Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Monologue: The Housewife

A woman sits alone at a mahogany kitchen table. Her eyes droop, bloodshot and sodden as her bare elbows rest upon the cold surface of the wood. Momentarily, she glances over and reads the time on her stove. Twenty minutes are left until her chicken pot pies are ready. She faces the audience, her back erect and straight, and begins to speak.

I would like to believe in happily ever after. I want to trust that there is someone out there waiting for me. You know, the perfect man. Though in reality, let us be honest; the notion of a perfect life and ending is few and far between. Oh, I thought Luke was the one. He was my prince charming, my knight in shining armor. With his jade eyes, jet-black and wavy hair, and sun-kissed skin he was what I always dreamed of. So cliché, yes I know, but love is blind and true in the eye of the beholder. A year we dated, and then he was mine until death do us part. It was a year of utter, sentimental bliss, and of romance and longing. A year of when times were fruitful and immortal.
Just barely out of college, we traveled the globe. From Paris, London, Tokyo, and Rome, we saw it all. I was a History major with a minor in English. He graduated with a Travel and Tourism degree, Business Administration as his minor. Were we not a match made in heaven? Two peas in a pod? We tasted the world and ate it up. It was ours for the taking. Arms wrapped around one another and fingers intertwined, we lived for the moment.

Good Morning Vanessa

I know how awful I look. My hair creates a wild mane around my face that is dull and puffy with the side effects of morning. I usually make it a point to avoid any type of reflective service before I have a shower, but today Priscilla is here. So I pull my hair into a bun and splash some water on my face hoping that she won’t come down the stairs as perfect as always. She does, and I try my hardest not to notice her as I count scoops of coffee into the filter. One, two, three, four. From the corner of my eye I can see her sitting at the kitchen table her left hand placed in a ray of sunlight making the diamond dance on the curtains above the sink like flies around something rotten. I look down at my own bare left hand and slowly let it wither into the sleeve of my bathrobe. I press the button on the coffee maker and wait until I hear it gurgle before I turn around and smile a good morning to her. A mid-morning kitchen has always been my favorite place to sit and think about nothing but what it feels like to be the only one beneath my skin, but today there is an extra cup in the machine; an extra body breathing air. I’m not comfortable with change.

In defense of genre fiction

I was just reading an article which resonated deeply with me: "On the comfort of bad books." Don't think for a moment I think genre books are bad. That thinking comes from the literary perspective of trade paperbacks as little better than trash, a mood I wish to combat as much as possible.

After all, there is great value in any book which invites the reader to pick it up and start flipping through pages with little to no restraint, eyes aching to see ever more words at once so they can finally just know how it ends. Firstly, who ever said that entertainment wasn't valid? Tickling people's imaginations seems a worthwhile endeavor to me both because of the enjoyment it creates for them, and the fact it makes them use their imaginations.

In fact, all my prodigious critical reading and comprehension skills came from The Hobbit, Star Wars, and Harry Potter, books I read dozens of times before my library was able to grow. (On my reading comprehension and the like, I was getting perfect scores--post high school level--on the standardized tests they gave us in the 4th and 5th grade, at a time when I was reading the Star Wars: X-Wing series through every couple months.) Reading is good for your brain, if you want your brain to be good at reading.

Borrowed Dresses

     He stood at the bottom on the stairs and rubbed at a permanent grease stain on his thumb. He leaned back on his chevy and squinted past the smoke of his cigarette to the bright setting sun. It was getting late.
    He heard the screen door creak open and dropped his cigarette in the dirt. He looked up to see her. Her hair was redder in the setting sun. He felt suddenly shabbier somehow, as if her borrowed dress and red lipstick were the jewels of a queen. Her face moulded into a smile as she took in his white shirt and sweaty forehead. He ran a hand through his hair and wiped it on his pants. She took the porch stairs with practiced swiftness. He took her suitcase and tossed it in the back seat. They stood face to face, neither willing to look away. This was it. 

Monologue of a Small Town Mother

Every morning my alarm goes off and I picture that old routine I used to go through during the best four years of my life. Most high school students hated the sound of their alarm going off and the thought of getting ready for an eight hour day of learning, but me I loved the thought of getting beautified before attending the high school that I admired. My typical day didn't just consist of lectures on the civil war, mind boggling math equations, and every other subject that lied in between, there was so much more that sprung up during my eight hour days of learning. Not only did I hear constant words pouring out of teachers mouths but the only sounds that seemed to pour out through the halls in between classes to me were, “wow great hair Monica! Where did you get it done this time?”, “those black boots are to die for I wish I had a pair!”, “your outfit today is adorable Monica but I mean of course you would look great in anything you put on!” I guess this was pretty normal for any high school cheer-leading captain to hear. I guess you could say my best friends and I were pretty high up on the social ladder, but that was the way it was supposed to work out. In a 1990 high school scene, the cheerleaders and jocks were the kings and queens of the whole scene that we had to live through for eight hours a day, five days a week. Not bad at all.
        As my alarm continues to go off that old routine is quickly erased out of my head with the sounds of little thumping footsteps scurrying down the hallway coming closer and closer to my room. Before I know it my little blonde haired daughter is standing in the open doorway to my room breathless, but she still manages to have enough energy to run over to my bedside. “Mommy, Mommy wake up! Today’s the day of my field trip; we have to get to school early!” I let out a silent groan and roll over to my husband who of course hasn't even budged the littlest bit. As usual it looks like I will have to be the one to get our three children together. I let out a sigh and pull myself up out of bed and continue the newest routine I go through. This is a routine I have been going through for about the past ten years, one that is much different than the routine from my high school days.
        It seems as though I have the same thoughts going through my head when I get my children ready for their school day every day. I still go back to my high school days when I wake up just about every morning. I think I do this because I never imagined my life to turn out the way it did, I guess that’s how I could put it. When I used to look in the mirror before I left for school every day I saw a tiny, sun kissed, pretty looking thing. Now when I look in the mirror before I shuffle all three monsters off to school every day I see a husky, scraggly haired, baggy eyed middle aged women dying for something new to happen. It’s not that I hate my life at all. I’m thankful for the three children my husband and I had. Claire 10, Adam 7, and Anna 5. All graced with my blonde hair and my husband’s blue eyes. Both traits seemed to be brought out more in our youth.
        I manage to get all three ready in time for Claire to get to school early enough for her big field trip to the aquarium. I don’t see what the excitement is. All their going to do is watch a bunch of fish swim around behind glass, but I’m trying to get her there in time because all that matters is that she’s excited to see this. I walk out the front door with the army of three little children behind me. I walk up to the family van- yes I did just say van. The one thing my girlfriends and I always promised each other in high school was that we would never, no matter what the circumstances were, own a van. When I had to stop working after giving birth to Adam my husband demanded that we cut back, meaning no more Lexus for me. Instead he said we would buy something big enough for our family to keep growing and something that was affordable. Two days later he came home with a van. I knew I still had a little bit of that cheer-leading attitude I had when I dated him in high school, when I actually didn't talk to him for two days. I gave into him though, as I always did and said it made perfect sense for us to have the van.
        I drop all the monsters off at the elementary school after a 10 minute car ride of constant screams and, “You hit either one of your sisters one more time Adam I swear you will be living in your room for the next two weeks”. I rest my head on the head rest of my seat and start slowly driving away. I drive by the nearby high school football field that is currently covered with skinny girls scattered throughout the field jumping all over the place gay fully. I pull off to the side and watch. This isn't the first time I have done this. I actually do this quiet often if I've had a treacherous drive to school with my kids. I watch the skinny pretty girls who I was so much like when I was in high school reliving some of my best times. After a few minutes I keep my head rested and close my eyes. I run through errands I must run today. Grocery shopping, pick up the dry cleaning, clean the house, do the laundry, walk the dogs, I could go on forever.
        How did my life end up like this? I had dreams of graduating college and becoming a hot shot journalist living in New York City or Los Angeles, attending endless parties thrown by socialites and continue the high school style drinking for the rest of my life. Of course this didn't happen. I’m still living in the same little mid western town where I lived the best days of my life in high school. I am no longer that cheerleader that I once loved being. I no longer attend keggers and drink until I can’t stand anymore. Instead after a day of running errands and tending to the monsters I kick back and enjoy two maybe three glasses of wine. I am no longer that small town cheer captain that every girl wished to be. I am now living as a small town mother.

Some reviews, a history

Since re-writing reviews is a tedious process, and as I have reviewed quite a few books in the past online, I figured I'd give some old ones before heading to the new. The first review here was featured on Matt Cheney's blog, the Mumpsimus, the last on a Star Wars fan site where I do some writing, and the rest on T.X. Watson's blog, a blog I used to write for with some frequency (before violently being reminded what workloads look like during the semester). Watson's blog is worth reading in and of itself, as well.

Star Wars: The Old Republic: Revan
Star Wars: Red Harvest
Star Wars: Shadow Games
Star Wars: Choices of One
Star Wars: Heir to the Empire (20th Anniversary Ed.)

-Michael DiTommaso

Love Connection With Dr. Beans

I know how scary it can be for someone to approach a woman.  The thought of rejection is crippling too many men, and this fact alone can stop most from approaching a beautiful woman.  I understand, and I am here to help!
First thing is first, you need to make a move.  Take any cheesy pick-up line you have and throw it out the window.  Pick up lines will work during amateur hour, but we are aiming for the big leagues. Some men will hide their insecurity by approaching the woman and acting like a macho man to impress her, don’t do this either.  Women can sense when a man is putting on a farce and they will tear you apart until you wish she had just denied you when you said hello.
What is important is that you be yourself without being yourself, let me explain.

Cacti Bloom for Love

WARNING: This piece contains strong language and sexual situations. Not really sexual, more dancing around it. But the language is strong. So, yeah, be warned of that. Don't come at me all mad because you can't handle swearing. I put a warning, it's all on you now.

Article Link Dump

I write for a comic book and video game site called http://gameandcomic.com/.  It's a student created site run by kids from various schools around the state, namely UNH. We write reviews, previews, and whatever else we can write about whatever games, movie trailers, movies, and comic books catch our interests. Here are a couple articles I wrote about a recent, popular game called Borderlands 2.

Borderlands 2 Review: http://gameandcomic.com/2012/10/02/borderlands-2-review/

Borderlands 2: Mechromancer Character Add-On: http://gameandcomic.com/2012/10/21/borderlands-2-mechromancer-character-add-on/

Borderlands 2: Captain Scarlett and Her Pirate's Booty DLC: http://gameandcomic.com/2012/10/25/borderlands-2-captain-scarlett-and-her-pirates-booty-dlc/

The Girl Who Cried Routine!

            Anna Lee Smith was a go-getter. Every single morning Anna would wake up precisely at 6:35 am and start her day. She’d sit up in bed, slip her feet into her fuzzy purple bunny slippers and proceed to brush her teeth specifically top to bottom then side-to-side on every pearly white tooth. Anna was a 7:30 pm shower kind of girl, so she didn’t have to go through the hassle in the morning. After completing her teeth cleaning she would tiptoe down the stairs so to not wake her snoozing parents and prepare breakfast compiled of two slices of whole-wheat toast with a half slice of butter on each side and a strawberry yogurt waiting on the bottom left shelf of the refrigerator.

The Dark Comedy of Salad

What is so funny?

Look at this picture. Now ask yourself: what is so funny? Is there someone off camera telling a joke? Did the woman in the picture find something humorous in her food? Or could it be the horrifying notion that her salad is actually hilarious? Sadly, after some digging through Google Images, it seems that the latter is true.
Truly these are dark times when women can only find their comedic fix in salads. Is the problem with  us; those who would tell jokes for the amusement of other? Or do these Carlin-Esq salads just have better material than we could ever hope to write? It is a mystery that haunts me every time I pass a salad bar.
When will the day come when I look down upon my crouton and dressing soaked meal, only to find myself uncontrollably laughing? Will it be the lettuce? The carrot shavings? Something about the way the light bounces off the puddles of lite Caesar? When will the madness take me, like it has so many countless others? The thought tortures me whenever I close my eyes, or hear the crunch of the edible flora.
Hopefully our top scientist, who and wherever they may be, are working on a solution for the tidal wave of side dish comedy that is taking over the minds of our world. We can only wait, pray, and continue to ignore salads and consume greasy piles of french fries and "chicken".

Thursday, October 25, 2012

The Problem with Pacifists

      THE PACIFIST, (usually referred to as PACIFIST)  a super villain who is fed up with being the worst villain ever, starting to come unhinged; speaks fast, a little crazed.
      CAPTAIN ASTOUNDING, (usually referred to as CAPTAIN ), a superhero of the highest caliber, speaks like the classic hero type, but slowly losing his cool as he comprehends the situation at hand
      HUGGLEPOT, the butler to the CAPTAIN, speaks like a butler; very plain and flat.

                                                                  SCENE: The lights come up revealing a large ornate room, complete with a fireplace. CAPTAIN ASTOUNDING wakes up, tied to a chair in the living room in his mansion, his costume torn in various places. THE PACIFIST is pacing back and forth in the room, hands behind his back. He pulls occasionally at his skintight yellow spandex outfit, then stops and stares for a moment as the CAPTAIN fully comes to his senses.

Old Friends

This week I finished reading a book that I have read at least a dozen times in the last two years, The Basketball Diaries by Jim Carroll. The book is culled from a barely teenage Carroll's diaries and covers a few years of the future poet's life, at first tracing his use of drugs and his love for basketball, and then his descent into drug addiction and what he must do to keep his habit alive.

The book is a reminder of a lot of things for me, particularly friends from the high school I went to in the city. I grew up playing sports with these kids from first grade until high school, with one of those sports being basketball like in Carroll's book, which my friends and I treated as a religion back then.

Additional Blog Post to Read

I'm adding one blog post to your reading: "Third Draft Struggles" by Benjamin Rosenbaum. I don't care when you read it, but I very much encourage you to do so. It's about how our assumptions and expectations about gender affect our writing.

Benjamin Rosenbaum is an incredibly intelligent and extremely skilled writer. (Here are some links to his work online.) To get some insight into his writing process is useful for any of us. But more important is how and what he struggles with in this post. Read it carefully and think about your own work.

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Readings for 10/25

Your writing assignment for Thursday is to write a blog entry. No big deal. Please try to make it a  blog entry with some substance, though.

Reading was TBA, so here's the A. Since you have to write a blog entry, I thought it might be good for you to look at some entries that are diverse in their purposes and, at least in my judgment, effective. The selection is biased because it's blogs that I know about or am interested in, but I hope that doesn't mar your reading too much.

Please read through these descriptions, then choose at least 3 of the posts to read and spend some time with. We will discuss them in class, so please be prepared to talk.

Tuesday, October 16, 2012


Here's an example of a linkdump: "Sunday Reading" from The New Inquiry.

In the Land of Once Upon a Time


I found this image while pinning on Pinterest the other day; Something I am a little too obsessed with on a daily basis. I find it interesting that I came upon this image about three days ago because on that very day I downloaded multiple free fairy tale ebooks onto my kindle. I was happy I found this image because I can totally relate to what Audrey is saying, whether she really did or didn't read fairy tales.

I still have an obsession over reading classic fairy tales and even modern ones such as Harry Potter. I love reading these kind of stories because I feel as though I have stepped into the world I am reading about and have been taken out of reality. It's not that I feel like I am a kid again, but I feel as though I am in a fantasy that has taken me away from the cruel situations that can come about in your daily life without expecting it. If I'm having a bad day for any reason at all my favorite thing to do is open up a book that is completely made up from fantasy because it will make me forget about my bad day, or whatever it is that is keeping me from being as happy as the characters in these fairy tales.

Here are some of my all time favorite fairy tales:

Peter Pan: Because what girl wouldn't want a flying hunk to take them away to Neverland and be young forever? I still dream to this day that he will swoop into my window and take me away so that I can stay 22 forever!

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs: I'm so envious of Snow White being able to live in a quaint little cottage deep into the woods away from any kind of civilization. Something I am not very jealous of her about is eating the apple the witch gave to her....

Sleeping Beauty: I always thought it would be fun to live in a land where Fairies can grace you with positive traits at birth and to live in a castle and be a princess. It is unfortunate however that the 13th fairy came along and told the king and queen that their daughter would be dead at 15 after pricking her finger on the spindle.

Rumpelstiltskin: For some reason, even as a child, I loved reading this fairy tale about the creepy little old manikin.

Too Early for Snow

As people begin to swap out their bathing suits for parkas, many kids are wondering when the snow is coming.   To some dedicated few they took control of mother nature and brought the snow out themselves.  Last weekend Crotched Mountain opened it's doors to eager young shredders seething for a chance to taste some snow and hosted its annual pre-season rail jam.

Within the crowd of young riders and shredders there was an abundance of women riders.  Kelley Wren was interviewed about this observation and all she could respond was "Thumbs Up Birds."

 "Thumbs Up Birds" is a new company breaking out of the east coast dedicated to spotlighting female riders.  These ladies were throwing down the tricks this weekend and I wouldn't be surprised to see this company swoop through like a Nor-Eastern soon.  Taking the rail jam by storm these ladies were showing all the guys what was good, landing tricks that most wouldn't be throwing out on the first day of riding.

I got the privilege of sitting down with "the birds" and really got to know the ladies.  They were all about progression.  As Kelley said it to me " It's great riding with a group of girls, it's nice to push each other to go bigger and to learn new things."  She went on to say "Sometimes I'm trying a trick that my friend Jamie knows, so she can help me; It's a lot different than riding with boys, we are a lot closer."

  Sitting around drinking cans covered by gloves on the first day of the season, it was easy to see that these girls and this company have a future in the sport.  They aren't a group of girls, they are a family of birds;  when you see them out there please be sure to give them two big thumbs up and help spread the love.

I Wish I were a Painter

A young toddler threw a plastic toy wrench at one of the kindergarten boys and it hit him square on the back, "that poor boy will never be good at dodge-ball," I said to myself as I took another long sip of warm coffee and watched a surprising  amount of snot cannon out of a four-year-old's nose. I pointed her to the tissue box and demanded that she wash her hands after removing her bodily fluids off her face and hands. I took another sip from my mug but instead of liquid life I was greeted with a mouth full of cold gritty water. I twisted off the top and stared down into the empty abyss of sadness that now filled it. I looked up at the clock. It told me that it was just after seven thirty and my coffee was gone. I hoisted myself out of the small kiddo chair I had planted myself in an hour ago and waited for the blood to go back into my calves before making my rounds of the classroom. outside the daycare windows the sun was just about to crest above the thick gray Autumn clouds in a golden-yellow light that created beautiful shadows in the trees that lined the fenced in playground. I had once gone to an art show with my father and there had been this huge oil painting of a rocking chair on porch that was bathing in thin strands of light. it was so life-like that at first I though it had been a photograph, and I was fascinated on how the artists put so much detail and life into the light. As I looked at the trees outside the window I wondered how the artist would paint the light clinging to their branches if he were here.

Wringing necks is wrong when we know what alternatives are wright

This is an example of doing it wrong.
You may never have to kill a chicken or want to kill a chicken but if you have to kill a chicken then you will want to kill the chicken properly. Killing a chicken may cause pain to the chicken where pain is not wanted; no chicken likes pain.

It would seem that killing a chicken is a popular subject but no one knows how to kill a chicken properly, properly preparing to kill a chicken is frequently misconstrued, to kill a chicken it is often fairly frequently often assumed that one wrings the chickens neck to kill the chicken.

This wrongly assumed wright.; wringing the chicken to kill it is painful for both organisms involved: the chicken who is not wanting to not not be killed and the incompetent killer attempting to kill the chicken; it is assumed by assumers that the assumption is to use a blade or an axe or a knife to dispatch of the chicken that is intended to be killed. This is not wright. That only leads to serial chicken decapitations to imitate the failed slaughter of Mike the Miracle Chicken for monies and a big bloody bird mess: and no one likes cleaning.

As a recreational below minimum wage zoo keeper of a zoo I am required to kill chickens when chickens don't want to be killed; the best procedure to procure a killed chicken is to kill the chicken by removing its neck from the socket, pulling to hard will remove the head from the bird an splatter mess; we hate mess so don't mess up.

To properly dislodge the neck of the chicken to be killed it requires you to move your hand down the back of the chicken-to-be-killed's neck while suspending it by its two legs upside down in the air then angle the chick-to-be-killed's beak towards your wrist: then pull and it should pop.

That is how a part time zoo keeper at a zoo not known amongst the best zoos kills chickens humanely enough to not feel like a serial chicken murderer.

A Celebration of Mediocrity

Maybe it will eat The Cheetah Girls for humiliating it.
Cheetah Girls drew their inspiration from this animal. I wonder if they knew that cheetahs eat animals like cute gazelles when they chose their name. Probably not. They're plastic. Talentless, mypoic plastic that thinks it's fierce. Rawr.

The Cheetah Girls have a penchant for displaying their inability for everything (especially music) on Disney channel. Are they glad that they are able to share their mediocrity? Happy that the world revels with them? Probably. Mediocrity usually brings money and attention. Attention and money.

Hooray mediocrity!

Thursday, October 11, 2012



 These are people. They look happy. Are they happy? One probably thinks they are happy. They look like they're faking. One can see how hard they're trying. Most people aren't that happy. Life is too trite to be happy.

Being happy is too hard for most people.One thinks being happy might be impossible. With all the clatter and clutter of stuff, One doesn't know how anybody can focus. Materialists, One hears they are called. One sees many delusional people trying to supersede materialists. One thinks they're stupid.

But One wonders what Two thinks. What does Two think? Does Two think? One hopes Two thinks. Two mostly sits and drools. Occasionally Two makes sounds. Three takes care of Two so One does not need to. One does not thanks Three. Maybe One should.

Image Stuffs

Here's an image from Google Images:

via zactopia.com
I used the "caption" and "edit link" functions to give credit to the source that I got this picture from.

To get the image to show up on the front page, I would need to download it to the computer and then upload it to our site. I'm not going to do that with this one, but in general that's the best way to go.

Attention Rockette Scientists:

The National Geological Society is in dire need of scientists whose specialty is tiny rocks. Though the number of researchers of medium and even large rocks has been rising considerably over the course of the past two decades, those who study the small and really small rocks seem to have simply gone by the wayside.

"At the rate things are going," says Minister Humpskin, Doctor of flattish and smoothish rocks, "the field will simply evaporate." This would spell dire trouble for anyone who has such pressing questions as, "How many small rocks are there?" Or, "Are rocks getting smaller?"

Indeed, according to Hubert Brogue, who has been studying small rocks that in his gravel driveway for three decades now, that might be the case. "In a careful study I've conducted, where I've weighed and measured the rocks in my driveway, I've found that there is a tendency of the rocks to be even smaller now than they were just twenty years ago."

And twenty years, according to Dr. Humpskin, is peanuts on the geological timescale. "At the rate things are going, we could see all rocks on the planet become small within a couple hundred years. If we don't start studying this phenomenon now, it could well be too late when we do."

At the presidential debate last week, this question was addressed by both parties, and was a highlight agreement between them. "It is the policy of this administration," said President Obama, "to push our troubles to the next generation, like our great forefathers in the industrial revolution." Governor Romney had this to say, "I agree with President Obama wholeheartedly. If we try to deal with the problem now and are unsuccessful, we'll look like fools. I'll be dead by the time this is an issue, so not my problem."

Others agree that rocks generally being smaller is not a problem worth getting our proverbial panties twisted over. "Rocks getting smaller is a natural process, like global warming, or the destruction of the ozone layer," says John Rockefeller, relation of J.D. Rockefeller and rock enthusiast. "Clearly, we just need to let nature take its course and not worry about it."

At the moment, the waters remain muddy, and the correct descision unclear.Still, Dr. Humpskin's plea remains hanging over us all: "The NGS needs more small rock specialists, and we need them now."

Reporting from Washington, DC,
-Michael DiTommaso

The Time I May Or May Not Have Done Something Maybe

Everyone seems to be doing two blog posts. I figured I would get in on this action. This isn't like the time, say, I may or may not have due to confidentiality purposes taken part in a dice game with notorious mobsters from the South Boston region of Massachusetts, won a large deal of money from them, and then went on the lamb after they threatened to kill me and by throwing me in the ocean with cement shoes on, which to me sounded uncomfortable and painful on the ankles. This is nothing like that event that may or may not have occurred. I swear.

There was this one guy who may or may not have existed though, Lucky (who clearly wasn't so lucky since he may or may not have lost all his cash to me), and he liked to carry around a butterfly knife that he'd mess with for kicks when he was bored while we went outside for a cigarette break. He was a straight-edge guy like that, a real stand up guy when the chips came down. But when the dice came down and Lucky lost, that butterfly knife took on a whole new meaning.

But I'm not allowed to talk about that I guess. But the knife is beautiful. It has a viper that curls up the handle and looks at you with its tongue sticking out of its mouth and a sharp glint in its eye. This is because it only has one eye. Maybe. Either way I say is about the knife, and not was, because it's sitting in my den right now, in this beautiful glass case I bought from some flea market in Wisconsin. I may or may not have stolen it from Lucky. I honestly don't remember anymore. My life is full of so much doubt I can't remember what's real.

Creating labels

This post simply exists to create some labels.