Rant N' Roll

2010-04-16T16:35:00.000-07:00

Amber Linskey

April 16, 2010

Bullies, Beauties and Perverts in my Restaurant

So many times when I’m sitting down to write, whether it is personal fiction or scholarly essays, I find myself reflecting back to a particular episode of Comedy Central’s Strangers With Candy. In my head, Amy Sedaris’ heinously scrunched up face repeats this phrase three times: “Go With What You Know.”

Though she is speaking of falling back to her boozing, prostituting habits, I interpret it in my own useful and choose to utilize my personal experiences when putting words to print. It is because of this that I’ve chosen to go into my workplace and snap photographs of the varied and interesting people I interact with on a daily basis.

Through out this essay I will introduce a handful of those people and apply to them certain ideas and theories that have been taught to me throughout my twelve weeks of studying literature and films addressing the issue of Gender and the part it plays in and with Society.

(Amber Locke and Marvin Gosche. Line Cooks.)

Amber is a twenty-year old woman born and raised in Jacksonville. She’s self-sufficient, attends college and is generally one of the more well rounded individuals I have come to know. She doesn’t subscribe to any particular subcultures, though a majority of her closest friends frequent the small, but loud local punk rock scene. She identifies as a lesbian, but doesn’t believe it defines her. Outwardly, she chooses not to participate in the dress and adornments that typically come along with being female. In the words of sociologist Betsy Lucal: “[She] does not do femininity” (Lucal, 1999) For her, manner of dress does not make her any less female or any more male. She can typically be seen in oversized t-shirts, baggy pants and sneakers. She wears her hair in a shaggy Mohawk. She does not believe that she has to conform to any particular gender.

Therein lies the paradox.

“Doing gender” is an act that we all play based on our level of adherence to different social stereotypes of what is male or female. By not “doing gender”, Amber is still acknowledging to the world that Gender exists. Also, because Gender is a socially constructed idea, whether or not Amber chooses to participate in molding herself to become a specific thing does not matter. Society will make the mold for her. In Betsy Lucal’s article “What It Means to Be Gendered Me”, she suggests: “Even if a person does not want to do gender or would like to do a gender other than the two recognized by our society, other people will, in effect, do gender for that person by placing her or him in one and only one of the two available categories”.

In Michael Kimmel’s “Gendered Society” he suggests that homosexuality is “deeply gendered” (Kimmel, 2008). In fact, he refers to gays and lesbians as “true gender conformists.” The idea is this. Society gives gender only two choices: male or female. In homosexuality, Gay men and women are given the opportunity to subscribe to either gender, i.e. lesbians as “masculine” women and gay men as “feminine” men.

By choosing not to “do gender”, Amber is actually reinforcing Gender by playing her own nonconformist role.

Shown above are two regular customers of mine at the diner. For this paper we’ll call them ‘Carl’ and ‘Ruth’. As you can see, they are in their Sunday’s finest. It’s later in the morning and they’ve just come from church. This couple frequents the diner counter every Sunday and every Sunday they order the same thing. I am quite interactive with my customers and tend to learn a lot about their personal lives. These two have been happily married for thirty years. They are admittedly very Christian and quick to lend biblical words of wisdom. You could generally say they are a happy, wholesome couple.

I had not intended to use them in my essay, and was simply snapping photos of some of my favorite customers. The day after this photograph was taken, I found myself wandering around the spray paint section of a Home Depot when a voice grabbed my attention:

“HHHeeyy Sexy!” It was Carl in his neon orange Home Depot apron. Despite never having greeted me with physical contact (though we’ve greeted each other no less than one hundred times in the three years I’ve been employed at the diner), he threw his arms out wide and I felt obligated to hug him. What proceeded was one of those pathetic, too tight; breast-mashing-to-chest embraces that middle aged men feel they’re entitled to give to young women.

It became very aware to me that ‘Carl’ would never behave like this if his wife were around. A light bulb went off in my head. I was instantly aware of a section I’d read in Michael Kimmel & Michael Messner’s book “Men’s Lives.”

This article, written by Martha McCaughey, speaks of “Caveman Masculinity,” an evolutionary theory that “our human male ancestors were in constant competition with one another for sexual access to fertile women (McCaughey, 2008).” Now, Carl wasn’t fighting his fellow Home Depot employees for a shot at me, but he was further acting out the theories of biological evolution laid out in Kimmel and Messner’s book.

For example, the authors reference an article in Men’s Magazine, September of 1999. This piece features men as Caveman and teaches them various workouts that emulate the supposed activities of a Caveman, i.e. throwing a spear, carrying a dead animal, etc. It suggests to men that they are biologically designed to do two things: survive and procreate. It goes into a Darwinian idea of survival of the fittest by suggesting that men seek out those mates who look the healthiest and most fertile. That translates to: the youngest and the bustiest.

So, according to the “sex science facts” it’s OKAY for Carl to feel like he can be churchly to me in front of his wife and grope me when she’s not around. Further quoted in Men’s Lives, “the reason men of any age continue to like young girls is that [they] were designed to keep them pregnant and dominate their fertile years by keeping them that way (McCaughey, 2008).”

The article further sticks its foot in its mouth by going on to say, “When your first wife has lost the overt signals of reproductive viability, you desire a younger woman… your genes don’t care about your wife or girlfriend or what the neighbors will say.”

While this photograph may not portray ‘Carl’ acting out the Caveman Ethos, his real life actions telltale his participation in such an evolutionary theory.

(Jacob Dunn and Josh “Butta’” Touchton in the kitchen.)

May I first begin by saying how much I love and cherish the boys of the kitchen? There are four of them. They work together, and they inhabit a shabby punk rock house on a bad side of town. They modify bicycles, make music and share everything they have. They have always been polite with me but they have the foulest mouths in the world and their logic for justifying the things they say confusing.

It first began with the word Fag.

I noticed in my first few days working with them that they threw the word around the way I use Awesome. An awesome when you get all green lights. An ironic awesome when you drop your coffee cup on the ground. For them, the word Fag meant so many different things.

From my readings of sociologist C.J. Pascoe’s “’Dude, You’re a Fag’: Adolescent Masculinity and the Fag Discourse (Pascoe, 2005)” the idea that this was a new way of thinking in America’s youth occurred to me. Pascoe spent a year and a half observing and interviewing high school students at two different schools. Over all she formally interviewed 49 students. She was young, and her dress adhered to that, and she managed to fit in and gain the trust of these kids. She found that the meaning of the word Fag had drastically changed. One of the boys in her study says: “Fag, seriously, it has nothing to do with sexual preference at all. You could just be calling somebody an idiot”. Pascoe goes on to say that in the high school world, the word fag means: “being stupid, incompetent, dancing, carting too much about clothing, being too emotional or expressing interest (sexual or platonic) in other guys”(Pascoe, 2005).

The boys of the Fox Kitchen reiterate this point. They say calling someone a Fag, does not mean that they are men having sex with other men, but instead it means they are participating in behavior that is not masculine.

Paradoxically, when walking through the kitchen you can overhear one boy telling the other “Pull your pants up, you faggot. Unless you want me to suck your dick.”

(Willie Heckt. Dishwasher and busboy.)

Look at this face? This baby face has been assisting me in turning tables at 8am every Saturday and Sunday morning for two years. This is Willie Heckt and he is the weekend busboy and weekday dishwasher in my diner. He is officially my favorite person at the Fox Restaurant. He is inevitably hung over and infrequently as well put together as the picture above. In fact, Willie has stumbled in to his weekend shifts with the occasional black eye, busted lip and road rash. This sweet boy, prone to braids in the hair and dating hippie chicks goes Tasmanian Devil when the alcohol gets into him, and that dog bites him almost every night.

What is it that makes good boys go bad?

I know that Willie was born to hippie; pagan parents because we bond over having been raised in the same environment. We weren’t just taught about peace and love, but about classism, racism, sexism, and violence. At 18, Willie knows that getting liquored up and fighting his friends is something our mothers would frown upon.

I’d even venture to say that Daytime Willie would frown as well. So, why does Willie do this? Why do men drink? In Rocco. L Capraro’s essay “Why College Men Drink: Alcohol, Adventure, and the Paradox of Masculinity” (Capraro, 2000), he suggests that men drink “because they are being men.” Drinking, as portrayed by society, is a manly venture associated with sporting events and girlie magazines.

Men drink for many reasons. Inebriation often brings a sense of confidence and recklessness that fulfills some of the stereotypes of a “hegemonic masculinity” (a set of social staples that men identify with as being ultimately masculine or manly.) Rocco’s suggests masculine gender role stress could be a culprit. It is the “stress resulting from a mans belief that he is unable to meet society’s demands of what is expected of men or the male role…”(Capraro, 2000).

Does this mean Willie has some internal issues about his validity as a man? It’s hard to say. At 5’3”, pudgy and toe-headed, Willie is not a very intimidating sight in the daylight. The surly, nighttime Willie, however, is something to be feared. Combined with the confidence of alcohol, Willie has no problem intimidating bigger, and burlier opponents. In “Athlete Aggression on the Rink and off the Ice: Athlete Violence and Aggression in Hockey and Interpersonal Relationships”, written by Authors Pappas, McKenry and Catlett, they quote Professor James Messerschmidt of Stockholm, Sweden when he says: “Alcohol cannot be separated from demonstrating masculinity as it is often used to decrease communication and increase men’s capacity to be violent” (Pappas, McKenry and Catlett, 2004). Several of the athletes interviewed in this article contended that alcohol was one of the “major factors” in episodes of violence. They refer to it as a “causal agent” that “facilitates the transition of violence from the competitive venue into everyday social interaction”.

Is it really that simple? Willie is just one man out of many, and his reasoning’s for turning to violence when intoxicated could stem from any number of psychological reasons, but according to the articles printed in Michael Messner and Michael Kimmel’s book “Men’s Lives”, men drink to hide shame and fear of not being manly enough, to share a camaraderie amongst other men (via bars, nights out, sporting events), to relieve stress from social strain, and to combat depression.

(Johnny Rhodenberry and Amber Linskey)

I’ve been living with Johnny Rhodenberry for five years. We’re getting married in the fall. I’ve been the exact same size since we met, since we began dating, since we got engaged. For some reason that I cannot fully comprehend I am altering my diet and trying to lose weight for the wedding. My first thought was: “When I walk down the aisle, I want it to be like: Va Va Voom! I want him to think: ‘damn, that’s the woman I’m gonna be with for the rest of my life!’”

But where did this thought come from?

Sure, every bride wants to be beautiful on her wedding day, but this is 2010 and couples are cohabitating before tying the knot. They’ve seen each other with morning breath and bed head. Hell, Johnny and I have suffered together through the nastiest of stomach flu’s. We know each other at our physical worst. So why am I so concerned about altering the way I’ve always been? Why do I want to change the woman that he fell in love with?

This is just one example of many of the internal issues women go through in regards to their own anxiety over beauty. This mental turmoil also causes an array of manifested physical diseases like bulimia, anorexia and depression. Not to mention financial drains like beauty products, diet pills and the big bucks given annually to cosmetic surgery. Naomi Wolf calls it the “beauty myth”, stating in Michael Kimmel’s “The Gendered Society,” that the “nearly unreachable cultural of feminine beauty ‘uses images of female beauty as a political weapon against women’s advancement” (Kimmel, 2008).

In societies where food is readily available, the ideal for beauty is that of slenderness. In countries that experience famine, plumpness is considered attractive. Historically, before countries had a McDonalds on every block and food was scarce, a thicker body was seen as a sign of health, beauty and wealth.

Women are taught over and over again that beauty and youth is desirable. They are taught that they should fear growing older and do everything in their power to slow the process, while men are esteemed for their graying hair and handsome crow’s feet.

We see this man-woman conflict again and again in movies and television. Sitcoms like Seinfeld portray portly, balding, goofy and unattractive men dating only beautiful, thin women. In movies, the average looking guy always gets with the gorgeous, leggy girl. The majority of these women on TV represent only a small minority of the bodies of real women off the screen.

When being constantly barraged with the images of tone tummies, flawless skin and lanky hair, women of all ages feel inferior and will do anything possible to achieve that ideal of beauty.

Does this mean I’m going to walk down the aisle in a corset and a pair of painful heels? Possibly. Yes, I am completely aware that beauty, like gender, is a social construct and that I play a part in the game. I know I am beautiful, and I know that my husband to be agrees. However, I have imbedded with this image of the “ideal beauty” since I was a small child, like every girl. And like every girl I’ve also been told that this is “the most important day of my life” and that it “has to be perfect.” The stress alone causes me so much pain, by way of anxiety and fear. How do we, as a society begin to change these impossible ideals and focus on the things that are really important?

Through out this I have introduced you to a few of my favorite individuals. Each of us are differ in often drastic ways, but we are still subjected to these conflicts and issues that come with the notion of Gender and the way it is played out in our Society. We can choose to adhere to these social constructs and “do gender” in a conservative, conforming way or we can be “radical” and untraditional and feel that we are “throwing gender out the window.” But, the truth is: whether we choose to recognize or ignore It, Society controls us and we, as human beings, are naturally gendered.

Capraro, Rocco L. 2000. “Why College Men Drink: Alcohol, Adventure, and the Paradox of Masculinity,” from Journal of American College Health.

Catlett, Pappas, and McKenry 2004. “Athlete Aggression on the Rink and off the Ice: Athlete Violence and Aggression in Hockey and Interpersonal Relationships,” from Men and Masculinities, Vol 6 No. 3..

Kimmel, Michael 2008. “Gendered Society,” Third Edition.

Lucal, Betsy. 1999. “What It Means to Be Gendered Me: Life on the Boundaries of A Dichotomous Gender System,” Gendery & Society.

McCaughey, Martha 2008. “Caveman Masculinity: Finding an Ethnicity in Evolutionary Science.”

Pascoe, C.J. 2008. “’Dude, You’re a Fag’: Adolescent Masculinity and The Fag Discourse,” Sexualities

Cindy McCain and All Her Monies

2008-09-05T15:22:00.000-07:00

I lay in bed last night watching Cindy McCain's robotic speech on the Republican National Convention, and while she made her way -jerkingly- through the script cards I pondered the prettiness of her pearl necklace.

A necklace I knew was worth more than I had made in the last two years.

And then, today, I stumbled upon this Vanity Fair article letting the whole wide world know that her creamsicle orange dress from Monday Nights Introduction was worth a whopping 313,000 dollars.

Yeah. My animosity grows.

http://www.vanityfair.com/online/politics/2008/09/cindy-mccains-300000-outfit.html

You're a Cruel One, Mrs. Mac.

Mexican Drug Cartels Murder Over 100 in Less Than A Week

2008-08-30T08:19:00.000-07:00

In seven full days the bodies of over 130 people have mysteriously popped up in various places around the country of Mexico. All violently killed, many with their limbs tied together and their heads severed.

President Felipe Calderon cracked down on the exportation of drugs across the Mexico border nearly 21 months ago, and the county has since experienced a daily barage of violence.

Civil wars have broken out amongs drug cartels and the stakes are high. With closer watch by the government, criminals are fighting one another for control of smuggling routes.

On thursday 12 decapitated bodies were found in a pile near the The Yucatan peninsula. Hours later another body was found 80 miles away.

One week ago today, Mexico counted 136 murders in 18 states. There have also been open attacks upon peoples homes. Thursday, two gunmen proke into a house in the stateo of Guerrero and killed two women, and two childred ages 8 and 12. The police who stormed the home were ambushed, and all killed.

In Tijuana on Tuesday four headless bodies turned up.

Two weeks ago, a group of hitmen killed 13 people at a family reunion in the town of Creel, also killing a 16 month old child.

More than 2,600 have died in 2008, already surpassing 2007's total drug-violence related death.

Service Industry Unites to Donate All Tips to the Obama Campaign

2008-07-30T16:37:00.000-07:00

Monday, August 4th is Presidential Candidate Barack Obamas 47th Birthday.
In honor of this day, I am asking that all service industry workers band together and donate all of that days tips to the Obama campaign.

This is includes all manner of gratuity-related work. Everything from Waitstaff to Hairstylists, Dancers to Pedicurists. All of Us.

Together we can make a substantial donation and help to elect a man that will assist us in receiving the benefits that are so often not included in our career field. (Health Insurance!!)

Mondays are not notoriously busy days, but if we spread the word and let our customers know of our intentions we can pull together something wonderful.

Please give me your feedback, and share any ideas you may have.

ALSO, REPOST THE HELL OUT OF THIS!

Thank you,
Amber Linskey

Server donates her Holiday tips to Barack Obama

2008-07-04T17:06:00.000-07:00

In honor of the holiday, I have decided to donate all of todays tips to the Barack Obama campaign.

I was very vocal about this, telling each of my customers of my intentions. I am positive that I lost money in the process ( North Florida Republicans run rampant), but I included this possibility as a part of my social experiment.

From 7am-12pm I collected 120 dollars in gratutity, and I have just sent my money over through the Obama website.

I feel wonderful.

Blitzkrieg Blue: Winner of the Next Shakespearre Award

2008-06-06T15:01:00.000-07:00

http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/3129/
95 Contestants
130 Submissions
1423 Views
Created Dec 2, 2007

FUCK YEAH!

Blitzkrieg Blue by Amber Linskey

They called her Raggedy Anthem.
It wasn’t so much of a stage personality,
but a goddamn mutation of her personality.

And when it was her time: She was the Worlds Darling. There were thirteen of them as a group, and each one loved the other like a lover, like a child, like an appendage, a much used limb.

Anthem had a made a section for herself near the rear entrance of the tent. She’d roped it off with the left over cargo fabrics of war. Numbers were emblazoned in puffy, fading black ink. They were cryptic. Occasionally small patches, insignias of time spent lined the billowing walls. She draped the small room with the assistance of ropes, and buckles. This was hers. After each show the troupe converged upon her space. Tonight she held a bundle of black netting in her lap, and with the marred scar tissue device of her left hand, she pushed thin metal tubbing through the inky black holes. This was her wind down. Creation kept her sane, cooled her off, slowed her heartbeat back into that methodical, melodical rythmn it so relied upon. Tonight she was creating wings.

They were for Felix.

Felix Fix was quite the figure of ill repute. He held himself on jaunty limbs across the padded collapse of crates, and wood. Their furniture, their tent, it was all make shift, created from the leftovers of a civilization depleted. He found the cavernous hand holding him remarkably comfortable. "I think perhaps we should expand the troupe..." he brooded, the ivory spires of his fingers extended, lazily rolling the thick black dread locks of the boy on the floor before him.

"No. No we have enough," murmured Anthem.

"Lucky 13." said the boy on the floor. He wore the smudges of day-glow paint about his Asian eyes. He had been the last one accepted into the troupe. He specialized in fire play, and the scars across his torso looked as though they’d been painted onto his flesh by the divine hands of an impressionist. Starry Nite ran rampant across his chest. Because of this, Felix demanded that boy was forever topless. On angsty nights they took turns rubbing the puckered skin with fistfuls of ash, and when the excess was blown away the boy seemed to wear a two toned suit of dimension. He was lovely. But they all were.

They were of the ilk that slit their wrists, not to take their lives, but to pull the codes of confirmation from beneath the skin. It had been ten years since the start of the Blue Age. Blitzkrieg Blue, as Anthem would say. She saw the world in a polyphonic wave of violence and color.

Nuclear Red.

Atomic Pink.

Ten years since the start, and in that time the horde had managed to segregate themselves from the bondage of new society.

"Besides..." said Anthem, the netting between her teeth, stretching and stretching the black holes, "Where would we put them?"

Felix’s face shifted. His smile often sucked the light from his features, caused him to look cavernous, and emaciated. There were twin smudges of black beneath his eyes, soft eyes, dirty eyes, the color of a bruise. "Why, they would sleep with you."

"You tart." And the group erupted in a trill of laughter.

It was true, their space was minimal. They’d set up their tent on the foundation of what may have once been the capitol building. It was hard to tell because none of them could remember the before time in clear detail. They had all been very young. But the area was one of the few full pieces of concrete left in the city. There had been more structures, occasionally the three sided chunks of buildings had existed, but these were all smashed and raped by a group of people desperate to recreate.

The troupe had expatriated themselves from martial law.
It was named New Society, and it was a band of the religious right who saw their survival as being the Chosen Ones. All of them, who lasted were the Chosen Ones. They’d rounded up the survivors, bulled them into the freshly created pens of wreckage and the Chosen Ones, the Divine Ones, were treated like famed souls of Dachau.

Their survival became their suffering became their Auschwitz.

Money was not an issue, but manpower was. They had the power. They worked in troops to rebuild their section of the city. They pummeled through the remainders of old standings, smashed the concrete crumble of what had once been a cherub fountain, to have a crippled staircase leading up to their building. These people disowned the technologies they’d once known. There were no telephones, there were no televisions. Who would you talk to? Who would you listen to? Instead, they developed higher forms of technology. The first to implemented were small stitches of metal they inserted beneath the skin of the wrist. It could track, but more importantly, it could test. One button set off could puncture, and draw blood from every person left. The computers would then test the intricacies of the blood, and determine whether or not the survivor was affected. They were very afraid, and they test very often.

In the beginning of the Blue Age, what had initially sparked the revolt... New Society let those who wished to segregate go of their own will. They were children, outcast into the wasteland. They could fend for themselves, after all... He had left them for a reason. And, New Society could follow them with the push of a button.

There were thirty of them, before there were thirteen. From a distance, the event may have been viewed as a suicide pact. Raggedy Anthem at the head of the horde. She preached the gospel from her vantage point, far above them. But he was farther still. Felix Fix on his stilts of glass, he wore his skin like a gift. His hair was twisted, and braided tight to his head. Cords of blonde and beads laced his neck, nestled in the cavern of his lower back. Felix, "Fee Fee" as they loved to say, jaunted like a marionette, jiving his way across the foundation.

Anthem had pulled herself from the cargo jacket, and now she was bare armed before a passionate audience. There was no melodrama, it was pure and requited desperation that brought the knife to skin. Metal to ivory, and the white split like the peeling of foreign fruit. It was pink inside, very pink, with the angry red rivulets of blood running to her elbow. She shoved the marred fingers of her left hand into the wound, and in a moment of self inflicted chaos, before she blacked out, her fingers caught the metal tab and wrenched it out.

Each and every one of them did this.

Fifteen died that night.

Two died in the days following.

The troupe stripped them of their clothing, cut their hair and stored it. Maximilian, a boy with a penchant for goggles, pressed his knees into the chest of his brother, and with all his weight on the handle of makeshift pliers, he pulled each and every tooth from the dead boys mouth. Some of them were gold, and these he coveted, feigning a belief that some day they would again have value.

The dead were then pulled across the open streets of their old city, and placed on a massive circle of soft dirt. There were occasional spots of sand as soft as velvet, and these areas were used as sacred places. The bodies were entwined one on top of the other, into a perfect pyramid of flesh.

When the fire was lit, Persephone, nearly fifteen at the time, stood back and cried. She had never thought of herself as a survivor. She was the kind that would willingly give in. In the face of atrocity she would throw down her arms, "I give up." She’d say, and offer herself to death. It wasn’t fair. She felt like a fraud. Like a tourist. As the bodies of her brethren burned, she tried desperately to understand the conditions she’d endured. Her right arm was puffy, and wrapped in muslin. She’d had tied off for her a tourniquet of cobwebbing. She had done nothing to save herself. Lay motionless on the concrete ground, in a pool of her own red, and she was ready to die. But something, something had pulled her back into life. Perhaps it was Felix, who she watched with a quiet fascination. He of no substance was the most substantial. The fire lit the sky, and for the first time the sting in her nostrils was not of dust and dirt, it was humanity. It was the red hot rind of those who tried, it was liquid love.

Anthem bowed her head, said a prayer behind chapped and rounded lips.
Then placed her arm around Felix, and the group followed them home. Home. For what it was.

The horde, very nomadic, trudged through the broken streets, each one in silence.

This was something of a decade ago. The group had managed to build their own haphazard refuge at the far end of the city. They too pillaged what was left, of what was left. Mecca was the moment the roof caved in on a two sided building, and Maximilian, who all thought was lost, cackled from inside the shaky structure. They found him lying nestled in a pile of army cargo. He was in the molding green kiss of clothing, and weaponry. They snapped up each and every item in the room, and when they left, the north side wall caved in.
It was with these tools, the icons of what they had so rejected in their previous lives, that they rebuilt what they must accept in their new ones. Over time new people arrived. They were being pumped out of New Society for their inability to believe that this life was Divine Justice. Those that found their way to the tent were accepted with open arms as guest, and no matter how long they stayed, or how passionately they gave of their bodies and minds for labor, and progression, they were always held at a distance. There were thirteen. There would remain only thirteen, at least.... if Anthem had anything to say about it.

In her small space in the back of the tent, with the lounging body of the carved boy slipping into sleep on the floor, Anthem placed her webwork of wing beside her, and left the room. There was a small hallway of crates that worked as walls, taller than her head, and partially see through. They lined both sides of her, and made a tunnel towards the door.
She stepped out into the night. In her other life she would have a lit a cigarette. In her other life, she would have shaved her legs. Here, under the sallow milk skin of a pregnant moon, she spoke to the sky.

"Please exercise your restraint," she whispered, "Fee Fee, he is wild. He is decadent. Don’t let them crumble under his regime. Please do not allow a revolt. We must live in harmony here, for we are all that is good, and beautiful in this world." There were no stars. But the moon, as always, made herself known in the black velvet sky.

The air was stifling, but Anthem was very cold. She held her own hand, lightly rubbing the ball of skin that she had come to terms with.
Raggedy Anthem was infected. She knew this. The incubation period was seven to ten years, and then the disease would cripple her. She had made it her point to not tell the others. In ten years she’d kept herself from them. Her lips would not touch anothers, her blood was her own to deal with. When the day came, and she did die, she’d beg to be burned.

Let there be nothing left.

Let not her heart continue to throb.

Mother moon did her own motion of pulsing jaundiced in the sky, and before she walked inside,
Anthem pressed her face into the crook of her elbow, and let out a little cry.

Copyright Amber Linskey 2008

Best First Chapter in a Book

2008-05-31T18:26:00.001-07:00

If you please, read and vote for me: http://www.writerscafe.org/contests/3129/

Mother Forces Children to Live For 2 Months With the Decaying Body of a 90 Year Old Dead Woman

2008-05-14T09:43:00.001-07:00

This one takes place in Madison, Wisconsin where a devoutly religious woman, Sister Mary Bernadett (35), propped the "passed out" body of an elderly woman atop her toilet. She swore that the woman was still breathing, and instead of calling an ambulance, placed a call to her Religious Mentor, Bishop Peter Bushey ( pronounced Boo-Shay ).

Bushey told her that God had spoken with him, and would be performing the proper miracles to bring this woman back to life.

Sister Bernadett's two children, aged 12 and 15, were forced to use a makeshift toilet and live with the decaying smell of a human body.

When police entered the house, in response to a phone call by Bernadetts blood-sister, they discovered an overwhelming scent of incense, and religious iconography spread about the house. Bernadett denied access to police, claiming she needed to receive permission from the proper "authorities" but finally complied to let them investigate further rooms.

Police discovered the smell of a rotting body, and found a decaying mass propped atop the homes only toilet.

Upon later questioning the children claimed they had thoughts of running away to escape the situation, but Bishop Bushey had told them that Demons were the cause of the elderly woman's decay, and that Demons were attempting to make it only look as though she were dead.

The children are now in state custody, and Bernadette and Bushey are to be seen in court on May 19th.

Comfort is Guilt

2008-05-14T09:17:00.000-07:00

I find myself so incredibly heartbroken by the sheer violence and destruction human nature is capable of, and then I am humbled by the absolute atrocities Mother Nature creates.

We are all inherently evil.

We have destroyed this world.

I feel for everyone in Myanmar,

For everyone in China,

For everyone in the Midwest America, and Georgia.

I am sorry Mother Earth.

I will make every effort I can to help, but I am only one small person.

I hope my actions will be reflected by the rest of the wide world.

The Pirate Haus Inn & Unhostile Hostel

2008-05-07T07:40:00.000-07:00

Wayfarers Correspondence: Friday May 2nd.

Leaving Jacksonville circa 4:00 pm. Senator Barack Obama is no longer traveling with us, having set sail on a hound filled ship to the Westside. We will miss him terribly, and his presence will be a constant nostalgic reminder to us throughout the weekend.

In Memoriam:

Arriving in St. Augustine circa 6pm, after many hard travels,
honks, red taillights and two inflated full bladders.

We navigate the Red Pug into its dock and arrive at the one and only Pirate Haus Inn.

We are greeted by a litany of letters in the stairwell:

Our Current Navigator: Captain Conrad.

The Captain told us of various haunted spots along our way, and directed us to the arghably awful Chianti Room where we met up with the Linskey parents:

An early shot of my traveler and I.
Notice the Full-bodied Trash Dumpster apparition over Johnny's right shoulder.

Notably the second spookiest sight of this trip.

After sending the parents on their way, Yalla Habibi and I set out on the town. Hittin' The Sauce in St. Augustine. We found ourselves very early drunk and offering up dollars for further drinks, and the likes of a very bad reggae band. I saw many people who I had not crossed paths with in sometime, and I found that they remained the same.

However, St. Augustine had changed in small, dramatic ways. Shoppes I'd loved had disappeared.

It felt as though the St. Augustine of my earlier youth had been sucked into some time vortex, and replaced with an Amber-less, Tourist-filled series of small stores all catering to the same style T-shirts and Coffee Mugs.

We made the conscience decision then to take this town Siesta Style. Sleeping away the majority of the day, and making ourselves known only at nite.

We retreated back to the Pirate Haus where many a bourbon-inspired smooches were underway.

But not before Johnny Shitface left his MASSIVE mark on the cities historic grounds:

Wayfarers Correspondence: Saturday May 3rd:

In the morning, Captain Conrad blessed us with some of his extra-thick, extra awesome All-You-Can-Eat Pancakes. In honour of our time together he dedicated a particular pancake to the two of us:

A rather uneventful day. Antique eye-shopping. A tryst at the Mission de Nombre de Dios where Johnny got his very own bottle of Holy Water. Of which he proceeded to squirt me with throughout the day (and nite).

We also had our fortunes read by way of a quarter machine down a long, lovely air-conditioned hall. They were particularly (and eerily) on point.

( Yeah, try and read those. )

When evening came we found ourselves barhopping again, and dipping into the well stocked liquor and beer kitchen we had made earlier provision for and packed.

Plans were made.

Dinner was spoken of, and forgotten about.
Drinks were made.
Food braised the conversation and slipped away.
More drinks were had, and finally circa midnite we made our way to the one and only still-hopping restaurant and discovered their menu had switched to the "Night Owl" selection. We were limited to A1A Ale House's appetizer selection of fried fish, fried fish, and fried chips.

Behold, the single most horrifying sight of the nite:
Enough to send our Whiskey and PBR filled bellies into turmoil. What is it? You ask.

Meat? Cheese? Chicken Wings? You don't know?

Well, Neither did we!

We went reeling down the darkened streets
and back into our aqua walled-room, surrounded
by pink-cheeked men waving steins of beer.

It Was Scary Sleep.

Wayfarers Correspondence. Sunday May 4th.

In the communal kitchen of the Hostel Captain Conrad gifted to me:

It was our final morning in the city I had grown up in.

We wrapped the Birthday pancake in plastic wrap and it followed us down St. George St. while we took our breakfast in the overpopulated restaurant "The Bunnery".

It followed us as we said our goodbyes to the dear Conrad, and our Jolly Roger themed room.

It followed us as we made our way down the sweaty, dark corridors of the St. Augustine Flea Market that stood watch on the edge of town.

It followed us to the Jacksonvillian Westside where we regrouped with our favorite small traveller, Presidential Candidate Barack Obama.

And finally, on to our home in our coveted Riverside.

Thus Marked the end of our travels.

The day your Humble Narrator, Amber Linskey, turned Twenty Five.

Thank You Johnny Shitface for your time. I certainly loved mine.

Guide to Gothic Gardening

2008-03-15T05:43:00.000-07:00

When we arrived, the small yard was overrun with a hodge podge collection of potted succulents, tropical ferns and cacti. The kind of garden I've always fucking hated.
But, I knew right away, despite the weeds and weird pointy, spike-covered plants that the area had great prospects. I dreamnt up various garden ideas, and spent nearly three weeks pilfering through webpages and online plant catalouges (Which I will share with you. Be Patient.). I ooed and ahhed over hundreds of different colour themed gardens, and finally came to the conclusion: I would have a Gothic Garden. I had a pretty spooky interior to my house what with the dining room library of various breeds of tarantulas and the occasional black wall, I felt I had the authority to spread the spookiness out the front door, and down into the dirt.

It took me another 2 weeks of longingly searching the internet for black plants. I joined a Yahoo! Community for Gothic Gardeners and a fancy group called the Black Plant Society. I even started out shopping carts on various "chocolate flower" websites, yet never went so far as to bidding on any of the overpriced internet finds.

But, what was the point? The soil outside was shit. It was wrought with leaves and thick as clay. Besides, all of these plants seemed frustratingly small and far too expensive. I became distressed and had a tendency to sit at the computer, and stare longingly out the window. (Very Gothic, huh?)

And then, miraculously, one day it happened.
I simply walked outside and picked up a shovel.
I began at 9 am on a cool Florida March morning.

It was perfect weather.

I started to dig.

Since all of this began I've come to the self-pleasing realization that: if anybody ever marched me into the woods with a gun to my back, I'd be able to dig my own grave before they shot me, and buried me in it.

I felt truly justified in the Gothic aspects of it. Thus Far.

And still I dug.

I made three massive mounds of slick, clumpy black clay and spread them out in various areas of the driveway.
I spent a literal 10 hours scooping shit around the yard and accomplished only one thing:

I fought and won, uprooting this obnoxious tropical, droopy pointed-leaf thing.

It's roots went over 4 feet into the ground, and spread over 4 feet wide. It was awful. I dug a hole so deep, and wet and cavernous that I found no other excuse but to make it Ophelias tiny lake in my Goth Garden.

Score One for me.

Then I called it a day.

The following day and nite (and following day) poured. Florida rain storms that went on heavy and heady for an eternity. As I looked out the window, I realized the entire yard ran forward and pooled into my dirt beds.

The whole yard ran black with mud.

It was a befittingly gloomy scene, but it only pissed me off.

I gave it a day to dry, and then I jumped back out there.

The entire front yard is paved with the exception of several L and box shaped plots of earth placed strategically around the driveway and front step. The largest of the L shapes runs along the side fence and then horizontally across the front yard to the gate.

We bought bales of pine needles from a local store and stacked them into a large square. We re-used these old 2x4's from behind our gargage and sawed them into stakes. My boyfriend pinned the entire thing together, and we tied it with rope. He calls it our Blair Witch Compost heap. I scooped a bunch of coffee grounds into it, and punched out fist sized holes in the bales, filling them with potting soil and small annual plants.

I then lay cardboard boxes down in the dirt beds.

I read on one of my favorite frugal gardening blogs that you could use cardboard instead of that overpriced black tarp that people lay down as weed blockers. It kills everything beneath the cardboard, and allows you a fresh start on top. My ghetto "raised bed". Free!

I just asked the girl working in the plant nursery if they had any boxes laying around to be dumped, and she gave me a stack.

I opened them up and laid them across the ground. They fit pretty perfectly in the concrete cut-out gardens.

Then I took the most expensive, valuable source in my gardening career: GARDEN SOIL, and I covered the ground. I mixed in a bag of Black Gold Cow Manure and some Organic Worm Castings. (Did I mention I was trying to go completely organic with this?)

Because I live in Florida, dirt will forever be my big problem.

It's very wet. It's very clumpy. I will always need to buy or create my own topsoil. (Hence the compost-thing) I reccomend that anyone wanting to work with a large amount of space, rent a tiller and dig up the earth. You can get a tiller at a local nursery, and sometimes stores like Lowes and Home Depot will rent them out as well. You can turn up the dirt and smother it in some sort of farm animal shit, and kitchen waste and let it hang for a few weeks to really reach its potential. Then, you don't have to drop a hundred dollars to simply keep your little black babes alive.

My Goth Garden is a work in process. I have three homemade greenhouses going with various black flowering seedlings making their way out of the potted ground. I have planted a few Black Scallops and
Sambucus 'Black Beauty' plants in the garden for black foliage sake (And, they are the only dark plants readily available at local nurseries)

Also, I ran around the house collecting old things and put them out in the yard. We've got an unused, ugly black wrought iron birdcage hanging over the garden. There are several large and odd shaped, partially broken mirror pieces that I used to create a low fence to line the back wall of the garden. I even have a chipped, dirty concrete bird fountain that I pulled out of my mothers backyard.

My favorite part in all of this has been the gathering of cinder blocks only to throw them over my head and allow them to shatter on the driveway. I'm using their sharp, blocky chunks to create a border around the flower beds, and a very nice wall around Ophelias pond.

As time passes (and maybe if I ever get that digital camera I've been wishlisting for so long) I will add photos and show you my process.

And truly, if I ever get any extra spending money I will patronize all of these wonderful black flower websites.

Links to Black Plant Dealers:

Chocolate Flower Farms (So Awesome!)

White Flower Farms

Pase GreenHouse Ebay Store

Mag Regs Ebay Store

Links to Black Plant Communities:

LJ Goth Gardener

LJ Goth Gardening

LJ NightBlooms

LJ Black Plant Society

Yahoo! Goth Gardeners

Too-Long list of Black Plants:

Annuals (Amaranthus cruentus x A. powellii) 'Hopi Red Dye' amaranth (Centaurea cyanus) 'Black Gem' cornflower (Nemophila menziesii) 'Pennie Black' baby blue-eyes (Papaver somniferum) Black peony poppy (Perilla frutescens 'Atropurpurea') Beefsteak plant (Scabiosa atropurpurea) 'Ace of Spades' and 'Chile Black' pincushion flower (Strobilanthes dyerianus) Persian shield (Viola tricolor) 'Bowles Black' Johnny-jump-up

Perennials (Aquilegia vulgaris) 'William Guiness' columbine (Ajuga reptans) 'Mahogany' bugleweed (Alcea rosea) 'Nigra' and 'The Watchman' hollyhock (Cosmos atrosanguineus) Chocolate cosmos (Delphinium) 'Black Knight' delphinium (Dracunculus vulgaris) Voodoo lily or dragon arum (Geranium maculatum) 'Espresso' cranesbill (Geranium pratense) 'Midnight Reiter' cranesbill (Geranium phaeum) 'Samobor' cranesbill (Helleborus x hybridus) Hybrid hellebores (Hemerocallis) 'Black Prince' daylily (Iris) 'Black Swan', 'Old Black Magic', 'Ruby Chimes', 'Superstition' (Salvia discolor) Sage (Veratrum nigrum) Black hellebore (Viola cornuta) 'Black Magic' sweet violet (V. tricolor) 'Bowles Black' and 'Molly Sanderson' Johnny-jump-up Foliage (Aeonium arboreum) 'Zwartkop' black-leaved aeonium (Alternanthera) 'Gail's Choice' alternanthera (Cordyline spp.) Cabbage palm (Dracunculus vulgaris) Voodoo lily or dragon arum (Eupatorium rugosum) 'Chocolate' hemp agrimony (Euphorbia amygdaloides) 'Purpurea' wood spurge (Heuchera) 'Chocolate Veil', 'Obsidian' and 'Plum Pudding' coral bells (x Heucherella) 'Burnished Bronze' heucherella (Ligularia dentate) 'Britt-Marie and 'Crawford' black groundsel (Ophiopogon planiscapus) 'Nigrescens' black mondo grass (Oxalis regnellii var. triangularis) Purple-leaved shamrock (Pelargonium spp.) Geranium (Pennisetum setaceum 'Purpureum') Purple fountain grass (Phormium cookium) 'Platt's Black' mountain flax (Sedum)' x Bertram Anderson', 'Purple Emperor', and 'Vera Jameson' (Solenostemon ) 'Inky Fingers' coleus (Tradescantia pallida) 'Purple Heart' spiderwort Bulbs (Canna) 'Black Knight' and 'Red Wine' canna (Colocasia esculenta) 'Black Magic' and 'Jet Black Wonder' taro (Dahlia) 'Bishop of Llandaff' and 'Fascination' dahlia (Fritillaria persica) Purple fritillary (Tulipa) 'Black Parrot' and 'Queen of Night' tulips (Zantedeschia) 'Black Pearl' and 'Midnight Eclipse' calla lily

Trees, shrubs, and vines (Buddleja davidii) 'Black Knight' butterfly bush (Cercis Canadensis) 'Forest Pansy' Eastern redbud (Clematis) 'Romantika' clematis (Corylus maxima 'Purpurea' purple giant filbert (Cotinus coggygria) 'Royal Purple' smoke bush (Fagus sylvatica purpurea) Purple or copper beech (Hibiscus acetosella) 'Coppertone' red-leaved hibiscus (Ipomoea batatas) 'Blackie' sweet potato vine (Paeonia spp.) Peonies (Phyllostachys nigra) Black bamboo (Physocarpus opulifolius) 'Diabolo' ninebark (Rosa) 'Nuits de Young' Moss rose (Salix gracilistyla) 'Melanostachys' black pussy willow (Sambucus nigra) 'Black Beauty' and 'Black Lace' black elder (Weigela) 'Wine and Roses' weigela

Vegetables and fruits (Brassica oleraceae) 'January King' savoy cabbage (B. oleracea) 'Nero di Toscana' ('Black Tuscany') kale (Capsicum anuum) 'Purple Delight' and 'Royal Black' ornamental pepper (Cucurbita moschata) 'Futsu', 'Chirimen', 'Musquee (or Muscat) de Provence, 'Yokohama' winter squashes (Lactuca) 'Lollo Rossa' lettuce (Lycopersicon lycopersicum) 'Black', 'Black Cherry', and 'Black Plum' cherry tomatoes (Osimum basilicum) 'Dark Opal' basil (Raphanus sativus) 'Black Spanish' radish (Ribes nigrum) 'Ben Lomond', 'Ben Sarek', and 'Consort ' black currants (Rubus fruticosus) 'Black Satin', 'Chester', and 'Darrow' blackberries (Solanum melongena var. esculentum) 'Black Beauty' eggplant (Vitis vinifera) 'Purpurea' purple-leaved grape or claret vine

Until then: Godspeed You Black Emperors. Go play in the dirt

Eat Shit And Die

2008-02-29T08:52:00.000-08:00

Because it's toxic, duh.
Urine, however may have its beneficial properties.
While it is not entirely un-toxic (what with traces of alcohol, potassium, tons of sodium) some people believe it may give them the essentials they need to live a longer, stronger life.

The practice of drinking urine is called Urophagia. In India and China it is customary to ingest ones own urine for certain cosmetic purposes. In Ancient Rome it was sometimes used as a extra strength teeth whitener. The Roman poet Catullus writes:

Egnatius, because he has snow-white teeth, smiles all the time. If you’re a defendant in court, when the counsel draws tears, he smiles: if you’re in grief at the pyre of pious sons, the lone lorn mother weeping, he smiles. Whatever it is, wherever it is, whatever he’s doing, he smiles: he’s got a disease, neither polite, I would say, nor charming. So a reminder to you, from me, good Egnatius. If you were a Sabine or Tiburtine or a fat Umbrian, or plump Etruscan, or dark toothy Lanuvian, or from north of the Po, and I’ll mention my own Veronese too, or whoever else clean their teeth religiously, I’d still not want you to smile all the time: there’s nothing more foolish than foolishly smiling. Now you’re Spanish: in the country of Spain what each man pisses, he’s used to brushing his teeth and red gums with, every morning, so the fact that your teeth are so polished just shows you’re the more full of piss.

According the Nexus magazine: "Urine is not a dirty and toxic substance rejected by the body. Urine is a by-product of blood filtration, not waste filtration. Medically it is referred to as "plasma ultrafiltrate". It is a purified derivative of the blood itself, made by the kidneys--whose principal function is not excretion but regulation of all the elements and their concentrations in the blood. Urine can be compared to leftovers from a meal, and this metaphor may help us understand why our bodies excrete elements that are valuable to our health and well-being. "

If you're going to engage in this practice (DISCLAIMER: AMBER LINSKEY DOES NOT CONDONE THE DRINKING OF URINE, NOR WOULD SHE EVER DO IT HERSELF, SO DON'T BOTHER ASKING, YOU SICK FUCK) here are a few recommended items to ingest to enhance the [fucking disgusting] taste:

Artificial Sweetners: said to dissolve in the urine and give it a sweeter taste. This includes diet sodas. (Note: if the taste of sugar is detected in urine, and the pisser has not ingested artifical sweetners than the pisser may have diabetes)

Alcohol: said to cut the acidity

Miso soup: said to edge the saltiness

Curry: said to give the urine a spicy/sweet taste

Avoid:

Asparagus: it makes urine stinky

Excess Vitamins: can make the drinker ill

Cigarettes & Nicotine: yeah right

Follow these simple tips (?) and Urine Good Health!

Bird Boy Found in Russian Apartment

2008-02-27T06:06:00.000-08:00

In Volograd, Russia authorites found a 7 year old boy whose mother had raised him on par with her 100's of domestic birds.
She did not physically or emotionally abuse the boy, but rather treated him exactly as though he were one of her winged pets.
However, she did not speak to him and the boy, having spent the majority of his life with the twitting sounds of many birds has apparently learned their language.
“When you start talking to him, he chirps”, says Galina Volskaya, a social worker in Volgograd.

When the boy realizes his human visitors cannot understand him, he flails his arms much in the manner that a bird would wave his wings.

He has spent most of his life living in a 2 room apartment full of cages and bird feces.

Authorites took the boy from his mother, who gave him up willingly, and he is now in a Russian asylum. He will soon be transferred to a center focusing on psychological care.
He is one of many children suffering from "Mowgli syndrome" taken from the a character in the Rudyard Kipling book, The Jungle Book. The story of a infant raised by wolves.

In recent times, however, children have been discovered living in the wild all across the world.

In the US, 2 girls were found having been raised by a pack of monkeys. Again in Russia, a 9 year old leads the head of a Wild Dog Tribe, and in Cambodia a 27 year old "Wild Woman" was found naked, living in the jungle.

*above photo by Timothy Cummings

Your Friendly Neighborhood Starbucks is Closing

2008-02-26T16:02:00.000-08:00

Well, for all of 3 1/2 hours, that is.

CEO Howard Schultz ( that names sounds oddly familiar, right? ) has announced new standards in the espresso biz. He plans on re-engineering the entire employee base, including laying off a chunk of the 135,000 + employees.

Starbucks officials said the hiatus is geared toward "energizing partners and transforming the customer experience ... to provide a renewed focus on espresso standards that will help ensure the exceptional quality of every beverage,"

What does Amber Linskey have to say? Fuck Yeah!

Though the majority of Starbucks customers are unaware of the differences between a simple latte and a cappaccino, many 1000's of well informed coffee drinkers were outraged when the international chain switched to the Super Automatic Espresso Machine ( or as the hip kids call it, The Automatica ).

In this fashion, anyone can be a Barista.
Ten minutes with this machine and you're pumping out espresso shots that are individually measured, tamped and poured for you.

Kinda cheapens the ambience, eh?

What do you expect, though? A Chain that inflates so quickly can hardly support itself as far product goes, how can we expect them to find the means to properly train their employees. Good training takes diligence, which takes time and Starbucks was unleashing sister stores across cities around the Globe.

With the recent decline in the economy, and the ever burdening recession that we all seem to sliding into, Starbucks has had to close 1000's of their national stores.

This provides them with the perfect opportunity to implement their barista re-training program. Meanwhile, Where the hell are you supposed to go between 5:30 and 9 am?

Free Money

2008-02-26T04:24:00.000-08:00

If you've always written ( like me )
and never tried to get paid for it ( like me )
yet have found yourself daydreaming of that 25,000 dollar publishers
contract these companies are sometimes apt to give out ( like..me.. )
Then Xomba is not the place for you.

However, if you like to jot down the things that irk you
interest you, alter you,
You can sign up and post them in tiny Xomblurbs and Xombytes and mass market them for any passerbys to see.

And you know what? Those google ads that would be there anyway, they give you money. Not a lot of money, until you figure some shit out.

But, pennies for your thoughts? Sounds good.

Xomba

I like it.

Two Girls Peeing

2008-02-24T13:03:00.000-08:00

On March 20th I posted several short, badly made digital camera videos of my trip to New York on You Tube.

They were all 20-30 seconds of dim audio, dim lighting and shaking hands.

They were there for a few friends. Meant to show off my ultimate exhaustion in shorts like "New York Is Dead To Me."

Or, Boring smoke-break conversations like "Why God Hates Gabby".

I named them all accordingly with the exception of a 4 second clip taking place in a small restaurant bathroom in the East Village. I titled it 'Two Girls Peeing' and let it go at that.

While 'Two Girls Peeing' is actually an accidental recording by my dear friend Anna Bedsole it is, in fact, NOT two girls peeing. The clip is of one girl washing her hands and face post-peeing (me), and another girl in the midst of realization, noticing the little red record button.

However, of all the videos posted it has gained the most popularity, reaching over 250,000 views.

Sadly, "Twiggys New Water Dish" has only received 37 views.

And for you viewing pleasure, having gained the infamous search engine tags of MOONING GIRLS G STRING BARE BUM AND SEXY EVERYBODY. MOONING GIRLS G STRING BARE BUM AND SEXY, here it is: "Two Girls Peeing."

Virgin Blogger

2008-02-24T12:29:00.000-08:00

I'm no stranger to internet diaries, cult followings, lurkers everywhere. I'm a product of the livejournal-myspace generation, and I spent a very involved part of my life writing about my day to day events in textual form, spliced with html.

Still, It having been sometime now, and this being the first catalogue of writings to actually call "Blog", I feel brand new.

So, Hello Big Bad World.
Don't be an asshole.
Welcome me back...

One Word At A Time