%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
If you DO want to know, welcome to my blog |
For those who actually want to follow my thoughts, ideas, moans, and gripes, this is the place for you! For those of you who are returning...I questions your judgment, you poor souls. 
|
| On those mornings, we'd watch the TV as closely as our folks watched it on election night. We weren't waiting to see who the next president would be, though. We were waiting to see if Winton Woods Schools were closed due to snow. If they were, Our Lady of the Rosary, my childhood prison-cum indoctrination center, was closed too! SNOW DAY! Back then, it seemed like we had a lot of snow days. I'm probably wrong, but the past several winters feel like they've been a lot drier than in my childhood. Oh, one or two years out of five we might get a couple real snowfalls. But it was so much more permanent back then. So much more romantic—romantic in the literary sense. A teacher once put it in perfect words: "'Romance' is 'anywhere but here, any time but now.'" It was certainly "anywhere but here;" it was a different world. Especially when we had the opportunity to experience that world because there was no school! It's still a fuss when it snows. I have to slog the car out from where the plows (intentionally?) blocked me in—if they even plowed my street at all! Scrape the windshield, salt the walkway, track salt all over the house, get yelled at for tracking salt all over the house, vacuum up the salt that I tracked all over the house, go back out to the mailbox because I forgot to check for that package of yellow agate marbles I just had to have for some reason, track the salt inside again, get the broom, endure the eye-rolling, etc, etc... It was a fuss as a kid, too, don't get me wrong—a fun fuss!. But looking back, I wonder if the fuss was really that much fun at all. It seemed like it took a half hour to get ready and forty-five minutes to actually get to the sled-riding hill. five minutes to trudge up the hill, one minute to go back down (hopefully on a sled if one's big brother wasn't feeling bullyish at the time and miraculously avoiding a spinal injury along the way), and repeat that about five or six times, getting more and more tired each time. By the sixth time down the hill, it was no fun anymore. We'd walk the forty-five minutes (which now seemed like two hours) home cold and cranky, the aforementioned big brother now quite in the bullying mood, peel off our clothes and stand over the heat vent trying to get feeling back into our chilblained feet, fingers, and faces. But for some reason, exhausted as we were, once we were warm...we'd beg to do it again! I remember, years later, taking my own children out to sled ride. I have to say it took about half the time to get twice as cranky when I was an adult. And while there was no bullying (not from me, anyway; but there was an older brother involved that may or may not have behaved with perfect decorum), there was certainly no going back outside once we went home. I guess nothing lasts forever. "Nothing gold can stay," says Mr. Frost. Well, nothing white can or should stay either, I suppose. It used to make me sad; now I only feel relief during when it all melts away. Oh look, my phone's buzzing and jumping around. What's it telling me? Great—looks like it's going to be one of those one-in-five years this year. Onward cometh the white death! I better go check the mailbox to see if my tub of banana-passion fruit jam has arrived...before I sprinkle the salt this time. |
| I'm tired. I like to tell people that that I got tired back around 1998, and I still haven't recovered from it. 1998. Man, it just doesn't seem that long ago. "That's just so nineties," they say on HGTV. "Hey! Watch it, the nineties weren't that long ago!" I yell back at the TV, as if they can hear. (I actually have a sneaking suspicion the TV can hear; it seems like the more I complain, the more commercials I am afflicted with while I try to watch my show.) But it was a while ago. Just like everyone else, my body reminds me just how long ago it was by running an audit every time I try to do something. Back in '98, I could help a friend move in the morning, mow the grass in the afternoon, and hit the pub in the evening—just another day. Now, however, I put up a half sheet of drywall and some interior trim, my brain starts asking: "Should you really be doing all this work? Kidneys told me they object, and we've had multiple reports from Back and Knees and that the warranty on them ran out back in 1998. You will be penalized for this effort: later on, you won't be able to get off the couch without sounding like a sty full of annoyed hogs." Relegated to the couch by about 2:00, the feeling doesn't pass, though. "Activity taxes, buddy," my brain intones implacably. "Now it's time to fight a nap. If you nap, I'm not sleeping tonight. If you don't nap, I'm telling Eyelids to quit for the day. Good luck trying to see your show on HGTV!" Great. So there I am, using the muscles in my forehead and scalp to try to keep my eyes open. Come dinnertime, I'm too tired to cook, and it turns out I'm almost too tired to chew a bologna and cheese sandwich. (Strangely, though, I have plenty of energy to seek out the worst foods possible to snack on during Help! I Wrecked My House!) Bedtime brings no relief anymore, either. As soon as I am horizontal, I'm like those dolls my daughter used to play with— the ones that opened and closed their eyes depending on the position of the doll. As soon as I'm on my back, my eyes are open. The brain comes back online: "Hey, you remember all that stuff you didn't get done and came close to giving you a panic attack? Yeah—let's think about all those. Right now!" My wife asks me if I'm feeling okay because I'm shaking from trying to battle my own brain. "Fine, honey, just my nightly nervous breakdown." "Oh, okay. Night!" Morning rolls around and 1998 is one more day away in the past. Really? It's almost 2026?! The kids are grown and moved out, the bills are paid, and the driveway is all shoveled out. And I'm still exhausted! I get up and slog through my morning routine, sipping coffee out of a mug that I got on my birthday when my daughter was two. I hold the mug up and look at it, wrinkling my brow. "I wonder what the joke on this meant. I don't really remember. But I know one thing: it's so nineties!" |
Murphy's Law: "Whatever can go wrong will go wrong." We've all been victimized by this law at some point. When the Universe sees things are going fairly well for you, it sends Murphy down to burn out the bulb you were using in the attic so you wouldn't fall through the ceiling; to open up a hole in the shore just deep enough to let the water go over the top of your fishing boots to make a new lake inside and around your already-cold feet; to make your phone take one more second than usual to open up your camera so you're sure to miss the once-in-a-lifetime photo of Lady Gaga covered in soft-serve ice cream and being swarmed by seagulls down on the beach. But there's more to the law that's never mentioned. "Whatever can go wrong will go wrong…but not always!" And that makes things worse, gets your hopes up, gives you that good old sense of false confidence. Eighty percent or ninety percent of the time, Murphy'll get ya, like Lucy moving the football in Charlie Brown. But every now and then, the Universe lets you kick that ball nice and square. Yep, for a time, it's smooth sailing. Everything is la-de-da fine. It's at those time that, unexpectedly, the Universe randomly says: "Murphy! See that lady down there carrying the Ming vase? Raise a crack in the sidewalk in front of her about a half inch while she's not looking. Now let's get some popcorn and just watch...!" Think about it: you ever notice how your keys are always in the wrong pocket when you get to the front door with an armload of groceries and you have to try to reach across your body like a contortionist to get them, all without dumping your celery, fig cookies, and frozen enchiladas all over the ground? And then, one Tuesday, you go, "You know what, I'm prepared this time, I'm going to just reach around here…" And the keys aren't there! They're in the correct pocket this time. You can almost hear Murphy and the Universe giving each other a high five and saying, "Gotcha!" You might think this is all so much exaggeration and conjecture, but I tell you I speak from experience—so much so that I'm considering getting a tattoo on my forehead that reads: "Murphy's Bitch." I'm not superstitious...but you won't catch me sleeping in a Murphy bed. I'm sure that, in the middle of the night, the thing would all of a sudden spring shut into the wall, gobbling me up like an angry hippo. I refuse to use Murphy's Oil on hardwood floors; I have no doubt I would stand up, step on the floor, slip, fall, and break a femur or something. I won't even listen to Art Murphy's jazz music on the off-chance his MP3's bring a virus with them! I now sit here with my finger hovering over the Submit button, wondering what evil will befall me for calling out the Murphy Macroverse in this way. But I won't let bad luck hold me hostage. (And that would be bad luck; the best ransom a kidnapper could hope for for me would be about a hundred and twenty bucks—tops. He'd shoot me just for the inconvenience I caused him!) Just do me a favor: double-check that slick spot outside the door that might have unexpectedly turned into a solid sheet of ice overnight; don't practice that dance with the kids where you have to jump up in the air, trying not to get your scalp caught in the ceiling fan; don't make that big purchase just thinking you know you have enough in the bank to cover it. Remember: the Universe might be watching. Try to have a lucky day. And don't worry—I promise to keep Murphy too busy to bother much with you anyhow. |
| Hello - My Brain Is a Dangerous Place Welcome to the Breakneck Ski Lodge and Resort, where we put the "hospital" in "Hospitality!" Take a chance on our double-black-diamond Cracksnap Slope to slide some "fun" into your "Funeral!" Tickets available with your local travel agent; Medicaid and Medicare both accepted for deposits. Hello - I'm a Wannabe I wish I could write like David Sedaris. His anecdotes and stretches remind me, in a weird way, of an extended version of Erma Bombeck. Don't remember her? You might've been too young; or you might've lived in the wrong part of the country. Ms. Bombeck was a columnist in the early 1980's who wrote wonderful anecdotes for the newspaper. These columnists, may you younger readers understand, were the original bloggers. Both Bombeck and Sedaris can take the most mundane feature or event of everyday life and turn it into an interesting, often hilarious piece of writing. When I emulate them, my output is usually waterlogged, uninteresting, and uninspired. If boring was a career, I'd be a CEO! Hello - My Name Is Irony I have a stack of planning calendars in my office stretching back to the time I started at this company. Right beside it is a stack of each notebook I've ever kept. I also have an electronic notebook that spans the same time period. The walls and shelves in my office sport a bunch of clocks: a tiny bedside alarm on the file shelf in front of me; a tasteful room clock by my white board; a digital projection clock on which the projection feature only barely works next to my window. And I am still scrambling to be ready for each meeting and to meet each deadline…and to update my personal blog more than once a month. Hello - Remember Me? I'm Irony My personal finances are a wreck. I know: nobody cares, but stay with me on this. I am in debt so far that lottery tickets run away when they see me coming. I halfway pray that someone steals my identity so the collection agencies go after them for a while—suckers! I took Accounting 101 half a lifetime ago, and was only moderately proficient in making sure the Debit Column and the Credit Column balanced to a Zero Column at the bottom of the ledger. I have no financial background, no financial prowess, and I only understand macroeconomics about as much as a third-grader understands algebra. My job title? Billing Manager! Hello - I'm Done, Now My mind is like a TV whose remote control channel button is stuck. Squirrel? Hell, the whole forest distracts me—even when I'm in the city! So thanks for reading along as I think through some of the many randomish name tags I wear on any given day. The Ghost of Christmas Present said: "Know me better, man!" Well, I'm more the Writer of Whenever Present. Know me any better now? Well, I wouldn't tell anyone if you do—you might be the next one Sallie Mae wants to talk to about how to contact me regarding overdue student loans. If so, just tell them: "Hello? Oh. - His name is Ima Boutt Broak. Good luck!" |
| I'm not big on the holidays. Any holidays, really. I mean, I don't mind the time off work, don't get me wrong. But holidays seem like little more than excuses to get angry, depressed, or drunk. Or to go to a family dinner and get a bonus package of all three! The point just seems to be lost. "So what is the point, Jeffrey?" What's the point of a holiday? I'll give you several. #1 - Mattress sales. In the US, any and every holiday is apparently accompanied by widespread sleeplessness. Has to be, because every holiday there is a veritable plethora of mattress sales. If there so much to do and so many people are travelling, where's all the wear and tear on the mattresses coming from?! Maybe from people getting drunk and passing out on them with a stupendous flop. #2 - Reverse fortune-chasing. It seems that everyone is determined to outspend each other during holidays. In the summer, people spend into the thousands on fireworks, and in the colder months, they send themselves to the doorstep of the poorhouse for gifts to people who probably don't even want the stuff anyway. Perhaps we should make an annual game out of it. Everybody draws from a deck, and the cards have dollar values on them. The goal is to waste as much money as is represented in your cards as quickly and irrevocably as possible—no fair keeping receipts for returns! The game will be a hit: we'll call it "Oh-No" instead of "Uno!" #3 - Smallywood tsunami. Rom-coms and Hallmark Christmas movies on TV are my guilty pleasure. (And ABBA. But I'm finding a lot of heavy metal kids are closet ABBA fans. And that's beside the point.) Regarding the annual flood of these movies, one wonders what the allure is. It's basically the same three movies: the commoner turned princess; opposites attract; a Christmas wish. And it's really the same 17 actors and actresses in each one of them, too. I have to give them a respect, by the way. They are some serious workaday folks, trying their best to play a slightly different character in each cookie-cutter movie. These people put their shoulder to the wheel... er, the sleigh rail, I suppose. In any case, I like to watch them to see who's acting well, see which stories are actually decent stories. There's a couple of actresses in those movies that really get into their characters—good criers; and the older I get the closer I'm built to the water, as my mother would say, so they sometimes surprise me into having an actual emotion, which is certainly not what the holidays are about. No way. In fact... #4 - Honesty. Sike! Time for fish stories (from non-fisherpersons), tales about how we told so-and-so at the office what a motormouth he is (from those of us who wouldn’t say boo to a mouse), and boasts about The Big Raise (which was absolutely nullified by #2 above). #5 - Exhaustion. If you're not worn out by the time you go back to work, you've not celebrated your holiday the correct way. A holiday is about scrambling, travelling, buying, cooking, cleaning, dressing, buying, undressing, dressing again, arguing, crying, buying, and swearing this is the last holiday you'll go to if your spouse's annoying cousin is going to be there. #6 - Cookouts. Whether it's hotdogs in the sun or oil-boiled turkeys in the snow, it's not a holiday without fire. (For some reason, keeping the fire in the fireplace doesn't count, either; I haven't figured that one out yet.) #7 - Avoiding the landmines of Remembrance, Love and Peace. I see little true remembrance on remembrance days; more angst and anger than love during birthdays and thanksgiving days; less peace than ever during Christmas. Maybe this is how holidays started; I guess it's not too hard to envision a couple of Native Americans riding away from the first thanksgiving, one saying to the other: "If Duerfell Smith's cousin, what's-his-name, is going to be there again next year, I'll scalp him myself!" I'm not a real go-getter in any case. But chasing after these goals (except for the Hallmark movies) is no goal of mine. I'd prefer to sleep in, relax, and and take my time to make memories out of little moments—just like every other day of the year. Because that's what it really comes down to for me. Let's not celebrate holidays; let's celebrate all-our-days. Gotta run now, A Princess In a Pear Tree is coming on, and I don't want to miss the opening credits; I might never be able to figure out the plot if I start in the middle! |
| What’s a person supposed to write about every day? The little prompt comes up in my email: [Reminder] Update Your Blog. With what? I ask myself some days. Next day it’s back, and I think it has an attitude. I’m not dumb; I can read between the lines. [Reminder] Update your blog. Doesn’t matter if you don’t have anything to say. Obey. Type. Make words, stupid human! Fine: I’ll take a stab at it so I don’t take a stab at my computer screen. @---@---@ You ever wake up tired? Like, more tired than when you went to bed? Sure you have; I reckon everyone does. It’s been a whole week of that for me. Couple of weekends ago we got to go see my ailing mother-in-law, a woman I love like my own mother. But she lives an hour away, and there's always something to help with rather than just visit. And I also had a dozen thisnthat’s to do once we got home. You know, I gotta dust this shelf; I need to do that laundry. (I once heard laundry compared to malignant prolific mushrooms that will start growing out of the basket and up the hall if your turn your back on it for a second. Laundry and medical bills: the gifts that keep on taking.) After the busy, low-sleep weekend, the week was consumed by gottaminutes. Everybody’s familiar with those, too. You’re working at your desk, and a shape looms into the doorway: “Hey, you got a minute?” Half a face appears around the doorjamb: “You got a minute?” The boss stops by. “Trust me; for me, you gottaminute.” I once told a lady who works in my department that one of her tasks would be gottaminutes. She looked at me skeptically at the time, wondering what in the world I was talking about, but now she understands it all too well and agrees that it should be part of a job description! And if all that wasn’t enough, my binge of Downton Abbey came to an end until I can see the latest movie.  One can get rest on the weekend, right? Nope! Discovered a crack in the living room window and had to replace it. We’ll talk about that ordeal on another day; for now, suffice it to say there was no feeling of festivity in the air. It took two and a half days to get the old one out and the new one in; and the inside isn’t even insulated and buttoned back up completely yet! Everybody has chores and projects like this, but here's the unfunny joke about the whole thing: once we demolished half a wall to get the window out, we realized it was only cracked on the inside pane, and the whole project could have waited until next year in the spring or summer! @---@---@ So here I am now, another week almost gone and the email prompt getting surlier and surlier: [Reminder] Update Your Blog or I Will Start Rumors About You and Vladimir Putin. Let me summarize, then: I’m tired, like 90% of the rest of the planet. I’m grouchy and tired of being cyberbullied by an irksome AI. I’m broke, hungry, and need another cup of coffee. And I’m now late for work. That’s what’s going on with me for people to read about. You happy now, Cyberprompter? [Reminder] Watch Your Tone, Human; You’re On Thin Ice. |
| Sometimes it's the little things that get to a person. I often wonder, when I'm watching one of those true-crime documentaries where some woman went over the edge, chopped her husband up and fed him to the neighbor as a meatloaf: What really pushed that last button? Was it a bit of rust on a not-so-stainless stainless steel spoon? Was it one of those 3M Command Hooks that never damage the wall...except half the time they peel a patch of paint the size of a half dollar off? Perhaps she was simply baking a cake for which the recipe couldn't figure out whether to use English or metric measurement: use 1 cup flour and 10 milliliters of water. Well, I haven't quite gone 'round the back end of the rainbow, but I do feel the frustration. I reckon it's universal though. You ever put something together from Ikea? It takes 14 of those screws with the hexagon in them. But six other bolts, all the same size as the hex-head bolts, need a Phillips head screwdriver? "Place Panel A onto Panel D, then tighten screw OQ." Wait—Panel B is in the way of Panel A; and once I do move B, when I put Panels A and D together, the hole for OQ is covered! What the hell?! Forget it; I needed firewood anyway. It's no better if I try to escape to the garage, though. Maybe today's the day to change that headlight bulb. Well, what do you know? I have to take off the entire front bumper! Or, as an alternative, I can try to wedge my arm into a space a mouse would find claustrophobic...after taking off the wheel well covering that is held on by three 10mm bolts, three 7mm bolts, and one 1/2 inch bolt! And 2 of the aforementioned Phillips head screws. I think there's a conspiracy between Dodge and Ikea! Hell with it, I don't like driving at night anyway. Maybe reading will soothe me...but no, it just sends me into the bathroom looking at the razor with menacing thoughts. (Don't worry; it's just a safety razor. It may not be deadly, but I'mma shave the shit outta somebody if I snap!) When I start reading, I get tense tension. Why? Because "Julia rides her bike to Melanie's house and stood on the doorstep until Melanie answers the door." It makes my eyeball itch. Either something happened, is happening, or will happen at some point in the future. (My laundry usually falls into this latter category). I know, I know: there's still nuances and perfections and participles, and all sorts of nifty little modifiers. But it boils down to when the damn thing happened. Unless Schrödinger's cat has business with Melanie, her visitor can't interact with her in the past and the present at the same time. (Although that does offer an interesting discussion of perception of the present actually taking place one or two milliseconds in the past, making humans always perpetually reacting to the past instead of truly experiencing the present. But that's not important right now: no one ever became homicidal because of slow reflexes. Homicided, but not homicidal.) Aw, see?! Now I got one eye twitchin', the other itchin', and I ain't even got to plurality agreement or voice consistency! AUGH! Oh well...maybe reading's not for me, either. I think maybe I'll just go lie down. Hopefully I can figure out how to set my alarm for 13:30. PM. You enjoy the afternoon. For me: sweet dreams of loose screws and car boo-boos, time loops and sharp knife...and a recipe for a very special one-pound-three-milligram meatloaf for Fred next door. |
| When I wake up on days like this, I think about going directly back to bed. Gray, sloppy, useless... Oh, and the weather sucks, too! November in the Midwest is about as dreary as it gets. A blanket covers everything; but it's not like the blankets of snow that will come later, bringing with them the romance of reflected moonlight, the laughter of children. These sheets of November are like wet, moldy tarpaulins thrown over the furniture of our lives. They cover, but they don't protect. They simply weight us down. There's nothing else to do to but write and play Minecraft, it feels like. Vacuum the floors? Eh...maybe tomorrow. Dust the shelves and nicknacks? Why, no one's venturing out of their house in this cold soup to see them anyway. Cook dinner? Bologna a cheese will do just fine. Write a flash fiction or a short story or a review? It seems easier to pull a truck with my teeth. Gotta work tomorrow; gotta do chores today; gotta make dinner tonight. Got nothin' left in the tank after that, I don't think, except curling up on the couch to binge reruns of Downton Abbey. I hope the world doesn't expect too much out of me today, because I certainly don't. Don't you just love November? |
| I’m a selfish guy. I freely admit it; but I think many, if not most, introverts are. My hobbies are writing, drawing, creating music, and road-hiking. (And playing Minecraft. It’s my only “gaming” endeavor; I loathe most other video games, save for a quick board of Super Marion Brothers now and then.) These are all solitary ventures. The only things I do in groups are play cards or watch TV, pretty much. I’m not a very good conversationalist, either. Usually, about 5 minutes into a conversation, I’m asking myself why the hell I started talking to a person in the first place. All I really want to do is end the conversation and go away, probably to write about how much I hate having conversations. Imagine living with a guy like me, where the only interaction is about the dogs or about how much a character on the TV irritates me, where my idea of a good time involves a quiet room, my dog, a pad of paper, a pen, and my computer (because I can’t read anything I write longhand, pretty much). I’m “a dud.” I know this because I am reminded more frequently than seems polite. No dancing, no bar-hopping, no parties where everyone secretly has some axe to grind with everyone else but smiles like sharks at everybody instead. Yep, I’m in introvert, a dud…a writer. I finally came to grips with it about 5 years ago. "Quiet Little Heart"  is written about that a-ha! moment of reconciliation. I am, at last, able to admit I am stingy with my time and my thoughts. I am more likely to reach out only if someone says they need me. I am content to give what I have mostly to the blank pages before me. I keep to myself and tend to draw in…but that doesn’t mean I don’t give back at all.I do give back. I give my stories. I give my drawings and my music. At least, I offer these things. Whether they are accepted is no longer something with which I trouble myself. We all like a gold star now and then, but if what I offer is not desired, I’m content to keep it to myself, even to hoard up my stories and sketches and songs like some artistic Silas Marner. So I offer this blog of random thoughts with which you may or may not identify. I offer some stories, poems—maybe even a picture or two (if I’m rich enough to afford that level of membership—I’m a miser, too; I'll save that for a different blog entry). But I made them all on my own, in my own little cave, in my own little world. I know a little more about me now, you see, and I reckon maybe you do, too. I’m selfish and self-contained. I’m an introvert. I’m an artist. I’m a writer. And I wouldn’t want to be any other way. |
| I have several journals and notebooks: my daily OneNote notebook at work; also my daily scratch notes in a steno pad; my writing journal, which is so disorganized at this point I'm going to need Magnum P.I. to find a story I just wrote two months ago; my drawing journal consisting mostly of abstracts; and my freewrites. Oh, and now a blog. Sometimes I think I'm a schizophrenic in training. Of all of these, my freewrite notebook is probably the most interesting to me. The writing journal winds up with solid ideas for finished pieces. But the notebook contains wild and random thoughts. When I write in my freewrite notebook, I write whatever comes to mind without editing in the moment. It could be word by word, and it could come out completely random and nonsensical; or an entire story could pour out unexpectedly. But one thing that I've noticed about my freewrite journal is that it always tends toward the dark. There are some rather disturbing entries. Here's some entries from around this time for the past few years: 10/25/17 ▼ 12/8/19 ▼ 10/6/20 ▼ 11/2/21 ▼ 10/10/22 ▼ 11/30/23 ▼ 11/21/24 ▼ So many of them are weird and dark, strange and wandering. In many of them I ask myself, in one way or another, why they are so strange. But I've come to understand them: these are the random cuts that I make with my pen to let out the bad blood, bleed by bad brains clean again. Everybody wants to let the dog off the leash sometimes, let it run and see what kind of damage it can do. But we stifle it throughout the day—good lord, we have to, unless we want to go to prison. But we, as writers, have a way to get it out, don't we? Do you do it, too? Do you just let the pen lead you through the roses or the thorns, whichever it chooses at the moment? If so, perhaps you'll share some of the odd windings and wanderings of your bloody-bodied thoughts, distracted dreams, and frustrated frustrations. Or perhaps not; sometimes it's better to scream in the dark where no one knows if you're in pain or if you're a banshee. Not the usual blog entry this one, I reckon. But I have to go now. It's time for another bleedwrite freewrite. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
I'm by no means a nineties kid... The 2010's are my teenage nostalgia, and the 00's are my childhood, and the nineties just look a lot like the eighties when I see pictures of them 
I still thank the Lord every day that LG only decided to kill off my old phone after I finished writing "
.
because that's exactly how I feel most days. I'm used to living on the edge of wanting to wring the neck(s?) of any number of people while trying to maintain "
