My wife found this commercial again after searching for nearly five years.
This is, without any question, the greatest commercial of all time.
-JDT-
Monday, February 05, 2007
"It Rained on our Parade"
She walked to the tall, gleaming stainless steel rack and took one of the blue, hard plastic trays from the stack, yanking mightily to finally break it free. She shook her head in disgust as she stepped lightly to the shorter shelf loaded full with Chicago Sun-Times newspapers. She bent over the full-color front page, reading the grim headline.
"IT RAINED ON OUR PARADE", the paper pronounced, with a picture of a rain-soaked and saddened Brian Urlacher blazened across the tabloid-sized page.
"Yes, it certainly did," the woman softly muttered. At that, I could not contain the giggle that burst from my lips and shook me the whole way into the expansive cafeteria.
Most of the time, the huge area is busy with people chattering and ordering, gathering their sundries for breakfast, recounting their weekends. Friday, February 2, 2007, it was absolutely bustling with people abuzz about the upcoming Super Bowl, the blaring music of the long-dead "Super Bowl Shuffle" from 1986 roared over the speaker system and all the blue-and-orange clad workers were dancing and toe-tapping as they stood awaiting service at either the food prep counter or the registers. It was an absolute middle eastern market, filled with laughter, joviality and plans for victory parties and celebrations to come. There was much boasting and recollection of the "glory days" of the last time a Chicago team had gone to a Super Bowl. The anticipation of again returning as conquerors was tingling through the air.
Today, the cafeteria was an absolute morgue.
No one spoke as they moved monotonously through the register line -- which was short and somber. The food preparation area was nearly deserted. A few hushed whispers of those that clearly aren't football fans wisped through the air, drown out by the blasting furnaces working against the sub-zero weather in the expansive, high-ceiling auditorium.
I laughed aloud as I gathered my breakfast -- an apple fritter, a rare treat for myself, and hot coffee to warm the chill in my bones from the frosty cold outside. I saw the same shaved-headed lad who works the registers most mornings today, quiet but friendly, no longer pushing his audio bytes of various plays from throughout the Bears' season through the laptop he'd brought in on Friday. I chuckled from my belly as I moved through the line and paid my total, watching the downcast, hollow eyes, the long faces, the lack of smiles. The auditorium was so quiet; no one sat in the dining area. No one was laughing. No one was wearing any Bears jackets, hats, pins, ties, belts, buttons, sweaters. And no one seemed to be buying newspapers, for some reason.
"IT RAINED ON OUR PARADE."
"Yes, it certainly did," she agreed. And I laughed aloud again recalling it.
I laughed all the way back to my desk -- up a flight of stairs, a walk of a few hundred feet, and around a corner. I suspect I'll laugh a lot today, as people bemoan the death knell of the Bears' Super Bowl run. And I can see in their eyes, in their worried tones and furrowed brows, that they wonder if it will be another 21 years before they can boast and brag again about the "Monsters of the Midway."
I hope so.
-JDT-
"IT RAINED ON OUR PARADE", the paper pronounced, with a picture of a rain-soaked and saddened Brian Urlacher blazened across the tabloid-sized page.
"Yes, it certainly did," the woman softly muttered. At that, I could not contain the giggle that burst from my lips and shook me the whole way into the expansive cafeteria.
Most of the time, the huge area is busy with people chattering and ordering, gathering their sundries for breakfast, recounting their weekends. Friday, February 2, 2007, it was absolutely bustling with people abuzz about the upcoming Super Bowl, the blaring music of the long-dead "Super Bowl Shuffle" from 1986 roared over the speaker system and all the blue-and-orange clad workers were dancing and toe-tapping as they stood awaiting service at either the food prep counter or the registers. It was an absolute middle eastern market, filled with laughter, joviality and plans for victory parties and celebrations to come. There was much boasting and recollection of the "glory days" of the last time a Chicago team had gone to a Super Bowl. The anticipation of again returning as conquerors was tingling through the air.
Today, the cafeteria was an absolute morgue.
No one spoke as they moved monotonously through the register line -- which was short and somber. The food preparation area was nearly deserted. A few hushed whispers of those that clearly aren't football fans wisped through the air, drown out by the blasting furnaces working against the sub-zero weather in the expansive, high-ceiling auditorium.
I laughed aloud as I gathered my breakfast -- an apple fritter, a rare treat for myself, and hot coffee to warm the chill in my bones from the frosty cold outside. I saw the same shaved-headed lad who works the registers most mornings today, quiet but friendly, no longer pushing his audio bytes of various plays from throughout the Bears' season through the laptop he'd brought in on Friday. I chuckled from my belly as I moved through the line and paid my total, watching the downcast, hollow eyes, the long faces, the lack of smiles. The auditorium was so quiet; no one sat in the dining area. No one was laughing. No one was wearing any Bears jackets, hats, pins, ties, belts, buttons, sweaters. And no one seemed to be buying newspapers, for some reason.
"IT RAINED ON OUR PARADE."
"Yes, it certainly did," she agreed. And I laughed aloud again recalling it.
I laughed all the way back to my desk -- up a flight of stairs, a walk of a few hundred feet, and around a corner. I suspect I'll laugh a lot today, as people bemoan the death knell of the Bears' Super Bowl run. And I can see in their eyes, in their worried tones and furrowed brows, that they wonder if it will be another 21 years before they can boast and brag again about the "Monsters of the Midway."
I hope so.
-JDT-
Monday, January 29, 2007
My Wife and I ... We are Siamese, If You Please ...
We are Siamese, if you please.
We are Siamese, if you DON'T please.
So it was in Disney's immortal animated classic that the Siamese twin cats inform the audience of their decent and their pleasure in it. I never gave two thoughts about that line from a silly song in an animated movie until just this morning.
Don't ask me why it crossed my mind today, but it did. And I realized, as it echoed through the empty caverns of my memory, that throughout our lives, my wife and I have been trying to sing that song to everyone that bothered to ask.
Most of them didn't. Most of them were trying to change us from what we were, and are, into what they wanted us to be. Tabby; Calico; Persian; Manx; it didn't matter. As long as we weren't what we are, it would suffice.
The two cats in the cartoon are simply saying, in their one line, that they are what they are, whether popular or not. They are, in fact, Siamese cats, and their genetics, appearance, and best of all their NATURE, could not be altered.
As long as I can remember, I was being "molded." Trying to be made more this, or less that; not so much to groom me for any one particular thing -- there was nothing so ambitious as a goal for my life -- but to make me something I was not in the moment.
That's the tragedy of it all. There wasn't a point. Had there been a goal, had there been a destination for the steering, it may have actually been beneficial to some degree. Because it was rudderless and was done just to suit the mood of the moment, or the hang-over, or to make me conform to whatever the image in the mind was at the time, it was just a constant beating down of what I was and trying to railroad me into being something I'm not. ANYthing I'm not.
I can't be too smart -- too smart exposes stupidity pretty quickly, and that would unmask them too soon. I'm programmed to believe that I am stupid.
I can't be too strong -- too strong causes loss of physical intimidation, and that eliminates the last line of defense for stupidity. I am therefore kept intimidated and punished for any physical demonstrations. I am admonished physically early and often in increasing degrees of brutality. First with the hand, then the belt, then the closed fist ... make sure that I am not aware of my physical superiority at all costs.
I cannot be more clever. More clever means being outwitted. Again, be told that I am inferior in every way. I will never be a peer. I will never be an equal. I cannot be, or control will be surrendered.
I cannot be better educated. Better education will mean better choices, and better choices will ultimately lead to growth. Growth separates reality from mental imagery. Growth must be halted at all costs.
I must not achieve more success. More success means there is no possibility for lording and denigration in that area. I was therefore told I would never amount to anything, that I would be a loser all of my life, a failure in all endeavors. This is primarily one-sided input; from the other genetic donor, silence and passive observation of the mental abuse, physical abuse, and occasional input of superiority messages, complete with demonstrations to enhance the feeling of inferiority within me.
I can only imagine that my wife feels similarly. In her case, however, the genetic donor input was minimal. They were absentee parents, abusive in another form.
Always, always the answer is "we did the best we could."
The idea that better educated means better choices which is bad is a subtle and insidious ploy, because it came coupled to being sent to an educational institution that was considered one of the best in the area. On the other hand, I think there was the perception that there would be more indoctrination into the religion of "choice" in the familial unit. The paternal genetic donor had already abandoned his own theological background for the sake of the woman. Things would be exactly as she imagined it or it would not be at all. This has been an underlying theme my entire life. Therefore, I must graduate from a prestigious religious institution, but I must be made aware of how superior they are at the same time. I must learn, but not learn to think. A balancing act that I think was far too complex for someone untrained in programming and manipulation to attempt. It failed.
Through it all, there I am, being what I am at least internally. I am what I am and can never be anything else. A leopard, as the saying goes, cannot change its spots. Neither can amateurish attempts at brain-washing make you what you are not, and even professional attempts at programming must be assisted by either drug-induced confusion and susceptibility, with isolation and threats that cannot be proven or borne out (such as with religious cults that threaten members with eternal damnation), or with physical torture. It must also be ongoing and constant. And the subject must be broken.
Amateurs don't do all that is necessary.
We have been, and still are, ourselves. That is a road of discovery in a time when we should be solidly set in our ways. We are still trying to figure out who we are, where we want to go, and how we want to get there. The delays are not directly the fault of those that tried to program us for failure, but they are likely indirect results of those attempts. We push forward; we have not conceded ourselves to what we were "imagined" to be, what we were "supposed" to be, what anyone "wanted" us to be. And now, we are dangerous for those that tried to poison us.
We are Siamese, if you please.
We are Siamese, if you DON'T please.
-JDT-
We are Siamese, if you DON'T please.
So it was in Disney's immortal animated classic that the Siamese twin cats inform the audience of their decent and their pleasure in it. I never gave two thoughts about that line from a silly song in an animated movie until just this morning.
Don't ask me why it crossed my mind today, but it did. And I realized, as it echoed through the empty caverns of my memory, that throughout our lives, my wife and I have been trying to sing that song to everyone that bothered to ask.
Most of them didn't. Most of them were trying to change us from what we were, and are, into what they wanted us to be. Tabby; Calico; Persian; Manx; it didn't matter. As long as we weren't what we are, it would suffice.
The two cats in the cartoon are simply saying, in their one line, that they are what they are, whether popular or not. They are, in fact, Siamese cats, and their genetics, appearance, and best of all their NATURE, could not be altered.
As long as I can remember, I was being "molded." Trying to be made more this, or less that; not so much to groom me for any one particular thing -- there was nothing so ambitious as a goal for my life -- but to make me something I was not in the moment.
That's the tragedy of it all. There wasn't a point. Had there been a goal, had there been a destination for the steering, it may have actually been beneficial to some degree. Because it was rudderless and was done just to suit the mood of the moment, or the hang-over, or to make me conform to whatever the image in the mind was at the time, it was just a constant beating down of what I was and trying to railroad me into being something I'm not. ANYthing I'm not.
I can't be too smart -- too smart exposes stupidity pretty quickly, and that would unmask them too soon. I'm programmed to believe that I am stupid.
I can't be too strong -- too strong causes loss of physical intimidation, and that eliminates the last line of defense for stupidity. I am therefore kept intimidated and punished for any physical demonstrations. I am admonished physically early and often in increasing degrees of brutality. First with the hand, then the belt, then the closed fist ... make sure that I am not aware of my physical superiority at all costs.
I cannot be more clever. More clever means being outwitted. Again, be told that I am inferior in every way. I will never be a peer. I will never be an equal. I cannot be, or control will be surrendered.
I cannot be better educated. Better education will mean better choices, and better choices will ultimately lead to growth. Growth separates reality from mental imagery. Growth must be halted at all costs.
I must not achieve more success. More success means there is no possibility for lording and denigration in that area. I was therefore told I would never amount to anything, that I would be a loser all of my life, a failure in all endeavors. This is primarily one-sided input; from the other genetic donor, silence and passive observation of the mental abuse, physical abuse, and occasional input of superiority messages, complete with demonstrations to enhance the feeling of inferiority within me.
I can only imagine that my wife feels similarly. In her case, however, the genetic donor input was minimal. They were absentee parents, abusive in another form.
Always, always the answer is "we did the best we could."
The idea that better educated means better choices which is bad is a subtle and insidious ploy, because it came coupled to being sent to an educational institution that was considered one of the best in the area. On the other hand, I think there was the perception that there would be more indoctrination into the religion of "choice" in the familial unit. The paternal genetic donor had already abandoned his own theological background for the sake of the woman. Things would be exactly as she imagined it or it would not be at all. This has been an underlying theme my entire life. Therefore, I must graduate from a prestigious religious institution, but I must be made aware of how superior they are at the same time. I must learn, but not learn to think. A balancing act that I think was far too complex for someone untrained in programming and manipulation to attempt. It failed.
Through it all, there I am, being what I am at least internally. I am what I am and can never be anything else. A leopard, as the saying goes, cannot change its spots. Neither can amateurish attempts at brain-washing make you what you are not, and even professional attempts at programming must be assisted by either drug-induced confusion and susceptibility, with isolation and threats that cannot be proven or borne out (such as with religious cults that threaten members with eternal damnation), or with physical torture. It must also be ongoing and constant. And the subject must be broken.
Amateurs don't do all that is necessary.
We have been, and still are, ourselves. That is a road of discovery in a time when we should be solidly set in our ways. We are still trying to figure out who we are, where we want to go, and how we want to get there. The delays are not directly the fault of those that tried to program us for failure, but they are likely indirect results of those attempts. We push forward; we have not conceded ourselves to what we were "imagined" to be, what we were "supposed" to be, what anyone "wanted" us to be. And now, we are dangerous for those that tried to poison us.
We are Siamese, if you please.
We are Siamese, if you DON'T please.
-JDT-
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Some Thoughts about Superheroes
So, I was wondering … what if the Hulk has to take a dump? Can he fit that enormous caboose on a potty? Will the porcelain bear his weight? How can he flush if he manages? Isn’t that going to back the plumbing up?
Maybe he’s like the proverbial bear in the woods. If so, who’s job is it to clean that up?
What if Spider-man – or is it Spiderman? – needs to whiz while he’s chasing Doc Ock around New Yawk? Is that outfit equipped with a zipper? I don’t see one … and if he has to poop, does he quickly change back to Peter Parker? He can’t wash his hands afterward with those gloves on. Does the same stuff that causes him to stick to walls become a problem when working with toilet paper?
Why do Batman and Superman wear trunks over their costumes? I’d think their boys would get really, really pressed, cramped and sweaty. Yuck. That can’t be fun. No wonder Batman’s always brooding.
And what about diarrhea? It's a fact of life; all of us get it sometime. Doesn't it become inconvenient and a bit precarious to dress like superheroes do if you have the runs?
Does Wonder Woman shave her legs? Get the occasional bikini wax? Does she ever use the lasso of truth to tie up boyfriends? Do they tell her they’re afraid of her when she does? Do they inadvertently spit out that she’s not that great in bed under that lasso’s influence? What consequences would that device have in a romantic setting? Yeesh.
Does Aquaman produce bubbles when he farts? I guess he’d have to, but when do we get to see it? Also, what if he’s allergic to shellfish? Is that a problem for him?
What if the Flash decided to go speed dating?
If Daredevil is blind, how does he know he has his costume on the right way? How does he know it’s the right color? How can he tell if the logo on the chest is straight?
I noticed in the movie Superman Returns that Superman and Lois Lane had a baby. How was that possible? In the movie that preceded this one, a simple kiss made her forget who he was and a lot of things that happened while they were together. Wouldn’t sex have left her either comatose or dead? In a vegetative state? And wouldn’t Superman’s ejaculation have blown her head off? Seems like sex with Superman would be a bad idea, frankly. How did Superman manage to lift up an entire island made of Kryptonite? Isn’t he allergic to that? And how come a tiny sliver of it left in his body didn’t render him completely useless? Is he not as vulnerable to it as he used to be?
Men get an erection at night on average every 90 minutes or so; what if Superman does? Does he just sleep nude to avoid destroying his boxers/briefs/boxer-briefs? If Superman masturbates, does the friction produce heat and sparks? Can he cause a fire that way? Does he have to disable the smoke alarms in his house to keep from setting them off while pleasuring himself? Maybe he just refrains to avoid the whole thing. And what happens if he gets turned on while wearing his Superman outfit? That can’t be comfortable. If the suit is tough enough to withstand his antics, does it also ... contain him in those circumstances? And isn’t his condition going to be a little obvious in those blue tights and tiny little briefs? How embarrassing!
Who pays for all the property damage caused by superheroes fighting villains? Does that come out of the government funds, or do the taxes in the city go up to help recover the costs? Has anyone ever brought a civil suit against a superhero for destruction of private property? Does the superhero have to show up for court in his costume, or can s/he dress normally?
How do superheroes dress for weddings? If Wonder Woman and Superman get married, for instance, do they show up in their costumes or in wedding attire? Hmm.
When Wonder Woman is near her period, does PMS become a matter of public safety?
When does Aquaman bathe? Does he use soap? If so, does Greenpeace get in his face about polluting the oceans? What about his urine and defecation? Is that okay for him, since he lives in the sea? I bet someone would have a problem with one of US if WE did our business in the ocean.
If Iron Man has a weak heart, doesn’t he risk having a heart attack just getting that suit on and off? It can’t be lightweight. Does he have a catheter built in? There’s no way that bad boy’s coming off to take a leak. That could be a very long process indeed.
How come the bad guys don’t wait until the superheroes are in the bathroom to attack? Aren’t they pretty vulnerable when they’re doing their business? I know I’m not in any position to defend myself while I’m sitting on the pot.
Does the Rhino’s horn provide aphrodisiac effects like a regular rhinoceros’ horn is supposed to? Why haven’t poachers tried to bag him yet?
Does the Lizard have to bask in the sun to get his body temperature up in the morning?
Has Storm ever cost a meteorologist his/her job? Does she ever change the weather just to muck things up for other people? If she’s on the rag, would she cause it to rain on a sunny Saturday just to be a pain?
Can people that live where superheroes are get special clauses on their auto and home owner’s insurance policies to protect against superhero-related damage?
Why don’t superheroes ever go in for professional sports? They’d have distinct advantages, and it’s much safer. You can always battle super villains in the off-season. Imagine the money they could make. They might even be able to afford to pay for some of the damage they cause while doing superhero stuff. Wouldn’t that be a relief to the public sector and the civil authorities? They could finally stop raising taxes. Who can afford to live in those places?
-JDT-
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Never Commit to Writing ...
I learned a lesson today.
I posted to my blog earlier, and had little success in being okay with what I wrote. Self-censorship is an interesting thing. It happens out of guilt. I've never had to remove a posting before, and have never had one removed by a moderator or a forum administrator. Certainly, I think a blog entry is what it is and there really isn't anything that Blogger can do about it. But, I wasn't able to just let my post sit there and be read by the Internet dwellers of the world.
I said some nasty things about someone that I don't know at all, except for what I see displayed in public. That person's not always at their best in those circumstances. And I said some other, rather harsh things about someone else that I didn't know, and the same things I said about both of those individuals could have been applied to ... well, me.
A very, VERY wise man once told me, "Never commit to writing anything you aren't willing to die for." The reason is, once it's committed to writing, it's indelible. It's in writing, and no matter how things change, no matter how your mood may lift or shift from the time of the writing, the words you scribe will NEVER change. They are permanently etched into the ether of history, and will always be there to splash in your face like acid when you least expect them to. Or want them to. No matter what the situation is, there is never a good reason to write something -- at least something that someone else may read -- in anger. You will, without variance, regret it at some point.
Your perspective changes with time -- hopefully. You grow. The heat of the anger wears off and that moment passes. You may or may not feel differently about what you wrote than you did when you wrote it, but the fact is, your perspective will change. If you've written down something that can't be retrieved, you will likely have to face ongoing or much more dramatic consequences than you anticipated because the words you used will be available for posterity. It's seldom worth the ramifications.
On the other hand, things can be written down. Journaling is a therapeutic form of expunging information, feelings, thoughts and works as a substitute for action in many cases. You can write for catharsis, and to try and clarify your thoughts and sort things through. In those instances, you are writing for yourself, however, and others are not intended to read them. When purging feelings, writing is a useful tool to many, but it should always be remembered that this is for your benefit, and should not be shared with anyone else. Doing so can be destructive. I know; I wrote something once that was the camel that broke the straw back of a weak and failing marriage.
Sometimes, writing is a way to say things to someone that allows for uninterrupted, non-argumentative communication in which the two parties do not have to face one another. When one person is not as effective a verbal communicator as another, writing can be a method for saying what's on the heart and so-called mind, without having to bear the immediate response ("reaction", actually) of the other party. However, again, be very careful in those instances. Retraction of what is in writing is difficult if not impossible. It's there, ready to be picked up and read again and again, to remind the reader of the feelings and anger that went into it. Communication in this way may be more effective than ever intended.
As for me, I've written things I regret, and things I don't regret. I've said some really great things in writing that I don't think I could have said verbally, at least to the same level of effectiveness. And, I've pulled some boners too. They fly like boomerangs and hit me in the back of the head. It's not possible to deny or lay context to the statement they way it is with verbal communication, because -- as I've said -- there it is, staring the reader in the face, and the context that is remembered will be the context of everything else written, not the events surrounding them. That's the rub. Only what was written will later matter, not any reasons -- however justifiable -- that may have existed.
So, realizing that I'd said things that I couldn't possibly mean, couldn't possibly know, and shouldn't have said, I removed the post. After all, what if the person(s) I'd written about actually saw my writing? It's not likely, but it's possible, I suppose. This is the Internet, after all, and there is nothing about my blog that keeps it from public view. I thought better of it later, and deleted it so that I would not have to feel guilty later, would not have to face the ramifications of what I said, and would not later have to eat those words that I so bitterly seasoned.
Well … I guess I've written enough about what I haven't written, haven't I?
-JDT-
I posted to my blog earlier, and had little success in being okay with what I wrote. Self-censorship is an interesting thing. It happens out of guilt. I've never had to remove a posting before, and have never had one removed by a moderator or a forum administrator. Certainly, I think a blog entry is what it is and there really isn't anything that Blogger can do about it. But, I wasn't able to just let my post sit there and be read by the Internet dwellers of the world.
I said some nasty things about someone that I don't know at all, except for what I see displayed in public. That person's not always at their best in those circumstances. And I said some other, rather harsh things about someone else that I didn't know, and the same things I said about both of those individuals could have been applied to ... well, me.
A very, VERY wise man once told me, "Never commit to writing anything you aren't willing to die for." The reason is, once it's committed to writing, it's indelible. It's in writing, and no matter how things change, no matter how your mood may lift or shift from the time of the writing, the words you scribe will NEVER change. They are permanently etched into the ether of history, and will always be there to splash in your face like acid when you least expect them to. Or want them to. No matter what the situation is, there is never a good reason to write something -- at least something that someone else may read -- in anger. You will, without variance, regret it at some point.
Your perspective changes with time -- hopefully. You grow. The heat of the anger wears off and that moment passes. You may or may not feel differently about what you wrote than you did when you wrote it, but the fact is, your perspective will change. If you've written down something that can't be retrieved, you will likely have to face ongoing or much more dramatic consequences than you anticipated because the words you used will be available for posterity. It's seldom worth the ramifications.
On the other hand, things can be written down. Journaling is a therapeutic form of expunging information, feelings, thoughts and works as a substitute for action in many cases. You can write for catharsis, and to try and clarify your thoughts and sort things through. In those instances, you are writing for yourself, however, and others are not intended to read them. When purging feelings, writing is a useful tool to many, but it should always be remembered that this is for your benefit, and should not be shared with anyone else. Doing so can be destructive. I know; I wrote something once that was the camel that broke the straw back of a weak and failing marriage.
Sometimes, writing is a way to say things to someone that allows for uninterrupted, non-argumentative communication in which the two parties do not have to face one another. When one person is not as effective a verbal communicator as another, writing can be a method for saying what's on the heart and so-called mind, without having to bear the immediate response ("reaction", actually) of the other party. However, again, be very careful in those instances. Retraction of what is in writing is difficult if not impossible. It's there, ready to be picked up and read again and again, to remind the reader of the feelings and anger that went into it. Communication in this way may be more effective than ever intended.
As for me, I've written things I regret, and things I don't regret. I've said some really great things in writing that I don't think I could have said verbally, at least to the same level of effectiveness. And, I've pulled some boners too. They fly like boomerangs and hit me in the back of the head. It's not possible to deny or lay context to the statement they way it is with verbal communication, because -- as I've said -- there it is, staring the reader in the face, and the context that is remembered will be the context of everything else written, not the events surrounding them. That's the rub. Only what was written will later matter, not any reasons -- however justifiable -- that may have existed.
So, realizing that I'd said things that I couldn't possibly mean, couldn't possibly know, and shouldn't have said, I removed the post. After all, what if the person(s) I'd written about actually saw my writing? It's not likely, but it's possible, I suppose. This is the Internet, after all, and there is nothing about my blog that keeps it from public view. I thought better of it later, and deleted it so that I would not have to feel guilty later, would not have to face the ramifications of what I said, and would not later have to eat those words that I so bitterly seasoned.
Well … I guess I've written enough about what I haven't written, haven't I?
-JDT-
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)