting her mother. The mother is the one who decimated our people. She must not be allowed to return. When the archeologist removes the iron stake through her heart, and the daughter feeds her blood, the mother will resurrect and seek vengeance on our people.”

Gaelle knew of the horrors the vampires had wreaked on her people. The systematic slaughter most of the druids, priestesses, vaters, and bards, killing the leaders, dispersing the followers. She then killed the men, so no fields could be tilled, gamed hunted, or women and children protected. They died by the thousands, the luck ones were taken into slavery by the Romans.  

The Celts abandoned their cities, dispersed, and hid deep into the forest of Europe. Our people hid in forests around Rennes, Broceliande, Quimper, Carnac, and Armorique.  

The Celtic culture was slowly forgotten and replaced by Gallic, then Roman, and finally French.

A small group of priestesses and druids were able to **** and stop most of the vampires. The others fled Europe, going deep into the desolate and savage Ural mountains, where they stayed until now.

The Christians and their new ways dismissed vampires, fairies, and magik even though their Holy books spoke of Lilith and her sisters in the garden of Eden, succubi, and magik.

Gaelle had seen excavation, the coffin, and Gerard. She’d gotten close to him, ****** him, and made sure he'd not forget her.

i became who they were
so maybe they would like me

people called me a “pick me”

but all i wanted was a friend

I tried to be like them so they would accept me
but it didn’t work

The unwelcome guest stands in my kitchen surrounded by more
loud, unwelcome guests.  
waiting for my roommate in the shower they stand around,
talking about literally EVERYTHING they know.

Today is an ugg day.
Drake, you’re better dressed than any of us.
You look cute!

Does the blue coat look better than the green?
ambushed, cutting vegetables in the kitchen
I answer the question I’ve been dying for her to ask.
I don’t really give a ****.  They both ****

That was rude
Well if you don’t like me you’re free to get the **** out.
Gasps, demented eyes.  Food for the soul.
I want to give them a look into the future,
showing them that all along, they were born to be nothing more than a vessel for some dudes ***.

I want to say more.
I want to say going out with them to some college bar sounds worse than ******
I can pretend to be having fun from the privacy of my own room.
I want to say that I have prettier ***** than any of their perfectly dolled up faces could ever let on.
I want to say that the void of space they occupy with their existence is a crime, because they are all the same and how dare you walk on the same grass that my dog ***** on

I have been around strong, beautiful, ugly, shattered, broken, disturbed, loving
women my whole life
and you don’t deserve to be called a woman.

We’re coming up on the spooky pumpkin-latte season, when days suddenly end, while I’m busy in some sterile, fluorescent chemistry-lab and there’s nothing to do but walk down dark science-hill to the dorm.

Is that rustling the sound of leaves or footsteps?  The most effective horror stories come from spaces of doubt and hover between reality and possibility - but no fears, this isn’t my Halloween story.

Apparently, there was a scandal last year, about underage girls being served at bars around Yale - I mean, seriously, who knew? Sunny’s still having fun. She’s out every other night like a hunting cat ‘meeting’ all these new freshie girls. She has the best takes. Her hungover Sunday morning debriefs are not to be missed.

I’ve gotten comments that suggested that the party lives of U-girls are seen as dysfunctional, but to me they’re perfectly normal. Everyone seems to want college life to be saccharine and sanitized. I figure most students live highly stressed lives. We’re expected to show up to multiple classes, on time, prepared and be ready to perform at the highest levels academically - then add to these pressures our elaborate social and study demands. Young adulthood is strict in ways you may not remember. Poor us. sigh So we have a little fun.

I’ve been bottled-up, by and large, this semester - mostly by my own twisted need to get ahead in every subject and I joined a Yale Society - dumb, I know, like I have the time. But I was tapped and Annick (my sister) said “DO IT!” I bet I quit when the going gets tough.
Why did I think senior year would be easier?  

Fall semester is a time famous for freshmen heartbreak - with everyone newly away from home and old boyfriends. About that...

I hate it when boyfriends get old
and you have to get rid of them.
Not chronologically old - don’t call your lawyer,
this isn’t ageism rearing its ugly head.

There’s the chafing-like pre-breakup irritation,
because you’re suddenly separated by distance
and experience. it’s easy to feel out of touch and
unable to voice your joy about the new life you’re living.

It’s the little things that tend to bother you first, like the sudden
strangeness of lingering silence on the once-exciting video calls.
Ugg, breakups - the subject freaks me out - I get shivers up my spine
and feel nauseous, just thinking about them - I’m not mocking heartbreak.

Where was I? Oh, yeah.
Adolescence should feature at least one earth-shaking, world-shifting, heartbreaking first love - unless, of course, covid happened.
Do I harp back to covid lockdown too much?
Well, it happened. It was our Vietnam, and we were unprepared.

There’s a guy showing me some persistent interest - something I have no time for - or interest in. He’s a tall, sporty, transfer student from Princeton. Not unattractive, in a sort of eager, and dense, hipster way.
“I have a boyfriend,” I told him, hoping he'd lose interest.
“He must be invisible,” he observed, several days later.
Then, “If you’d give me a chance, you’d soon find out I’m a sparkling conversationalist.” He updogged.
“Introverts,” I said, “we should be running the world, but no one listens to us.”
“I like a woman with ambition,” he said, encouragingly.
“Go away,” I replied, and he did.
But he was back in the morning because he’s in my residence and we share a shuttle bus stop. sigh

Question: Why are they still calling storms hurricanes?
I mean, now that they can have male or female names, shouldn’t they be themicanes?
.
.
A song for this:
Alfie by Cilla Black
Does Everyone Stare by The Police

getting bad again sounds a lot like,
its autumn again.
a lot like,
the time change is lurking around the corner.
a lot like,
it’s been raining for a week now.
a lot like,
oversized sweaters, beanies, ugg boots.
a lot like,
sipping hot cocoa without being able to taste it, without caring about burning your tongue.
a lot like,
worrying about the calories around the holidays.
a lot like,
seasonal depression isn’t ******* seasonal but getting bad again could have fooled me.
a lot like,
screaming your favorite screamo music at the top of your lungs at 2am.
a lot like,
combat boots, and winter gloves.
a lot like,
i only smoke when i’m sad.
a lot like,
i’ve been smoking a lot lately.
only because i’ve been colder lately.
only because i’m getting bad again.
getting bad again sounds a lot like,
im home for the holidays.
if i make it that far.

The school year’s ending.  ‘Spring Fling’ is tonight (Saturday) the biggest event (concert) of the year, and next week - final exams. It’s hard to believe that I’ll be a senior in about 2 weeks - when the chips are counted, and junior year is cashed out.

I can remember sitting in my little covid-prison (childhood room), in 11th grade, thinking “If I don’t get out of here (and go to college), I’ll go crazy!” And here we are. My plan - my dreams - actually happened.

“Embrace your potential, celebrate your uniqueness, and explore the infinite possibilities of your future!
That bit of self-affirming encouragement was in an ad for Kosas concealer (makeup) - which, in a clever, psychological twist they call ‘revealer concealer.’ The stresses of finals weeks (2 weeks) can cause dark circles, breakouts, and other skin frustrations. A good concealer hides imperfections, so girls don’t look too human.
What do guys do??

Don’t get me wrong, I love advertising, the world needs advertising - I’m glad someone thought of it. How else could we learn about new things? I know I get excited when I try something new out and it works. If heaven, for instance, turns out to be ‘as advertised’ - I think we’ll all be happy.

poetically…
Our ancestors navigated their world by
stories of doomed lovers, troubled kings,
love triangles and magical beings.

In story we learned about loyalties,
the gods, mistaken identities and empathy.
In narratives, we labeled absolutes,
the world made sense and we defined truths.

Today, we’re wiser - we rely on advertisers.
We consume whims endlessly, like appetizers.
We’re blessed with consumerism and avarice,
for the new and exciting thing, we’re ravenous.

My school plans have changed. We must be flexible (I’m assured).
My mom’s research (she’s my personal oracle) clearly showed that Med-schools are taking longer to accept students these days.

So, we came up with a plan 'B' last August. The theory is that an MPH (Master of Public Health) program lasts 11 months and would give me something palpable to show (a master’s degree) for my time between Yale and med-school.

What’s another year of school, when the alternatives were laying on a beach in Saint Tropez or enjoying a Mafalda, Latte Macchiato while shopping in Geneva’s City Center? (my bf works for CERN)

Anyway, not thinking it would come to anything, I applied to several schools (last August), and yesterday I found out I’ve been accepted to Harvard’s summer 2025, MPH program. Color me apathetic, for now, I mean, isn't Harvard a step down? (I applied to Johns Hopkins and Emory University (in Atlanta) as we'll.)

I’d have just 3 weeks between graduating here (next year) and starting there. Ugg, how exciting (but is it?).
It’s important to believe, when we make plans, that if we apply ourselves, they'll go ‘as advertised.’
.
.
(Summer, beach) songs for this:
Summer Dreaming by Harmony Grass
Girls on the Beach by Carter Cathcart
Please Let Me Wonder by Carter Cathcart

Cluck — then duck.

And there, in that dark park — shark and spark — mark, their responses.

Oh the powerful, how they bluster, hulk, sulk and skulk when exposed. And if they can’t deny it, they mouth crafty-drafty-daffy apologies.

I hate it!

I asked you, “Why?”

“Why do you think that even after you complained, he or she or they or Ray — his supervisor or even, say HR — did nothing?”

You weren’t sure why; I wasn’t either.

Systemic evil, personal stupidity, good-old-boy culture, a bark beetle, a comet, tormented egos, black holes, massive incompetence, weakness of character, fleas — money?

We couldn’t sort it out.

Think about it, all the complaints lodged all over the world — then dodged. It’s maddening!

You do the same job as he does and get paid less? Really?

You are assigned work that isn’t even in your job description? Are you kidding me?

He said, what?

****!

He touched you inappropriately?

My God!

He sexually assaulted you?

Ugg!

The ****!

The sick creep!

Hell!

Go tell — in order to get well!

Yes, I can see that, and I’m so sorry!

It is horribly and terrifyingly humiliating! But to not tell — that’s devastating!

Prepare yourself. Do it. Of course there will be the denial. the revile, in the aisle, the social media pretrial, the counter attack and threat to sack.

But, keep this clearly in front of you:

Secrets perpetuate sicknesses.

For there within the sinister silence of relational violence oozes the foul psychic **** of false shame and self-blame, a suppurating sepsis of misapplied guilt and a fetid, festering biotoxin of furious fear mingled with ferocious anger.

My God girl!

The organizationally administered inflammagens are virtually dripping out of the open crack at the base of your skull, running off the tip of one of your shoulder blades and bio-trailing you along the office floor.

This cannot continue.

I want you well.

I want you healed.

I want you empowered.

I want you vindicated!

Therefore, fill the hall, and tell it all!

Make the complaint, lodge the grievance, file the paperwork, notify the press, call a conference, sue their ***** off! Trap the fly, smack down the lie, out the tie, exposify — him, and hem and them!

This much is certain. We must not go on without you speaking up.

I’m standing with you.

Pellmell, raise hell, go tell

that makes us grab that chip, the glass
of wine, the cigarette. Do you want it? Do
you need it? Does it really matter? It’s
reflex that makes you do it, no matter. It’s

become a habit. The brain doesn’t
think. The hand takes over. It works well
with some things, like my writing. Not so
much with others. I’m no Stepford wife. Yet

I feel like a puppet, entangled in my own
strings. I blame it on the reflex. It makes me
do certain things. Call it impulse. I can’t
retract. I stole that black Ugg from the store. I

can’t go put it back! It was the slip of my wrist
that took it. My fifth, but whose keeping
track?

This is what youth tastes like.
Starburst candies and milk from a school carton.
Gossip on the tongues of desk neighbors
Tote bags next to backpacks next to gym bags
Feet
One two
Skip three
Tiles under Adidas
Nike and Vans
UGG boots and their less name-brand counterparts
Moccasins, for the ones with sleep still in their eyes
Slides but no flip flops
They all walk
Or just sit
In the possibility of motion to a future life
This is phase one
And the sun is still bright outside
Even in rooms without windows.
Forbade wear headphones
But someone always does
And either blasts it so loud
That all you can hear is high hats
Or plays the music out in the open
Like the hallway is a concrete concert hall
We call this place hell but,
I don’t know if I want to leave this place.

Alien
That's how I feel around all these girls
I've grown up with since I was 4
I feel as though I might as well be on the moon
At least then I wouldn't get weird looks or get laughed at
They have long hair
Only in 4 colors
Black
Blounde
Brown
Red
They think piercings are gross
unless it's your
Nose
Ears
They all have the small town out look on things
Their opinions on clothes are
Boots
Ugg or cowboy
Blue jeans
Any top with sequins
They have a small out look
Anyokne who's different is
Weird
Freaks
Gross
Ugly
Trash
The List goes on
I get laughed at for being myself
For being
High heels
Short Blue hair
Lip rings
Fishnets
Skirts
Chokers
If you put us all in a crowd and were ask to pick out the one from a big city
It would be me
I've always felt out like an alien with these girls
And my teachers wonder why
Why I'm this way
Alone
Doodling
Back of the class
Quiet with strong opinions
Everyone says New York is gonna give me hell
But New York is gonna fall to it's knees when this alien comes to town

there’s a man in Idaho
with a too long name,
(unlike mine which was reduced
to “brother” growing up,
that’s how bad it was,

away Idaho is easy to spell
although
(it’s a state that I am clueless if
as a coastal elite, if and where,
it truly exists)
who I need to go on a walk with,
with a walk to Shonee Falls,
before
the snows settle in, cause my
fashionista uhh, Ugh, ok finally,
my Ugg  boots wil not only be
useless, but clueless why the
hell I have tortured them so,
(every inanimate object be
totally uninhibited ‘bout talking
to me)


yak

‘bout nothing in particular
but kinda like his out-look,
e-specially his beard, before
it melts come summer
which likely wud be a better
season for a shoeless Joe from
new york city-Yo!

Yo! (the onr true name)

anyway, his bossy life,
emailed me he is currently
unavailable due to other
pressing matters, which means
he is lying on some couch
smirking how he avoided me

but he ain’t gotta clue what
a new york jew can do, when
the aurthoro-tees say no entrada,
so I hope he got a spare bedroom
cause the nearest motel six is
nearby(in local parlance, a 3 hr drive)
just need to know, can you help,
do I need a passport and a Visa,
my American Express probably
will be unaccepted without a
credit limit increase, three words
I never heard, so stocking up this winter
with all the spare change hid in various
draws (not my drawers) and see if Greyhound knows to go to
Idaho (indigenous for i don’t knoe/ain’t got a clue)

so be there soooner (sorry oklahoma)
after we consulate them maps in the
Antique Maps room in the New York
Map room, which is guarded by two
mean looking lions, who haven’t been
fed in quite awhile

so no is refusted (refused and refuted)
cause in new york no is stated as follows:

yeah, yeah…yeah