Why The World Is Wrong

why would anyone choose to be different.

it's all nice and fine to say 'oh well I love being different'.
but no one really does.

those bug eyed stares.
the snickers behind your back.
the amazement of seeing something so strange.

I hate being different.
everyday I look at what I see in the mirror and spew hate at it.
I hate everything that I am.
being different isn't good.
it's just another vice that someone can twist to warp you.

so yes.
I am different.

but I wish everyday that I wasn't.
but who would choose to be so different in a world that is so reactionary.
a world that refuses to move into the future.
I know I wouldn't.

this is the world I am forced to know.
we are all forced to know.
this xenophobic homophobic cainotophobic existance.
it isn't pretty.

is it wrong for me to want to be normal?
to be average?
maybe.
maybe not.

perhaps difference is synonymous with bravery.
that being different, or allowing ones self to be, is progressive.
beneficial for the future.

then again,
maybe being different is a curse.
and we're all designated for a fiery existance in the pits of hell.
or new york city.

is it worth it?
this constant ridicule, pain, hatred?

I don't think so.

but then again,
I have no choice in the matter.

Nuclear Spring

We stumble out into the sunlight, squinting. After twenty-seven months underground, I've almost forgotten what it felt like. The mayor shouts instructions through her megaphone as mothers try to shepherd their fascinated children and young couples whisper to each other, pointing at the trees and hills in awe. Some of the older women are crying. 

I hear a familiar voice behind me. "Hannah!" 

It's Darryl, stepping uncertainly out of the bunker, listening for the sound of my voice. "Over here!" I shout back, laughing. I grab his hand and lead him out into the field, past the snow-piles slowly shrinking to reveal grass almost afraid to turn green again. Instinctively, he turns his face towards the sun, amazed at the warmth the bunker's fluorescent lightbulbs never gave. 

"What does it look like?" he asks me.

I look around at the melting snow drifts, like clouds too lazy to stay up in the pale blue sky. "It's beautiful," I answer. 

In the distance, I can see the remains of the city, melted and charred in the aftermath of the war like a cake left too long in the oven. I shudder; I can make out the outline of what was once my office building in the mid-morning sun. I notice what remains of the city's residents around me peering over the hill crest, surveying the damage. The mayor says it's probably not safe to go into the city just yet, so we sit on the hilltops instead, sharing the last of our rations and wondering how to put our lives back together. Most of the survivors are women and children; some men stayed behind because of disability like Darryl or old age like the mayor's husband, but most were drafted to fight in the war. Once the bombs started falling, it's not likely that many survived. 

We're refugees now, that much is clear. Nobody knows how many other cities built bunkers; any communication we once had with the outside world has long been cut off. It's scary to think about how empty the rest of the world might be, about the billions of lives gone in a flash of fission and a mushroom cloud. I try not to focus on what's been lost, try to tell myself that we're part of a beginning rather than an end, but it's hard not to think about everything that's gone. They say that the winners of wars write the history books, but it doesn't feel like we won anything. 

Darryl and I are sitting on the ground now, his arm around my shoulder and his other hand trailing absentmindedly through the grass. Suddenly his thin, able fingers run into an unusual shape in the grass; he plucks it and presents it to me. "Is this what I think it is?" he murmurs. 

"It's a snowdrop," I answer in awe. I gently take it from him, marveling at the perfect white bloom. "I'm surprised one survived." I remember back to before the war, looking for snowdrops peeking through cracks in the ice as soon as it started to melt. Finding them was always like finding a new beginning; the little flowers seemed to reassure me that winter was finally over, that life could finally come out of hibernation and start living again. 

I turn back to Darryl. "It's beautiful."

"You're beatiful," he answers, although I know he can't see me. He brushes my bangs out of my face and tucks the snowdrop behind my ear, and we sit at the top of the hill in the sun as the world rubs its eyes and crawls out of hibernation, ready to start anew. 

--Patti

jokes

-you know what i dont like about you?
arthur glanced at the teen next to him, his hands gripping the steering wheel even tighter for a second before he loosened his grip.
-you are too serious.
-i'm too serious?
arthur echoed, before repeating it loudly.
-oh really now? Vinny, Ronaldo, do you agree? Am I too serious?
Vinny just looked away from Arthur and Ronaldo coughed awkwardly into his hand.
Michael next to him grinned at their responses.
-See? you are too serious.
-what do you want me to do then?
-i don't know... how about a joke?
-a joke?
-yes a joke. tell us a joke.
Michael laughed as vinny and ronaldo agreed from the back seat.
-alright. here's one, Knock Knock.
-who's there?
michael ventured
silence.








-go fuck yourself.

An Ode to Levelheadedness

The President is a Muslim. 

It's 2076, and the President of the United States is Faisal Mahdi, and he is a Muslim. The Capitol hasn't sprung minarets and the Bible belt is still full of old people with Bibles and we aren't all fluent in Arabic, although it's a common option in schools alongside Spanish and French and Mandarin Chinese. It's just that the President is a Muslim.

There was one who was a black guy a while back, and some people were mad about that. And then there was one who was a woman, and half the country didn't take her seriously. Then there was an Asian guy, and only the truly out-of-it made jokes about Coca-Cola and pee-pee, or how they couldn't tell the president apart from somebody else. (Jay Leno did a couple of those, but nobody really listened to him because most of his fan base had died.) And then that Brazillian lady got elected, and so few were surprised when things all of a sudden started working again. And there were a few white guys in between that nobody really remembers. Now the President is a Muslim. 

Sometimes the media gets a photo release of the President and his two teenage daughters, one of whom has chosen to wear a hijab and one of whom has not. Sometimes meetings are interrupted for prayers. President Mahdi and his wife still have a Christmas tree in keeping with tradition, but they also have a Ramadan party every year that is out of this world. I've heard the White House chef makes fantastic hummus. There are old traditions and there are new traditions, because the President is a Muslim.

It's 2076. The President is a Muslim, and nobody really cares. 


--Patti

My City

We're walking to the mall
Just because there's a Subway there
Not the subway
Not underground trains and filth
Just Subway
You know
Eat fresh.

"It feels like downtown Naperville"
(He's longing to go back home)
"Kinda. The sidewalk's too gross and there are too many tall buildings, though"
"Not the looks, just the feel, the sun's just really warm and the smell is kinda the same and it's just random"
"Plus we're going to Subway"
"Yeah. It's an American thing"

Two seconds pass and he says it again
"It feels like Naperville"
"Kinda, not exactly"
"Close your eyes and feel it"

So I close my eyes

And there I am
Barnes&Nobles right next to me
Ruddy red bricks stretching across an organized town
Gigantic and flashy or environmentally friendly and flashy cars are zooming by
And it's safe to cross the street without looking twice
I could go to Noodles and Company or Jamba Juice or that cute little candy store with the delicious gummy trout
I could go to the River Walk and throw bread to the ducks
Or hop inside Barnes&Nobles and read Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul all afternoon

(Or I could go home. Back to my house. Sit on the roof with my friends.)

I open my eyes.
It's not Naperville.

"We're gonna go to Subway and then when we step out we'll be next to Dominick's and the library"
He says

And I do one of those nervous laughs
Because I know he's kidding
But somehow it seems true.

~*~*~*~*~
We turn onto Borba Gato.
(What a weird street name)
And all of a sudden it goes from feeling like Naperville to feeling like ghetto Chicago
Construction everywhere
Homeless people on the streets
Buildings stretching up up up

"Let's walk faster. It smells funny here."
"Ok."

We speed through
And there's the mall.
~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~

To get into the mall you take creepy stairs down
(Like the ones you take to get to the actual Subway in Chicago, if you were gonna take a train)
They're gritty and threatening
And you can barely see your destination
But you go down down down
And all of a sudden it goes from underground train station to life.

~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~

"Why do all the malls here have a grocery store!"
That's his first reaction.
I love my little brother.
"I don't know. Let's find Subway."
We follow the signs that say
Praca de Alimentacao 
Food court
It's not like Fox Valley
The food court is all the way up
Not all the way down.

~*~~*~*~*~**~*~*~

When he sees it he starts running
"SUBWAY!!!"
It's like he's going to hug a long lost friend
(Mark, I thought of you)
He orders his food
Getting a 30cm sub
Instead of a footlong

And there are cookies
Real cookies
Chocolate chip
Soft
Yummy.

He bites into his sandwich and he's home
"It's even better than the one back in Naperville, it almost tastes like Quiznos"
"Yeah well, they keep it cleaner here"
"Yeah, in the US it's like there's lettuce in the tomatoes and pickles in the peppers"
"Yeah, it's gross. Brazilians are super neat freaks"

He takes the last bite of his cookie
And we're done with Naperville
~*~~*~*~*~**~*~~*~*~

We step out of the mall
Into Brazil
It feels like forty degrees
(Not fahrenheit)

There are people buying fresh squeezed orange juice
And corn on the cob
And popcorn
And peanuts
And anything else you can imagine
From metal carts owned by barefooted Brazilians
And no one looks like they have money to spare
And everyone looks happy
It's like a circus or a county fair.

There are trees
Everywhere
Little forests in every step of the city
The shops don't have doors
There's just one wall missing
And I step into a clothing store
(A little place no bigger than my bedroom, filled up to the top with super cute everything)
Because this jean skirt catches my eye.

The lady is eating her lunch at the counter
And is interrupted by me asking her for the same skirt outside but in a larger size

"Sure hon! But the biggest size I have is G" (For the gringos G=Grande=Large)
She digs enthusiastically through neatly folded, packaged clothing and pulls out a skirt that looks like it'll fit someone half my size.
"Ugh. I don't think it'll fit."
"Of course it will! Give it a shot. You'll be surprised"

There are purple curtains on half circle bars
It kinda looks like a shower curtain
And I hesitate
Because it's not gonna fit
But I step inside anyways

"Let me see!" The counter lady calls from outside
I pull open the curtain, biting my lip, cause I'm not confident in how it looks
"It's perfect!" She assures me.
"It's u-hm. Hm. Yeah. I like it a lot. But it makes my hips look huge."
I'm tugging uncomfortably at the fabric hugging my figure
"Well! What else do you want! It's suppose to be tight like that. And you have a violao body. It's perfect for you"
Violao. A "guitar" body. Kinda like a disproportionate hourglass.
The second uncomfortable laugh of the day.
"It looks really good. I swear. I would tell you if it didn't"
I know she's just trying to sell me.
But I don't know
The skirt just made me feel good.
"I'll take it."
Done. The lady smiles and she adds, "You'll be the hit of the balada"
"Yeah. I hope so."
~*~*~~*~*~*~*~

We're walking back.
We've only spent about 80 American dollars between us
But we're practically carrying new wardrobes.
(I love street stores)
"You know," He says, "We're always comparing Brazil and the US. Like. We can't just say that São Paulo is busy or dirty or clean or anything. We have to say it feels like Naperville or Chicago or Arizona. And when we're in the US we say it feels like somewhere in Brazil."
"Yeah, well. It's because it kinda gets the point across about what the city is, but without listing everything single trait."
He doesn't respond.
But inside my head there's another conversation
He's right
This city can't be described in terms of US or Naperville or Chicago

SP, Brasil is a uniquely diverse, fresh, busy, lively, infested, crazy city where cars will run you over without looking twice and you have to clutch your purse to prevent getting pick pocketed
Where shop keepers and hair dressers become confidants and every corner has a different personality

There's just no way to describe it if you haven't been here
It's like nothing you've ever seen before
Crazy looking trees in the middle of highways and bamboo forests in apartment complexes
Fairs with fruit you've never heard of before
It doesn't matter how many things I list
The good or the bad or the ugly
There's a feeling that you can only feel if you're right in the middle of it

So
(Come visit)

--Julie

Table for Two

Separate checks, please.

Oh no, we're just friends.

These orders aren't together.

Him? He's like a brother to me.

I can't remember a time in my life when I haven't had at least one incredibly close male friend. Some of them I remain friends with, while some have moved or drifted away. But from Pokemon cards to practice rooms, late-night video game marathons to late-night Facebook chats, swing sets to cell phones and every step of the way in between, there's always been some guy in my life with whom I can just be one of the guys... yes, even though I'm a girl. I've had female friends too, most of the time, but for whatever reason I've always felt closer to the men in my life than the women. Girls can overanalyze. Girls can be petty. Girls can fight, girls can talk, girls can hurt you. I've felt it before and I've done it before; I'm not proud to admit it, but sometimes that's the way girls are.

Guys, though? Guys are different, somehow.

Some girls drop their IQs by twenty points every time they come near a Y chromosome. Some girls spend months trying to impress a boy whom she's unintentionally convincing she's kind of a skank. I know, because so many times I've been the girl that boy turns to after the awkward conversation is done and whispers, "Okay, I'm kind of creeped out now." I'm the girl who gets the look that says "Get her off me, I can't breathe." And in the end, I'm the girl that boy texts later that afternoon just to talk. Because even though they look kind of stupid sometimes (sorry boys), guys are surprisingly perceptive about who sees them as a person versus who sees them and whispers "LOOK HERE HE COMES! How's my hair?"

Maybe my nearly religious belief in the platonic, my policy of boys as friends not food, is part of the reason I've never had a boyfriend. Maybe trying to see guys like guys see guys has made guys see me like they see guys too. I'm okay with that, though; in the end, I'd rather have a best friend for five years than a beau for five minutes. In the end, I prefer having someone I can complain to and at and with than be tangled in the web of concealment and awkwardness and eventual heartbreak that a relationship so often means. Sure, I've been accused of being in love with my guy friends before. Sure, I've been the subject of awkward "are-they-dating" questions, to which my responses have varied from an enthusiastic "no" to an overly dramatic faking of my own slow, gagging, death, complete with extensive post-mortem twitching. But in the end, shouldn't it be obvious that one can have respect without romance, proximity without infatuation, a sort of paradoxical love-without-love? We're all humans here, no matter what gender; whoever says that there's no such thing as a mixed-gender friendship also implies the nonexistence of mixed-race friendships, mixed-age frienships, mixed-orientation friendhips... mixed-human friendships. They say that no two different humans can just be friends, that there must be some awkwardness, some barrier, some unimpeachable boundary...

There are no boundaries friendship cannot cross.

And as long as I live, I want a guy by my side--

not a husband,

not a boyfriend,

not a lover--

just a guy who is a guy

who I can trust and who trusts me.

These orders aren't together, waiter--

but we'll be eating side by side.

--Patti

Dear society

hi. I'm lynn.

and i do not appreciate today's society.

i don't appreciate the fact that Asher Brown was found by his own mother.

i do not appreciate that in the fourth grade was when it started for Seth Walsh. He also had to be found by his mother. 

i don't appreciate a lot of things today.

[in the words of Joel burns,

you will get out of the household

you will get away from those who don't agree.]

i like to read six billion secrets

and pretend, hey.

i could know someone who posted one of these

i could help them with this. i should help them with this

i will help them with this

and i don't

because i cannot.

i like to pretend,

that hey.

my sister is incorrect.

there is no danger in the surgery

and that for the love of god

will you have some faith in modern-day medical technology?

he will survive

there will be no complications

our family will not lose a member.

he is going to be perfectly fine.

and i pretend that some nights i don't cry myself to sleep because in the back of my head i believe my sister. 

everyone gets sad sometimes

some people act on it

some people don't

if you ever think you're going to act on it

please

think of your mother.

if there are two things i want to keep from my childhood until when im old

are these two items.

one if a bear, with a little noise-maker inside i've had since i was a baby.

it's tattered and old, but it's mine.

and another is this quilt my mother made me.

you know that feeling when your heart pulls itself out of your chest

and the back of your throat burns?

love can be painful sometimes.

remember the power rangers?

the blue one was gay.

people think i write for some crazy reason.

i want to get noticed. i want to get famous. i want to make money.

want want want want want.

this isn't a strip club.

i don't want anything.

i write because i like to think of things that are better or worse

--lynn

The Girl and the Pickle Jar

I take the jar of pickles out of the fridge.

It's a brand new jar, stuffed chock-full of crinkly little cucumber product, never been opened before.

I'm about to call my dad to help me open it, thinking that's what's expected of me. But the words catch in my throat.

Since when, I wonder, did women have to be the weak ones?

Traditionally, of course, men have been stronger physically. Ever since the stone age, men were relegated to the heavier labor, and women the lighter jobs, simply because of the slight sexual dimorphism present in the species H. sapiens. The men kill, the women gather; the men reap, the women sow; the mean hunt bears, the women bear hunters... It only makes sense. To format society otherwise would be highly inefficient.

But since when does that mean women have to be such wimps?

Women are delicate flowers, says the Victorian era. Women are made for housework and for child-care and for sitting around in impossibly huge dresses looking like the beautiful, delicate creatures they are. Women are not to think, women are not to work, women are not to do anything strenuous or serious or gruesome enough to move one delicate little ringlet on their delicate little heads.

Yet it's the women who bear the children. It's the women who take care of the sick, the wounded, the hurting, the dying, the lost. Even in the most ancient of civilizations, it didn't matter how much the man did unless there was a woman behind him.

Maybe it's traditionally the man who moves the world, but it's the woman who makes it stay put.

And now that times are changing, who says we women can't change with them?

Physical labor isn't the most important aspect of a job anymore. Even the farmers and the construction workers have tools to help them; although they're still immensely strenuous jobs, it's nothing an extremely fit woman couldn't handle. Society's mechanized so much that outside of mens' athletic competitions, I dare you to name a job that no woman could perform as well as her male counterparts, if not better. People say women are appeasers, are poor decision-makers, are soft and weak in the brain. They say we try too hard to make everyone happy, to be everyone's friend rather than to make the best decisions. And maybe some women do that. Maybe some women are still convinced that everyone has to like them to be worth anything... but I can name a million examples where it's exactly the opposite. Who tries harder to be everybody's friend, me or my brother? Who's made more enemies, Hillary or Bill? And when you look at the men in the CEO jobs on Wall Street giving everybody bonuses to make them happy, don't you wish just for a second that Wall Street had a tough-as-nails woman to shape it up? An Arianna Huffington? A Condoleeza Rice? Yes, even a Hillary?

Men need to respect our ability, but that also doesn't mean they have to be a jerk about it.

Yes, boys, feel free to hold doors. Feel free to pick things up when we drop them or buy us dinner. Chivalry isn't dead just because sexism should be... it just means that after you hold the door for me on the way in, I'll turn around and hold it for you when we leave. Maybe I'll pay next time. And if you drop your pencil and it rolls toward my feet, I'll pick it up and hand it to you. And then maybe I'LL ask YOU to homecoming: it's a free country, and I'm a free woman. Just because old society expects you to be chivalrous to me doesn't mean new society can't have chivalry go both ways.

--

Snapping out of my reverie, I looked at the pickle jar anew.

I set it on the table and twisted the lid. It came off without much effort.

I smiled.

Yes, I'm a woman.

I'm a woman who can give a firm handshake

I'm a woman who can carry and play an instrument bigger than you are.

I'm a woman who can write

I'm a woman who can think

I'm a woman who can decide

I'm a woman who's much more likely to change the world than to change a diaper

And I'm a woman who can open her own damn pickle jar.

--Patti

A picnick in the park

Upload photo

Start off with autocorrect

Everything brightens, looks a bit more defined.

Next step, messing around with color, saturation, contrast.

Perfect.

Next to blemish control, blotting out little bumps and bruises.

Now to the fun part.

Adding different colors, vignettes, cutsie stamps of flowers and smiley faces.

Some words for effect.

Brighten these colors, make this black and white.

Beautiful.

Make eyes different color,

A fake spray on tan,

Insert in rosy cheeks.

Wow.

In front of the computer screen,

I look at a beautiful version of myself,

Green eyes, tan skin, no imperfections.

Save as "Imma real brazilian".

Bring up picture on desktop.

What did the original look like?

Bring up original.

Ew....

Brown eyes, scarred face, pale, pale skin staring back at me.

This is what you are.

Look back on the photoedited picture, in all it's glory.

Fake green eyes staring absently,

Plastic skin glowing falsely, 

I guess you're not so pretty after all.

Delete.

Back to the original,

Back to imperfection,

Back to what I've learned to love.

There's feeling in her eyes,

Empathetic smile on her lips,

You're gorgeous.

Save as "Imma real me."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

No.

You aren't pretty.

Yes.

Your hips are a bit too wide,

Your belly bulges too far past your jeans,

You've got thunder thighs,

Your face is oily and gross,

Your hair could use some work,

Your smile is a crooked mess.

No.

You aren't pretty.

You're beautiful.

Yes.

Your hips make you look like a woman,

Your muffin top is a result of actually eating food,

Your thighs are proportionate,

Your face emits a healthy glow,

Your hair is original,

And your smile

Your smile

Your careless, youthful, happy smile

Is the most beautiful of it all.

--Julie

cassandra

she is called cassandra. not sandra, not cassie, but cassandra. somehow, nicknames for her don't ring quite right. the only reason why i've never yanked her by the hair and flung her out of my life is that she never meant harm. that, and the fact that i have to see her face every day because of the three class periods we share.

~*~

cassandra worries about homework and tests and auditions and her parents being unhappy with her grades. she says that when she comes home with a c on the chemistry lab report, her parents get angry and might hit her, but that doesn't happen most of the time. she comes to school the next day with unbruised skin and insecurities about the next history test. 

i will never understand why she is so stressed out about academics in every waking moment. achievement comes from passion, hard work, and a reliable head. it isn't born out of being a worrywart. besides, who wants to be perpetually thinking about grades and consequences?

~*~

she thinks that i am her friend and asks me when the next math quiz is, which is aggravating because i happen to not give a damn about test dates. friends don't come to each other just to glean extra information about those kinds of senseless logistics; that's what classmates do. friends find somewhere quiet to eat brown-bag lunches, talk about life, and make tasteless viola jokes. they take the train downtown together to take in riccardo muti and the city lights.

maybe one day she'll gather her scattered brains and learn to work hard, play hard, live hard. or maybe her day-to-day concerns about schoolwork will directly translate into a week-to-week hassle about what sales and promotions are going on in which grocery stores.

[rule number six: stop taking yourself so goddamn seriously :D]

--christie

The Silent Majority

We're everywhere, you know. 

The silent majority. 

In a world that's seemingly full of extremists and radicals and wackos and nutjobs, holding big signs about killing the gays or burning the banks or saving our children from the disgusting, violent Islamic agenda of our president who is neither violent nor Muslim in the least, we get lost. The news loves the exception. In a crowd full of angry chanting, we're the guy holding the sign that says "LIFE IS PRETTY OKAY". Less symbolically and more realistically, we're the people who look at the rally on the street and shake their heads and keep driving, keep walking, keep living. Because maybe we're happy and maybe we're unhappy, but until things get unbearable we'll keep the illusion that life is, in fact, pretty okay. 

We support our troops, but not so much the wars they're in. We're religious, although we don't know much about it. Mostly we just believe that you'll still get into heaven if you're one of the good guys, even if you don't believe in the exact same God as us. For the most part, we're alright with you doing that thing that you want to do,whatever it is you want to do, as long as it's legal and reasonable and doesn't bother us. We'll live our lives, and you'll live yours, and it'll all be pretty okay. 

Except when it's not.

Because sometimes, the crazy, radical minority isn't harmless anymore. They go from being the class clown to the class bully. And just like with bullies, there's always a victim-- often a helpless one. And just like with bullies, the consequences may end up so much bigger than they seem. And just like with bullies, the ones who stay silent are just as much at fault. 

Once upon a time not too long ago, there was a boy. One day, that boy was going to college, playing the viola, sharing a private moment with his boyfriend. The next day, that moment was put up on the Internet by his roommate who had taped it; the day after that, that boy jumped off a bridge. One bully-- that's all it took to push him off the edge. And one person who'd chosen to speak up rather than stay silent-- that's all it might have taken to keep him alive. And yet, we're still silent. What's so important about keeping mum that keeps us from standing up for what's right? Why would we keep our mouths closed and watch people get hurt when we can do so much, and save so much, just by saying "No, this isn't right"? Maybe you don't think your voice is enough to change the world, but your voice could be the first-- there are others just as afraid to speak up as you. If one raindrop falls from the sky, it's brushed off. But soon there's a second, and a third, and a tenth, and then hundreds of them. Filling the dry streams, watering the thirsty plants, cleaning out the air, and making everybody else take cover and take notice. 

I don't know about you, but I can't stand to be silent any longer. 

--Patti

Invasion

I sit in my little white world.

with big white walls and small white people.

everything identical.

everything monotone.

everything functions normally.

we sit at our little white computers and type out codes.

commands. instructions. orders.

until the moment when it all stopped.

a knife pierced the perfect white walls.

the white plastered brick slowly reduced to silk by the knife.

as it cut through the perfect little world.

and we panicked.

human resources recieved tons of complaints.

public relations totally shut down.

all of the good public speakers ran out screaming.

everyone lost their cool calm and collected state and let their emotions rule.

the knife appeared to be carving a rectangle.

me and my co-workers were losing it.

I didn't know what was going on.

I wasn't in control.

the knife was halfway through the 3rd side of the rectangle.

I hid in a corner.

I didn't want to watch it.

but I couldn't help myself.

the 3rd wall was done.

the knife retreats.

but we know we're not safe.

it'll be back.

suddenly, a force pushes the rectangle.

it was a door.

and there you stand.

and I smile.

I push a button.

my co-workers return to their desks, still brimming with excitement.

papers litter the floor, and a calm facade has appeared.

I invite you in.

--Mark

Salvation cannot be sent, as it exceeds 160 characters in length.

An ash cloud descends upon the world, blacking out the sun.
Within a day, it has over a million fans on Facebook.

The dead rise from their graves, seeking vengeance on those still alive.
Within an hour, they all have Twitter accounts.

Aliens destroy New York City with weapons science didn't even think possible.
Within five minutes, there are 300,000 hits on YouTube.

People of Earth will proclaim that the end is near.
and not a word will b capitalized

God comes again to judge the living and the dead
but turns around and heads home,
seeing as we're all viewing it secondhand from our computer screens instead of firsthand, with our eyes.


--Patti

i believe in miracles

let's say you are in love.

you all know what love is; love is that magical, mystical, butterflies in the stomach, heart-pounding, face-fllushing, eyes swerving experience.

do we really know what love is, though.

you look at the media today, you see all the people being haunted by shows like TMZ, and you think, are they really happy in their relationship? Having people watching their every move, whether they are holding hands, or hugging, or just standing near each other?

Unnerving.

Then, you hear about the facts. Now a days, half of marriages end in divorce. It's probably more then that now. Why? Money. Lust. Greed. The usual things.

No one, is marrying for love anymore. If you have a steady, and high paycheck, suddenly you are the hottest man in town.

So, where is the love?

When I grow up, and I get married to that person, I want there to be that, soft, casual love there.

That kind where, you love each other. You're open with each other, natural with each other, ignoring what the world is trying to force onto us: women need to have small waists, and bigger hips and chests, men need to be ripped, with tan brown skin, and rippling muscles. that you need to be rich to be happy.

i just want a love where we can eat cold cereal for dinner and be happier then those who went to the fancy restaurants for dinner.

not because we're low on cash, but just because we can.

and nothing can beat fruit loops with that person you love.


--lynn