The very first entry on this website was a story I wrote called “Musings of a Pharmaceutical Company Janitor”; it is a run-on sentence.  I was re-reading it and realized that it was not actually a true run-on sentence, because I had failed to edit it.  I edited it, and believe it is truly a run-on sentence now, but I still could be mistaken.  There are some grey areas in the world of semi-colons and what not.

Here is the reprise:

Carson and me decided to each write a story that only contained one sentence, a long run-on sentence.  If anyone else wants to write one so that we can have an antholoy of run-on sentence stories.  I am quite pleased with mine.  I wrote it in 5 minutes so it isn’t GREAT and the grammar is not great either considering the whole point of the story is that it is made out of a terrible grammar error, but please… READ MY CRAPPY STORY:

Musings of a Pharmaceutical Company Janitor

..You know, I was cleaning the stock room the other night when I came across a bottle of pills I had never seen before that I think was called “Extract of Rhododendron Nectar”, or it could have been extract of rhododendron pollen but I can’t remember if for the life of me because I took it, and maybe you could tell me if you are familiar with this type of pill; I had never seen it before as I said, but you know, it was the craziest trip ever, so crazy that I almost blew my load all over the stock room, and that would have been horribly embarrassing, even more embarrassing than the time I took a bunch of Quaaludes and passed out in the janitor’s lunch room with my mop bucket on my head, with foam coming out of my mouth (which had a very bizarre scent permeating from it), almost as though something had died inside of me, except nothing died inside of me at all when I took those Quaaludes; they were unlike anything I had ever taken, not even huffing gas, and I would go so far as to say that Quaaludes were the best shit ever until I discovered this crazy rhododendron witchcraft hootenanny when I was cleaning the stock room the other night and came across that bottle of pills which I had never seen before as I was mopping the room with the same mop and bucket that had been on my head when I took all those ‘luudes , and ‘luudes are pretty intense shit, I must say, but not as intense as the rhododendron stuff, only because the rhododendron stuff makes your pupils dilate to the point that you would think your eyes were the circle pollen thingy, or whatever you call that flower circle stuff in a rhododendron; (I can never remember because I didn’t graduate junior high and that is what resulted in me being a goddamn motherfucking pill popping janitor for a pharmaceutical company), causing me to just pop these pills, which are the company’s property, while I mop the goddamn floor and all these goddamn fucking pills aren’t making it any easier for me, because I think they are making me delusional, because every time I look at my hands they look like flowers; they look like rhododendrons and I can’t for the life of me explain it, but I think maybe the rhododendron extract is turning me into a flower and FLOWERS CANNOT BE JANITORS, BECAUSE ONLY HUMANS CAN BE JANITORS, OR MAYBE A WELL TRAINED CHIMPANZEE,  BUT I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT BECAUSE OF ALL THESE PILLS, so I may need to even excuse myself to pop some more, but not before I tell you just how beautiful the trip was when I took the rhododendrons that night, when I was mopping the floor and found that bottle of pills, which has clearly turned me insane like a madman when the full moon peaks out from behind a cloud, or Dr. Jekyll when he drank that potion in that movie I saw back in ‘62, long before I ever became a janitor at a pharmaceutical company, but the point of this is for me to tell you all about those pills I took the other night, because it was such a crazy trip and I don’t know, I don’t think I can actually tell you about the trip, because to truly understand the trip, you need to take those pills and then you will understand what it’s all about, but you will also be as crazy as me, except I won’t be a lonely janitor anymore and you will not be a human anymore and we will both be beautiful, stocky red-blooded flowers stalking the halls of this pharmaceutical company at night, popping pills to keep us alive… because being a janitor is nothing worth living for anymore with these demons in my veins…

There was a 6 alarm fire that destroyed a half block or so of one of the neighborhoods that I considered home in Toronto.  It’s really sad.  That block was one of the few that hadn’t succumbed to a significant amount of gentrification.  There were family owned, independent businesses that had been there for decades.

I can only imagine what it would be like if I still lived there.

Anyway,  for anyone feeling generous, Scotiabank has started a trust fund to help displaced residents and businesses.  It is called the “Queen Street Fire Fund” and cash donations can be made at any Scotiabank location.  I am certainly going to make a donation this week when I go do my banking. 

R.I.P. Queen & B!

I am writing this from the “business centre” internet kiosk at the Embassy Suites in Boca Raton, Florida.  I am here for my cousin Joey’s bar mitzvah.  OH, and HAPPY CHANUKKAH!  It’s nice to be able to do this, cause I ALMOST DIED ON THE FLIGHT TO FT. LAUDERDALE.  More on that in a bit.

I was awake from 7AM PST (10 AM EST) on Dec 3rd to 7pm EST on Dec. 4rd.  Casey had a run about as long as mine for sleep deprivation.  We started tripping out. 

The trip here has been a non-stop debacle, but most of the events were mini-debacles after flight 1216 from T.O. to Ft. Lauds.

 Well, my flight from Van had some moderately frightening turbulence over the Rockies as per usual.  That, it turned out was nothing.

On our plane, we experienced some severe turbulence. AND the pressure system in the cabin was malfunctioning, so most of the flight was very, very low.  I’m  not sure how low, but we were basically flying at the altitude the plane flies at when you’re flying over Mississauga just before you land in Toronto.   The plane was shaking and throwing people around.  It was topsy-turving.  Not just shaking a bit.  Flopping all over the place.  Like a roller coaster minus the tracks.  I thought I was going to die.  I honestly did.  I actually started crying.  Worst of all, cause of the turbulence, it wasn’t until 2.5 hours into the flight that I was able to get a drink to somewhat calm my nerves.  But we got free Scotch!

 The flight attendants were very nice… But they seemed  pretty freaked out because there were occasional announcements from the pilot.  Scary announcements.  I remember the first one… him screaming “FLIGHT ATTENDANTS. GET BACK TO YOUR SEATS. NOW.” and for the next 10 minutes “EVERY BODY GET BACK TO YOUR SEATS RIGHT NOW. EVERY BODY SIT DOWN.”

 And my personal favourite, the pilot announcing “would the head flight attendant come to the cock pit and PLEASE BRING SOME OXYGEN”

 I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fly again after this.  I don’t want to fly back to Toronto.. On the other hand, odds are in my favour that I will not have a flight anywhere as bad as this ever again.

 Aside from Casey and me, everybody on our flight was old and Jewish and looked like Zsa Zsa Gabor or her male equivilent.  That distracted me only a little bit.

 The hotel is very nice.  I saw my cousin-in-law David, and met my first cousin once removed, Shelley. Tonight Casey and me are going to see the Florida Panthers vs. the Ottawa Senators.  If anybody needs to get ahold of me, call the Embassy Suites in Boca Raton.  We are in suite 339. 

It’s quite beautiful here.  Palm trees. Etc.

At work I sometimes get bored and read stuff on Craigslist.  I am also going to need to get a new job, as my contract expires in Mid-October; I will only be attending class on Mondays, so will get bored.  I will also need money, as it turns out the government has once again penetrated my sweet ass and told me “you will need to wait a long bloody time before you receive the money you so dearly need.”

 I digress.

I was on Craigslist looking at prospective jobs and saw a posting looking for a blogger.  Now, I would never submit myself to such a “profession”, as I find the idea of being a “professional blogger” tacky.  It also is no way to earn a living, unless you are like Oprah, I guess.

There was an ad which made me chuckle — a lot.  The ad is as follows:

“Looking for a blogging person to write blog posts about birds, birding and backyard birding. Must have some interest in birds and be able to write and talk about it.

Each blog post will be between 200-400 words and talk on birding. Also must have some interest in binoculars as some of the posts will be referencing binoculars.

You will need to write 3-4x’s blog posts per week and upload the information. If you have never uploaded anything don’t worry apply anyway. It is simple and we will show you how.

Each post will be $8 CAD but will have the opportunity to write more and increase the amount of pay as time goes on. Payment will be paid thru PayPal. ”

 I guess when you are very bored at work, this is much funnier than in real life.  I think if you have an interest in writing, this peculiar ad is also quite funny.  I think the use of alliteration in the ad must have been purely accidental, because only a used car salesperson would otherwise use such language.

Put a pretty smile on a burlap sack.

It’s sure a pretty smile, but it’s still a burlap sack.

Put the burlap sack with some other burlap sacks; put a pretty smile on the burlap sack.

It’s still a burlap sack, but it’s better than the other ones.

Put a smiling burlap sack in a room full of nothing.

Nothing is better than a smiling burlap sack.

My friends are awesome.  Last night, Jamus’s band, Cosmedic, was playing at the Media Club.  I wanted to go, but was feeling self conscious because of my eye.  Mike, Lindsay and Linzee drew stitches on their faces with eyeliner.  It was pretty sweet.

So I was standing next to Lindsay as she was ordering a drink when the bartender says to me “wow that’s quite a shiner you’ve got there!” And I was a little embarassed.. I tried to joke about it, and then pointed at Lindsay saying “she has one too!”  Then the bartender actually said “a bit of battered wife syndrome? ha ha ha” or something. HOLY SHIT.  No comment. Lindsay called him on that.  I wanted to leave, but I didn’t.

I crashed at Kerby’s because he lives near by and I wanted to sleep.  Bad idea.  Kerby lives at 14th and Cambie, meaning there are jackhammers and steamshovels going off outside of the living room window.

We went to the Dutch Wooden Shoe Café for breakfast and it was totally surreal.  I had been there before on a Sunday when the whole “after-church” crew was there, and it was *very* busy.  This morning, we were the only people there.  Kerby said it was like we had snuck into some Dutch man’s house.  If you haven’t been to the Dutch Wooden Shoe Café, allow me to describe it:  It is tacky.  It is like being in a big, wooden house covered in wacky Dutch paraphernalia and photographs of patrons.  And Moonlight Sonata was playing softly over the speakers ha.

So we’re sitting there, and I’m wearing sunglasses to cover my black eye, while my stitches are perfectly visible.  It was like something out of a Tarantino movie, or Natural Born Killers… It felt like we should have been plotting something.

On Thursday, I may go to the Mongolian Grill with Kerby.  Why? Well, he filled out a customer profile once while he was there.  One your birthday you get a free meal; on your anniversary you get a free bottle of wine.  I was going to pretend I was his wife and that May 10th is our anniversary.  There is only one reason I may not go, and it is not because of my facial injury.  Kerby has met a girl.  I am merely a platonic friend.  So, obviously I would not be offended if Kerby and said girl end up going to the Grill.  Plus, wine is best when accompanying a non-concussed head.

If I do go, we’re going to have a big argument while were sitting in the restaurant and freak people out.  Only cause I have the cut on my face.  We want to get someone to videotape it.  It will be hilarious.

(edited)To whom it may concern:

As a new resident of Vancouver who moved here in September of 2006, I have been pleasantly surprised by the professionalism and punctuality displayed by your bus drivers. Unfortunately, today I had an experience with one such driver which has left me humiliated and disturbed. Therefore, I would like to make a complaint about said event.

I am a student at Capilano College and I live near Skeena and East 22nd . I have a bus-pass and a FastTrax sticker.

This morning, May 8, 2007, at 11:18 AM, I boarded an Eastbound 25 Brentwood bus at Skeena and East 22nd Avenue. The bus number was 7237. I was on my way to the Emergency Room at Burnaby General Hospital, as I had recently suffered a head injury which had developed complications.

I realize that it is only a short distance from 22nd and Skeena to the hospital, but as I was frightened and in pain, I did not feel it was safe to walk. I also cannot currently see out of my right eye, which is one of the complications, so walking is not easy for me at this time.

I did not want to miss my stop, so upon boarding the bus, I asked the driver to let me know when it got to the hospital. As I was saying that, I pulled out my bus pass. The driver said to me, referring to the zone change at Boundary Road, “it will cost you an extra 1$” . I apologized, and said I had a FastTrax sticker and went to retrieve it from my wallet. The bus driver replied to me snidely by saying ” why are you telling me that when you could have showed me your pass?” I apologized again and told him that I have a head injury, (which is quite evident to anybody who looks at my face; I have 15 stitches in my forehead.) I told him that I wasn’t really sure what was going on because I was upset and needed to go to the hospital. The bus driver’s response was “I don’t give a shit what the hell is wrong with you” and then said something about me being another crazy person on the bus.

I do not recall what he said verbatim about my “craziness”, but he also said that I had probably been “crazy” before the injury as well. I found this inference to me being a drug addict or mentally disabled quite derogatory; I have relatives and friends who have suffered and overcome drug addiction and mental illnesses, and they are exponentially more personable and courteous than this bus driver.

I did not appreciate being verbally abused in front of the other passengers. I was humiliated and terribly upset. I did not do anything to provoke this driver, nor did I use any profane language. It was absolutely out of line, and his attitude was such that I was terrified that he would not allow me to ride the bus on account of him being an inconsiderate individual. When I was discharged from the hospital, I chose to walk home to avoid the risk of having the same bus driver. As I mentioned, I cannot see out of my right eye, so the walk home was unpleasant at best. I could not afford a cab home because, as I said, I am a student (with an un-crazy Grade Point Average of 4.0). This is why I have a bus pass and a FastTrax sticker which allows me to travel for the price of one zone in the first place.

I asked the bus driver for his name; he told me it was Steve and then asked me what mine was. I said my name didn’t matter and that I did not appreciate his attitude. I then told him I would write Translink about him. He yelled at me that “wow, your head injury sure improved quickly if you’re able to write.” Then he continued to yell and swear about me being crazy as I took my seat. While Steve is entitled to his opinion, he is not a doctor, and my head injury, as advised to me by the doctor at Burnaby General, does not appear to have left any neurological damage. So I am not “crazy” and was not at the time. Just injured. This is why I am perfectly capable of writing this complaint four hours after my encounter with your driver, Steve.

I do not have any further details at this time to add to this letter, however I would greatly appreciate a response from somebody at Translink. I do not imagine that this is the first time you have received a complaint about “Steve”, and so I would hope that he be disciplined properly.

Thank you for your time,

Leora

Last night I had some strange dreams.  I’ve been having strange dreams a lot.  Actually, all dreams are strange when you experienced 7 years of dreaming about nothing except horrible, painful deaths.

You get used to seeing the people you care about die night after night, and so it’s really not that bad.  Kind of like in real life when you go to so many funerals you become somewhat desensitized towards death.  Dreams about death: manageable.  Dreams about anything else: nightmares.  They freak me out, because they are totally unexpected.

Yes, death sucks, but I know what the ending is, therefore, I am not freaked out.

I did not dream about death last night.  I dreamt of partying with Mary Kate Olsen in the bathroom of some club that, I guess, is a pretty cool place to be.  It was Care’s 21st birthday (April 30th), and so a bunch of us were hanging out at this club.  I was in the washroom when I see Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen drunkenly stumble in, yelling something about how they shouldn’t have to wait in line to use the bathroom because they are the Olsen Twins.

People start bitching about them, while other people start hounding them for autographs… then Mary Kate is standing next to me at the sink and I’m all “oh, I have a twin too..” and she goes “Yeah. We’re all bipolar.”  So then we partied together, and I introduced her to all my friends.

That is a frightening dream.

Well, that’s okay.  I had a job interview with the PNE HR lady.  Not to be a ride operator, but to be a call centre manager from May-Sept.  I have a second interview next week. Scoooooore.

‘Talking’ CCTV scolds offenders

CCTV in action

“Talking” CCTV cameras that tell off people dropping litter or committing anti-social behaviour are to be extended to 20 areas across England. They are already used in Middlesbrough where people seen misbehaving can be told to stop via a loudspeaker, controlled by control centre staff.

About £500,000 will be spent adding speaker facilities to existing cameras.”

HEY look at this!!!

Read the rest at  http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/6524495.stm 

Today at Real Canadian Superstore, I saw a movie in the discount movie bin that was priced at $0.49.  I could not pass that up, so now I am the proud owner of the movie “Monster Man”, a horror/comedy direct-to-video release.

We all watched it here tonight, and I can safely say that it was actually THE worst movie I have ever seen. Hands down.  It is an extraordinary quality for a film to earn such a distinction.  I think a few of the other people who were watching it tonight also asserted that it was the worst movie they had ever seen, too.

I am exhausted, so I am not going to go into detail.  If you would like to know more about this movie, there is an in depth review on Bad Movie Planet of the film.

I should mention that it has one of the weirdest non-pornographic sex scenes I have ever seen, and also has a scene where a character inadvertently performs what is implied to be cunnilingus on a bloody, dead roadkilled animal of some sort.  You see, he was having a sexy dream and somehow a dead, bloody animal ended up on his face… so naturally, he stuck his tongue into its crevasse and got a little freaky, until he woke up and freaked the fuck out.

P.S. Happy PESACH.   I ate bread today.  I’m a bad person   Maneschewitz, plz.

http://www.plime.com/entertainment/webvideo/l/14549/1/

I got off the Skyain at 3:48 pm.  I looked at the schedule, and took a seat on the bench.

“Do you know when the bus is going to come?”

“Soon.”

“Good,” said the woman, “I really don’t like waiting for the bus.”

I said to her the bus would be arriving in four minutes.

“That’s good.  I don’t like waiting for the bus.  And I thought it was going to rain, so I brought my umbrella, but it didn’t rain.  And I walked around Sears all day… You know when you’re shopping and your mind is just elsewhere? And I bought a bus pass. And I don’t like waiting for the bus.”

I nodded politely.  Murphy’s Law to always end up sitting next to somebody who makes me feel  uncomfortable.  She looked to be in her mid-thirties, but she had the posture and body language of a child.  It was weird.
“I don’t want you to think I’m weird.”

“Oh no… I don’t think you’re weird…” I reassured her.

“I have not done sex.  But I don’t think that’s weird.”

I don’t know what I would have expected her to say, but I wasn’t expecting that.

“Oh.” I said.

“My boyfriend thinks I’m crazy because I don’t do sex.  But I don’t want to. Is there something wrong with that?”

I  told her sincerely that no, there is nothing wrong with that.

“It’s just, I also think it’s a temptation.  And temptation is wrong.  I’m religious.  Don’t you think it’s a temptation?”

I told her I didn’t know, but it could be considered a temptation.

“And also, my mother is watching me.”

That weirded me out.  What did she mean by that? Oh. Okay, she looked up and pointed at the sky.  Her mom is dead and watching her from Heaven, I guess.

“But also, I’m afraid of sex.  I don’t want to get AIDS; my boyfriend has epilepsy.”

Then the bus came, and she told me to have a nice day.  The last thing she said was this:

“Are you mad at me?”

Stomp on your heart.

Stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp stomp stomp stomp

stomp

stomp

stomp

.

It is certainly not about you.

Enjoy the stomping.

(stomp stomp stomp)

happy st. patrick’s day.

i have bright yellow food dye on my hands.

stomp

stomp

stompstompstompstompstompstompstompstompstomp

video games

i like them.

stomp stomp

stomp

your heart.

not mine.

thus, I win.

My heart is unstompable.

I remember the “Judgement Day” — June 20, 2005. My jaw dropped. I sat there for several minutes, then went to the office where they store the victims and witnesses away, before allowing them out to testify. I was so outraged, heartbroken, confused. I was dizzy. Nothing looked real. People looked like aliens in suits with false smiles and fake voices.

I don’t remember. I think I started to cry. Maybe not. I might not have cried at all that day. I think someone may have put their hand on my shoulder or something creepy. I hate being touched. I know my brothers were angry. My mom was angry. My friends were angry. I think even the defendant’s family must have even been angry. Their son was free, but they knew justice had not been served. People seemed like they were trying to speak for me. They wanted answers. For me, or for them?

Don’t speak for me. You’re just like the aliens over there in the suits. They don’t think I’m capable of doing anything for myself either.

I don’t know who spoke first – me, or the aliens. What I do remember was that I was about to explode, and one of them tried to be overly diplomatic. Something about how they would sit me down, and explain things to me. How are you doing? Would you like a cup of water. I don’t think you understand what is going on. Everything will be all right on the worst day of your life.

Them. The Crown. The lawyers. They were barely any different from the man who raped me. Exerting their control, not letting me speak. Not letting me be, not letting me feel safe. Make me feel weak, and lower and completely at their mercy.

I said everything I wanted to, and it got me nowhere. I left. My mom drove me home.

With a pained smile on my face, when she asked me how I was doing, I said to her “this is the worst day of my life.”

Today I called them up. I called at 1:45. That is 4:45 pm Toronto time, but I figured someone would still be there. I was on hold for 15 minutes, then hung up cause I knew it was 5pm there. They do not go out of their way to help. They do not care to help. I wanted to know the status of my application. I wanted to know when I’ll get that money. I’ll call back tomorrow if I have time.
I should add, although it will crush me, if I don’t receive any money, it won’t even come as a surprise to me. After everything and everyone I’ve dealt with in the Crown, I have such low expectations that it hurts me.

My stop was next, so I pulled the cord.  It seemed like the bus was about to slow down, but then it lurched toward the centre of the road.

I yelled (as loud as I could when I’m sick), “excuse me?!?! I pulled the cord!” but the bus  driver did not hear.

I scuttled to the front of the bus and once again said “excuse me, I pulled the cord but you didn’t stop.”

The bus driver–jovial, fat and Santa Claus-like swerved to the curb and stopped the bus:

“Just for you, I am making a special stop, and an anomaly due apology…”

He told me, somewhat insincerely, to have a great day.  I thanked him and somewhat insincerely gave him my wishes that his day could be as great of a day [as the one he wished for me??], but this was not going to be a great day.

Today will be another day of procrastination, lying in bed, blowing my nose, chainsmoking slightly less than when I’m not ill, and blogging about my little slice of life that I am illustrating in this here “blog”.  It’s not all bad.

Class was interesting? Read more.

Read the rest of this entry »

Yesterday I had study group for my Politics course.  I have midterms on Monday, I am a little terrified.  I’m not as smart as I used to be… so I guess we’ll see what happens.

So I had study group.  Studying with political science majors is a bitch, because instead of studying they go off on tangents and preach the the converted about how fucked up this world is….. and how AWESOME KARL MARX IS YOU GUYZ.

Anyway, a few hours into studying, this fellow leans over to me and whispers into my ear, “that red shirt…… and those sunglasses, they really work.  It’s really sexy.”

To which I replied, “oh… thanks?”

“No no no. I mean, it’s really sexy, you look sexy.”

“Okay!!! heh heh heh [nervous laughter..]  So……. guys, what were Rousseau’s views  on property ownership???”

“It’s like that saying, ‘there are not ugly women, just women who don’t take care of their appearances…’”

“huh huh huh….” I try to slink away inside myself.
“You look really hot.”

Well, in 4 hours we did not get as much accomplished as I would have hoped, so we were  to meet up over the weekend to finish up our studying.  I’m gonna pass.

My heart stops beating.

No, not romance.

I need an egg-beater to get it moving.

So, I went to the grocery store.

I asked them, “I need your best, strongest egg-beater . It’s a life or death situation.”

“A life or death situation? What purpose would an egg beater serve? We don’t have an egg beater of that scale. Perhaps you should just poach the eggs instead.”

The man didn’t understand.

“But… my heart. It stops beating.”

The clerk did not understand my plight, or understand my pain. How could a simple grocery store clerk understand the mission I was on, to save my heart from failing?

I poached my heart instead. It stoppped beating.

This is not fake. This is a real e-mail. I am immature, yes. This has inspired a play to be written…I’m hilarious. I do not need to fully explain this, because the e-mail explains it all. In short, I was insulted at how a douchbag named George who was my mom’s boyfriend left her for another woman, and decided to break up with her via e-mail.

******************************************************************************

First of all, my mom did not give me your e-mail address, so you can’t get angry at her. I’m pretty smart, I can figure things out.

George, when I was a little girl, you were a cool guy. I remember you being a nice person. I remember playing catch with you and my dad in your backyard in Brampton; it was fun. I mean, you would have to be a stand-up kind of fellow to be friends with my dad.

I really would like to know one thing. I want to know HOW could you do this to my mom? Let’s just look at a few little details here:

How could you spend two years not contacting my mom after my dad’s death? Do you realise how many people just abandonned my mom after my dad had died? People who she thought were her friends too, who she had known for decades?

If you had not gotten divorced from ******, would you have even bothered contacting my mom, or would you be like the rest of them? Do you realise how abandonned and lonely my mom must have been? I think you did, I think you were well aware that you could take advantage of my mother when she was so vulnerable.

Do you know how shady you come across as? Not contacting my mom until JUST after your divorce has been finalized? If my dad had not died, would you have contacted my mom after your divorce? Were you just waiting for the day my dad would die so that you could divorce ****** and get my mom back? How could you stab your dead friend in the back and then try steal his wife?

1 strike is the first divorce, 2 strikes is the second divorce, 3 strikes is going after your dead friend’s widow and then dumping her over the internet.

It does not even come as a surprise to me then, that you dumped my mom because you found a different woman.

But really, how can you do that? Are you 16 years old? Grown adults don’t dump people over the internet. Neither do men with balls. You spend years pursuing my mom and then don’t even have the balls to break up with her over the phone?

Honestly, how do you rationalize this? I really want to know what your explanation is for these years of disrespectful actions.

It may not have been the most mature thing for me to track down your e-mail address and send you an irate message, but too bloody bad.

I hope that one day you will experience the pain my mom has experienced.

Yours Truly!!!!!!!!!!!!!
- Leora Brooke *******************************

p.s. BC is fucking awesome dude!!!! too bad you’re a douche bag, otherwise I would invite you to hang out and smoke some pot with me on the West Coast!!!!