I’m studying for a final, and just noticed how incoherent my review is…Especially because I typed it.  If you read this, the last thing you would think is that I actually understand anything about what I am studying.  I consider my notes an art form.. Ha.  Here is an excerpt.  Note the disregard for grammar, spelling or logic:

Different perspectives[on suburban structure]
1.SUBURBS LAUNCHED GLOBALIZTION – needs people to consume. American suburbans. Owner ship.
2.Keeps people docile
3Reproduction of labour – mortgage workers are loyal workers
4.Feminist –patriarchical  condition – define gender roles. Dad works; mom locked to children without car. Requires igh injected of unpaid labour.

CBD = agrgressive, dangerous -> Men.  Suburb : PASSIVE, domestic , kids -> WOMENS.

STANLEY PARK – squeamish village. Became a military reserve. Fed govt leased park to vancouvs

Key TERM – TRAFFIC – aggregation – making a whole of things in a specific space and time.  Harder to drive. Further away with no public transportation. Post ww2- traffic incrase

COUNTERURBANIZATION – larger city people moving to smaller towns/”commuter cities” cheaper, less dense. Larger houses. TECHNOLOGICAL ADVANCEMENT ALLOWS PEOPLE TO LIVE IN RURAL AREAS WHILE ENJOYING CITY AMENITIES. TELECOMMUNITING + CARS.

CLEARANCE IGNORES SOCIAL PROBLEMS. Breaks cohesion . there is community in slums.

Blade Runner – replicants. No emotions. Used inslave labour.  overpopulation, globalization, climate change, over urbanization.

My #1 LOL is referring to the former Squamish village that was in Stanley Park as “squeamish village”

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…

Usually at around 2:00 PM each weekday, I make the trek from my work to the RBC at the corner of Main and Hastings.  To those of you who live in Vancouver: Yes, that goddamn RBC.  To those of you who live in Toronto, or elsewhere in Canada where the “horror” that is the DTES gets over-sensationalized by the media: Yes that Main and Hastings.  OMG.  Yes! Right at the corner! That’s where I get on and off the bus as I go to and from work as well!

I DIGRESS.  I have preferred routes to walk depending on the time of day. There is a reason why I am listing the variants. If I am heading to work,  take the 8 too M& H. I will walk along Hastings to Dunlevy, then North until I reach work.  If I am leaving, I merely walk up Dunlevy and catch the 16.  On the other hand, when I go to the bank,  I go along Railway/Powell to Main, then up.  On this route, I have the pleasure of walking by the welfare office, followed by the courthouse, followed by the police station.

Typically, outside of the courthouse, there is a crew of cameramen set up, waiting to cover something.  Thank God the Pickton trial was in New West, and was over before I became employed.  What buzzards these men are!  Some of them eye you as you walk down the street trying to quickly asses “is this person walking erratically because they are a crackhead, or is this person walking erratically to evade a crackhead?”  If the person is choice two, then said cameraman must quickly assess if this person looks like someone who could make a “random passerby on the street” comment about… oh, I don’t know, Robert Pickton, the Olympics, how they do or don’t feel safe walking in the DTES because, you know, sometimes people die or get hurt.

One day last week, there was a larger than usual human caravan outside the courthouse.  On my way back from the bank I went up to one of the camera operators and was about to ask him what the hoopla was all about.  Before I had a chance, he just smiled and said “THE STABBING GUY.”

Who is Clint Feetwood?

I was becoming tremendously frustrated as my brother muttered something along the lines of a “Clint Feetwood” not being at all pleased about something or the other.

It was the third time in as many minutes I had heard of this Clint Feetwood.

“Who the FUCK is Clint Feetwood?!?”

Casey slipped one arm into his navy blue trench coat, then the other arm. Then he shook both arms out so as to even the coat out and barked “Clint Feetwood…”, shaking his head.

Who is Clint Feetwood? Does he come down from his bedroom at night when his car alarm blares on my street? You see, I really hate it when somebody invests in a car alarm, only to allow the goddamn thing to wail for seven minutes after it has gone off. Seven minutes is plenty of time to make a getaway, rob a store, and ditch the car, only for it to sit abandoned and screaming in the ubiquitously crisp December moonlight.

That’s moonlight some pipe-dream wannabe filmmaker will get a good three hours of, thinking it will make a beautiful statement in his non-sellout-big-name-big-producer-cutting-edge movie. Cause nobody starts a scene off with a shot of the moonlight shining down on a crisp December night, do they?

I have no interest in beating around the bush only to find that Clint Feetwood was an inside joke that I felt outside of. You should know by now, dear friend(s?) that I am not amused by impatient ideas, nor by being messed with. If there is a Clint Feetwood, and holy fuck, if there is EVER a Clint Feetwood, it would be an understatement for me to stress how important it is that you own up and tell me what his deal with.

Who is Clint Feetwood? Why did his name sound like a joke coming from the lips of others? Why, when his name came from my lips, did ears and eyes react to make me think that he is no joke? Blind faith, Mr. Feetwood. Blind faith.

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.

You will need:

•  2 pounds of okra
• a ball of twine
• an air conditioner
•  a good book

Step 1) Fill a box with okra.

Step 2) Add “cardboard box” to the list.

Step 3) Turn on the air conditioner and read your good book.

Step 4) Start a revolution as a result of the subversive propaganda you read in your “good” book.

Step 5)  Take some twine and create an artistic creation out of it.

Step 6) Put a pretty smile on a burlap sack.

Step 7) If your revolution was successful, continue to recruit the desenfranchised by offering them okra and twine

Step 8)  Wash hands of blood, okra and twine.

Step 9) Fill the burlap  sack with any leftover okra and twine

Step 10) Also add “burlap sack” to your list

Step 11) Repeat as necessary

Step 12)  Turn off air conditioner.

I understand that this is just a “fun”, shot-in-the-dark game, requiring little mental intelligence or dedication in order to win, but there is another side to it. (Also, I don’t want to get stupid Facebook messages every day telling me to get more of my completely uninterested friends to join your damn group.)

First off, what this type of “contest” results in is people trying to recruit their acquaintances to Facebook in order to help them win: You’re so preoccupied with your hoop dream chance of winning 7000$ that you forgot that what you are actually doing is PROMOTIONS FOR TWO ALREADY WELL-ESTABLISHED AND PROFITABLE BUSINESSES. You are doing this for free. By having a contest of this nature, Edge 102.1 and Facebook save a lot of money that they could be spending to market themselves in other ways. Is consumer marketing ethical anyway? That is not the issue which I am addressing, so I don’t care to discuss it right now. Regardless, you are performing tasks at no charge which companies would normally spend money on. It’s like paying to buy a Nike shirt. You are paying to advertise for Nike; you are donating your time to promote the Edge and Facebook via your plea to others in helping you win 7000$

From the contest info at edge.ca:

“Invite as many people as possible to join your group. Close friends, friends of friends, family, old school buddies, neighbors you don’t even speak to, ANYONE!!! You won’t qualify to win $7,000 unless you are near the top of the leaderboard when it comes to how large your group is, so friends are EXTREMELY IMPORTANT!”

As a result of you promoting The Edge or Facebook for free, there is a chance that a few, several, or a great many people who would normally not use Facebook, or the Facebook groups feature, will be logging in and checking the page regularly due to their enthusiasm towards helping you win. How does the commercial media, whether it be the traditional mass media, or the new media, earn profits? Pat yourself on the back if you guessed “from selling space to advertisers.” Just as commercial TV shows are developed in order to attract the highest paying advertisers, quasi-commercial websites are developed in order to attract the highest paying advertisers. How do you get a client to pay more to advertise on your space? By guaranteeing a high amount of viewers or users, of course.

As outlined in the following passage from Facebook’s privacy policy, Facebook has the right to collect information about its members in order to help achieve the maximum effectiveness of its advertisements. What this means is that if I have 3000 people in my group, and 80% list themselves as enjoying Jack Johnson or some shit, and 75% love to watch Survivor, this is information obtained which would normally require the less cost-efficient method of market research in order to develop such a profile of Edge 102 listeners and Facebook users. This means average ages, educational statuses, locations, political affiliations and many other demographics are so easily obtained. Then the Edge and Facebook can go laughing to the bank upon learning which companies are surefire choices to attract as future clients:

Advertisements that appear on Facebook are sometimes delivered (or “served”) directly to users by third party advertisers. They automatically receive your IP address when this happens. These third party advertisers may also download cookies to your computer, or use other technologies such as JavaScript and “web beacons” (also known as “1×1 gifs”) to measure the effectiveness of their ads and to personalize advertising content. Doing this allows the advertising network to recognize your computer each time they send you an advertisement in order to measure the effectiveness of their ads and to personalize advertising content. In this way, they may compile information about where individuals using your computer or browser saw their advertisements and determine which advertisements are clicked.

I hope I am not the only person who realizes how painfully obvious this is. 7000$ is no skin off of either company’s back. I will not join your stupid group.

Last night, I woke up at about 3am and went next door to see what was going on.  I was in a half-awake stupor.  I walked into the house and a bunch of people were drunkenly singing along to “California Dreaming” at the top of their lungs.  Mad slurred voices.  It was so odd and amusing….. I don’t know if anyone even noticed me walk in, cause they were so caught up in the tune.   Then I walked right out and went back to bed.

Now I am awake.  It is 8am.  Stupid stitches.  And I accidentally hurt myself.  I went to brush my hair out of my face and hit myself in the stitches. Lame.  I think I need to wait another day before I remove them.

(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

ME!

My eyeball persevered after 36 or so lonely, dark hours.

Honestly, the things you don’t appreciate until you have them (temporarily) taken away… Sure, if you only have one eye you aren’t blind, but it makes things difficult.  This is a brief moment of thanksgiving to my parents for having had the proper, healthy genetic makeup required to have two-eyed children.

We had a little get-together last night. We made silly faces and pretended to be cows giving birth and stuff… Hosted by Steven. THe owner of our souls?

Me apparently pretending to be a “cow giving birth” Read the rest of this entry »

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.

In an hour and a bit I am heading back to the airport.
Last night I saw my twin brother, Byron’s band, Mad Cow Funk play. Byron is a sick bass player. Wowowowow. His roommates also came out. One of Byron’s roommates is André, aka my first best friend ever!!! That was fun. Even if I am crazy sister Leora from Vancouver who is kind of crazy and says crazy things and crazy crazy crazy. I’m crazy.

I can’t wait to return. I’m bringing back shoes and records and a Minnesota North Stars jersey among other things. Nothing exciting. No frying pans unfortunately. That’s what I was hoping for. That and bedding for my bed. And my drug-concealing shoes. Not that I need to conceal drugs anymore, they were just sweet shoes. I can’t find them.

‘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 

This weekend, I ruled at life in the classic sense.  Now I must deal with the aftermath of a banged up head, a drawing on my leg that says “POO!” (no mom, not a tattoo.. just pen..), someone angry at me for covering their face with birthday cake and blue, shimmery makeup when they were passed out, and the deadline looming ahead of me for my CMNS paper.  It’s due in a week.  I’m almost done school.

Oh! Me and Aaron did this weird game. Well, unintentionally. Try what we did: So we were sitting in the living room.  Pretty quiet. No one else around.  We sat there in complete silence, and the loser is the person who speaks first.  It gets really funny and ridiculous.  It’s also interesting to see how long people go before they feel a need to say something– anything.

Yes we were stoned.

Try it!

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.

“Desperate times lead to desperate actions.” Like the man who sat on the corner, with hundreds of butts of cigarettes. He was picking them apart, collecting the remnants, and filling a bag with this makeshift rolling tobacco. From that he was rolling cigarettes.

Please save me.

Please set the table.

Please get evicted.

Please pick me up some juice.

Please clean the house.

Please make me a priority. Please?

Please don’t think I’m desperate because it sounds like I’m begging when I say “please”.

It’s a merry-go-round– it’s more pleasant than a vicious cycle, because there’s crappy music and cotton candy stands nearby. Merry-go-rounds with glassy-eyed patrons, reluctantly holding onto the reins of something so disinterested.

You’ll ride the carousel, bemused by the bright lights, repetition and laughter of stupid, stupid, carefree children. I’ll get off; you stay on and keep going around. I’ll wander about. I won’t know what to do with myself, so I’ll go back in line and get back on top of the fibreglass horse.

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 »

Remember paper boats?  The ones that looked exactly like paper hats?  You could read about paper boats in paperbacks about paper crafts… Origami?

I remember looking at those pictures of paper boats, and the cliché image of a person relaxing at a secluded pond in the middle of a park seemed so serene and utopian.  Strange.

Sometimes the person was in a busy park, but hiding behind a shrub or a bush.  He or she would be sitting there with a little stick to poke at the boat.  Maybe there was a duck or two floating by.

The ducks were always smiling as hard as a duck– a toothless, beaked  animal– could possibly smile.  Without a doubt, they were quacking happily.  Wouldn’t you?

Tiny ripples in the water. Tiny.

I want to be that person who sits behind the shrub with a little stick, poking at my paper boat while the ducks float by; that person who’s frozen in time, ignorant to the unimportant parts of life that become so important once you grow up.

All I wanted to say to you was “You don’t understand. I’m very sick. I’m getting sicker every day. All I need to do is see a doctor who will put me on a prescription and you will never see me again in your life and I will never NEED to see you again in my life.

You can’t see what’s eating away at me.

Each morning when I wake up, it’s eating at me. When I get up, take a shower, eat my food, or at least TRY to do all that, it’s eating at me. It’s eating at me so much that every single part of my day becomes a difficult task. It’s eating and eating and leaving very little of me behind that can complete those tasks.

Tomorrow I can deal with a snide comment, or clean my kitchen, or do homework or get my feet soaked in the rain while I go to the store. Tomorrow I can fucking do anything, but I can’t unless you help me. And you don’t want to help me. You want to remind me that patients, especially mental patients, are anything but human. But tomorrow I’ll be a human again, [IF YOU HELP, AND CUT THE ATTITUDE] and if tomorrow it is you who is no longer human, then so be it. I hope you enjoy the fall.”