Why don't you ask me what it feels like to be a freak?

This Change Is My Design,
(But I could still use a purple butterfly)



Another night, another demise
Cadaverous wind blowing cold as ice
I’ll let the wind blow out the light
’Cause it gets more painful every time I die

~ Children of Bodom


So here’s the truth of the matter: I am a vampire. I can’t sleep. Apparently I still can during the day, because the other day when I woke up crying from back pain and really could have used a stretcher to cart me around and therefore had to call in to work due to my inability to move, that day I slept until four in the afternoon.

I’ve always been able to sleep during the day, no problem. A lot of people don’t understand why I sleep all day and assume I’m lazy. To them I say, fuck off, because nobody is touching me in the All-Night Olympics. WELL...heh heh. But seriously, I can be drinking, not drinking, reading, watching TV, whatever...but if need be, I’m always joining the runs to Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee and croissant sandwiches while the sky turns cornflower. And then we can all sit around the picnic table and smoke cigarettes and ignore the coffee in favor of more beer.

This is no problem.

What is a problem is that now that I have a day job, I no longer have the luxury of staying up until five or six and sleeping until three. So the end result is that my body seems to have fallen into autopilot and assumes that I must be playing a funny joke on it when I try to go to sleep during the nighttime. It just. Won’t. Cooperate.

It doesn’t matter what I do. I am impervious to Benadryl and Nyquil. Even alcohol doesn’t help that much. It also doesn’t seem to be affected by my eating or exercise habits. Even the occasional moment that I’m all mellowed out and at one with my heart and stuff, all that does is give me peace as I lie awake and stare at the ceiling.

One fun thing that I do sometimes is sleepwalk. When Ellen Page said in an interview that she sleepwalks, she sealed me love forever as thanks for helping me feel less like a freak. I don’t do it often, but it happens. After the first time it happened, I lived in terror that my landlords were going to find me walking around naked in the middle of the night and evict me for being a menace and possibly a whore.

Bottom line is, and I know this, is that I am afraid of my dreams. Not so consciously, not like "If I sleep now, I’ll have nightmares" although that did happen last week after watching one of Javier’s more traumatizing picks. But in more of a subconscious, I’m-tired-of-feeling-like-Desmond sort of way. People say that dreams are just a manifestation of your thoughts, and that you are everyone in your dreams, but I don’t know. The first time I was conscious of the WTF freakout was in 1999 when I heard on 1010 WINS that JFK, Jr.’s plane was missing and I knew he wasn’t missing; he was dead, because I’d dreamed about a small plane crashing in the water that week and when I heard the news I felt myself go pale and trembly. The next time I dreamed about that sort of thing was the week Peter Tomarkin died. I dreamed about planes crashing into a building at least once a month for years. After September 11th, they stopped. Then I started having terrible, vivid dreams about my own death on airplanes practically every night. Before "LOST," it’s not "LOST"’s fault. So of course I developed a full-on phobia of airplanes, despite the fact that the only thing I didn’t love about flying all my life was that it was a difficult ride to the airport. I mean dude, I got to see "Two of a Kind" on an airplane, and you can’t replicate that kind of magic on a daily basis.

The worst dreams weren’t the airplane ones, though. The absolute worst ones are ones that I know many others have experienced, but few talk about.


The paralysis dreams.

The ones where you are "awake," but you can’t move. You can’t do anything but lie there. When I first had them, I tried to scream to wake someone up who could wake me up. I tried to throw myself off the bed, hoping to pull one of those sitcom-type moments and wake up because I really DID fall, not just in my dream. They’ve come back, but I’ve learned how to deal with them. Lie there, pray, swear it’s just a dream. I’m still terrified when I wake up.

I know I should go see someone about this, but I do think this thing where I think I’m real sick, but I won’t go to the doctor to find out about it. ’Cause they make you stand real still in a real small place as they chart up your insides and put them on display. They’d see all of it, all of me, all of it...and I don’t want that. I don’t want any person having power over my brain, and I don’t want to lose my edge or my creativity.

Which leads me to something else. Have you noticed lately that a LOT of people can’t sleep? Heath Ledger is of course the most obvious example. That hit me really hard; when he died even before I knew why, my visceral reaction was fierce: "We’ve lost another one." There is a truly awesome (for once, I am using the word literally) place in life, in one’s brain, that if you’re willing to travel to, you can truly find genius and life. Retreating from it is safest. Let it overwhelm you, and you go mad. That’s why so many artists of all kinds are alcoholics and drug addicts, I believe. They want to experience that awesome place without actually doing the mental work to get there and maintain it. Problem is, then it’s no longer your journey to control. RIP Isaac Mendez.

So yeah, I have a lot of crazy thoughts, but I’ve never been that sound a believer in "crazy." It’s too easy. Slap a crazy label on someone and you automatically separate that person from yourself, from anything you could ever be. Gavin De Becker says in The Gift of Fear (BUY IT READ IT FOR REAL!!!) that one problem we have in society, one reason we don’t know how to prevent violence, is that we are afraid to learn its language. Hence, the slapping of the "psycho" label on every killer. That helps nothing. It just gives you false security -- keep away from the "psychos" and you’ll be fine.

There is a language of violence, and there is a language of "crazy" that is directly connected to genius, and I want to learn it. So I don’t want to be lobotomized in any sense. But I do need some sleep. Spring is here again, which is good for the spirit, but I can’t rely on that to help completely.

So here’s where the audience gets to shout out so I can hear you! Feel free to recommend anything -- sleeping pills, methods to falling asleep, good, non-soul-destroying therapists -- knock yourself out helping to knock ME out!

Also, there are 10 song lyrics on this page. Some easier to spot than others. Two points each for every lyric you get (first come, first served), five points each for the two hardest ones (can’t say why they’re hard; that’s what she said). Bonus five points for getting the lyric in my blog that I link to below. And the COB lyrics up top are not part of the nine. If you win, I’ll do my first Dare-ogging, sister to Dareoke, aka you can pick my next blog subject. Not something that directly goes against my beliefs, like you can’t say, "Write why God doesn’t exist," but I could write about atheism if you want. Or I’ll write about cleaning toilets. Whatever subject you want, within certain reason, keep in mind my family reads my blogs! No winner until all 11 lyrics are found.


©2008 (except the song lyrics!)


One of my creepy dreams!

Cutesy-Bootsey

You Make Me Want To La-La Kick You In The Eye


No kissing noises. No stories from my childhood, and no references to Chicago as "Chi-town."

~Rory


I have neither the time nor the concentration to write a substantial blog today, as my back has turned on me, maybe because I wrote the blog about not being old, my body is mocking me into being one of those people who complains about her back, like I already have a bad-dish hip from cheerleading, many many many Russian jumps into straddle splits without stretching out can lead to pain who knew and now my back hurts and furthermore WHY is "cheerleading" underlined<----twice now, in red? I understand arguments as to why it isn’t a sport, but it is most assuredly a word.

So I have to run an epsom salt bath because all of a sudden I am THAT person, who needs to run an epsom salt bath, but in the meantime I thought I’d do my first audience participation blog! No wait, my second. There was the Cereal Death Match I never followed up on. Maybe I will redo that. Hm.

But no, I was thinking about how much I abhor "cute" city nicknames, like I will bring the pain if you say "La La Land" unironically, and a more recent addition has been "Chi-town." Why do people talk this way? It’s so annoying! Why does everything have to have an adorable nickname, like we will talk about this whole "Go Green" fuckery at another time, but in the meantime I would like to know:


What cutesy phrases make you want to behave in a decidedly un-cutesy manner?

Does your hometown have a nickname? If so, how do you feel about it?

What pisses you off about outsiders’ behavior/attitudes? Whether you’re in New York and you hate when tourists treat the busy streets like a petting zoo (©Sars), or you live in New Jersey and in the words of my aunt, "like living there a lot better than telling people (she) live(s) there" because of all the jokes. What would you like to say to the world!


Answer one, all, or an assortment of the questions.

I will not be responding that frequently this weekend due to being hopped up on painkillers and losing my epsom salt virginity, but I will get to it as soon as I can!

The floor is now yours! Woot woot!





©2008

Follow The Reaper

...you all have got to stop calling each other sluts and whores. It just makes it ok for guys to call you sluts and whores.

~ Ms. Norbury



Okay, so believe you me we will talk about those words another day, but today I want to talk about something else.

Women. For crying out loud, we all have GOT to stop calling ourSELVES old!!!

Seriously, to continue in the spirit of my beloved Tina Fey, how many of you out there have called yourselves old? How many of you have been calling yourselves old since you were 22? Remember that? Now if you are in your thirties or forties, that seems so young, but remember turning 22, the panic that set in when you realized that you had no more "fun" ages to look forward to? How long exactly have you been living in defeat, because I’ve got news for you:


You’re only getting older.

I will never forget the moment this phenomenon of frantic women first filled me with rage. It was 1997 and I was hanging out with my friends from high school. Mind you, I was no longer in high school; I was 22 years old. And that is OKAY. Anyway, we were all sitting around, 22 year olds although Mum may have been 23, who’s to say, but point is, we weren’t even old enough to rent cars. Yet we were all sitting around and the subject turned to our impending elderliness. And this one girl goes, "Now is the time we need to be getting married. Guys don’t want girls by the time they’re 27, because women get too set in their ways."

Okay now I had barely begun to get angry about women issues at that point, but even then my jaw dropped to the floor and I called complete bullshit on that one. I told her that she may be right that insecure guys needed to get all Torvald about life, but whether I got married at age 23 or 83, you damn well better believe that I would be retaining ownership of my mind, thank you very much. And I said that I would rather stay single forever than marry someone who wanted to "set my ways."

And you would think that maturity might kick in at some point, because isn’t that one of the ideal side effects of aging? But throughout my twenties and definitely into my thirties, I’ve been surrounded by terrified women. Many of them so beautiful, but so many of them marring their beauty, ironically, by fearing getting old.

What is old?

No, seriously. Have y’all ever noticed how few men sit around wailing about how old they are? How there is no "cute" banter at their birthdays about how they are "staying 25," and don’t even get me started on that one.

No, actually, let me get started on that one. Ladies, THAT SHIT IS REALLY REALLY REALLY ANNOYING!!! You are the age you are. Stop idealizing certain ages. Stop talking about wanting to be 25 forever, because what does that mean? Do you not see, do you not realize what a disservice you are doing to yourselves by idealizing certain ages? We call ourselves old, we connect youth and hotness with our words and our actions, and all that does is make guys think, well, shit, I don’t want someone "old," if women themSELVES can’t stand themselves when they get "old."

I don’t know about any of you guys, but I like myself THOUSANDS of times better at age 32 than I did at age 22. And for that matter, I’m a lot hotter than I was at 22. Yes, I have young genes and still get IDed for everything, but I don’t think that youth -- true youth -- is all chance. I think it is a state of mind, cliché as that may be. I realized at a pretty young age that lots of people can be hot at 20. But as the years go by, the pond gets smaller, and you get to be a bigger fish simply by staying the course. Keep learning, keep maturing, keep embracing life. These are the things that can keep us young. I always was horrified working at the Shop Rite in Plainview. Teenagers would come in covered head to toe in...something orange, covered in makeup, hair more overprocessed than Donna Martin’s, with nails that didn’t even pretend to be natural.

THEY looked old. They looked haggard. They looked defeated.

But then the women would come in and it would be like, ohhhhh THAT’S why. Women who were probably really pretty underneath all the self loathing that came out in the form of even more orange, more makeup, more processes, more fake nails. Women who were probably really pretty underneath all the hardness, the snottiness, the self-entitlement that got a little bit more desperate with each passing year. Women who were probably really pretty before they starting cuckolding men at every given turn. And what kind of message is that to send to your daughters? It’s like, it’s no wonder one in four teenaged girls has an STD and sucks the dicks of strangers. What’s to look forward to, anyway? Just misery. Just "being old." Why not get it all in now, no pun intended? Ladies, you have daughters out there now who really need you to get OVER yourselves and be mothers, not creepy Miss Havisham-esque little girls who are terrified to grow up. YOU ARE GROWN UP! Stop fighting it! Rise to the fucking occasion!

Age is not our enemy. We, oh man this sounds corny, but we are our only enemy, if we let ourselves. Why do that? There’s a saying, "Do not resist growing old. Many are denied the privilege."

What are we resisting? What are we fighting? And why expend so much energy into fighting a losing battle? With every day that passes, we get another day closer to a higher number of age. There is nothing we can do to stop that unless we are Captain Daniel McCormack, and look how well that turned out for him. If we embrace life and ride it like a wave, it won’t knock us under, and we don’t have to be those bitchy, bitter women, all awkward looking from Botox and collagen.

But for the time being, at least let’s stop calling ourselves old. It just makes it okay for society to view us as old. And that’s a lot of bullshit ™Lucio.



©2008

Lettuce come to an understanding.

Chop, Chop (Chop)


First off as an aside, this was just too brilliant not to share. From my beloved new site, Stuff White People Like:

When engaging in a conversation about corporate evils it is important to NEVER, EVER mention Apple Computers, Target or Ikea in the same breath as the companies mentioned earlier. White people prefer to hate corporations that don’t make stuff that they like.

How freaking true!


Anyway, my day has been very full, what with proofreading the one thing and going to the bank. But there was still room to learn that there is a new kind of person out there for me to hate!

It all happened when I went to get my salad from Bagel Factory. They make lovely salads, and eating salads on the days that I don’t mind them helps me continue to lose weight despite being hit by the random urge to make baked macaroni and cheese (which I have at long last perfected!) and eat it.

Bagel Factory has one of those salad bars like in Manhattan, where you feel like it’s not too germy because it’s behind glass. Sadly, unlike Manhattan, the salad bar does not have avocado. The only place that I’ve found on Long Island that carries avocado is Fireside Deli. Unfortunately, the day I got it there, they chopped my salad, essentially making my salad a plain salad with a thin green film. Not too delicious.

So overall, I do not like chopped salads unless they are "specific" chopped salads like at Boulder Creek. A nice side benefit of this is that I look like a nice person. Today, the man behind the counter started chopping my salad, much to my horror, I mean what are the point of mozzarella balls if they are no longer balls! But I said very nicely, "Oh you don’t have to chop my salad."

"We like people like you this time of day," the lady next to the man said. "By now, our arms hurt!" So I laughed, and they laughed, and we all had an even BIGGER laugh when the next girl didn’t need her salad chopped, either. What are the odds!

But then. THEN. The lady goes, "Really it’s not the chopping, it’s the people who want it double chopped, and triple chopped."

WTF! And I said as much! Without profanity! Seriously, in all my years of waitressing and witnessing of high maintenance douchebaggery, it never would have even occurred to me that someone might ask for this! I think I’d either flat out refuse or double-triple chop some *bonus* items in there.

So that was bad enough, realizing that we were pretty far from Plainview, but people like this still roamed amongst us.

It gets worse, though.

The Lady: "I asked someone one day, isn’t that like baby food; why would they want it like that? Apparently they eat while they work, and have to make phone calls."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There are just...so many things wrong with ALL of that sentence that I’m lucky my brain didn’t just go *pop* right there. I mean, first of all, EW. But I bet these are the same people who freak about phone germs, like the ladies who piss on the toilet seats, because how GROSS to eat while you are making business calls!

Second of all, well EW again, but like, what kind of twisted brain even thinks to do this?

And finally...IF YOU ARE THAT IMPORTANT THAT YOU CANNOT BE BOTHERED TO EVEN CHEW YOUR OWN FOOD, THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULD MAKE YOUR OWN LUNCH AND SAVE THE PRECIOUS TIME AND CHEW YOUR FUCKING FOOD!

Holy CRAP. And speaking of which...ew, no, never mind.

Seriously though. If you find yourself needing complete strangers to cut up your food for you, and you are not very elderly or in a body cast, then check yourself.

Maybe I will print this out and hand it to people at the door. A few copies each to the women with the dead shark eyes and acrylic tips.

Double and triple chopped. Pffffffffffffffffft.


©2008

Chivalry tag

THE MISSION:

The purpose of this tag is to create a list of a modern day Code of Chivalry. King Arthur of the Round Table is a heroic figure of English legend. Arthur and his knights were said to live by a set of beliefs known as the Code of Chivalry. A few rules of the code are:

*Live one’s life so that it is worthy of respect and honor.
*Live for freedom, justice, and all that is good.
*Be polite and attentive.
*Never betray a confidence or a comrade.
*Protect the innocent.


Come up with a modern Code of Chivalry. Write a list of at least 8 things people should do today to make modern society more chivalrous --- that is, more considerate and courteous.


MY RESPONSE:

Use your signal.
The one good thing about "Shoot ’Em Up" was when Clive Owen started bitching about people not using their signal lights on the road. "One inch!" to move your finger is all it takes. True. And it’s not just about not acting like an entitled douchebag; it is one ripple in the intuitive game of driving. By taking a piece of guesswork out of the puzzle, you could literally be saving your own life and the lives of others. Don’t act like the road revolves around you. It could be the last mistake you ever make.


Use the magic words.
"Please." "Thank you." "You’re welcome." So simple, so obvious, yet I am here to attest to the fact that they are used way more infrequently than one might think. "Life is not so short but that there is always time enough for courtesy." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson. I know as much as almost anyone and more than some, how overwhelming life and one’s thoughts can get. Get out of it long enough to use basic manners. It can really do a lot to even help your own day.


Tip.
I realize I’ve beaten this horse, but I will continue to do so as long as I hear servers saying, "All night long, I’ve been getting 10 percent tips." Good servers, not crappy servers.

10 percent
Five dollars
Whatever you can afford

Double the tax. Ideally, do that, then give more. But any less than double the tax is inexcusable. And really, I can say from experience that a good tip can do a LOT in the whole positivity ripple.


Don’t hook up with someone if you don’t want a relationship and they do.
I’m growing weary of hearing the same old song and dance. People, you can say "Don’t get attached," or some variety of that, but if you KNOW the other person has feelings for you beyond that, be the bigger man or woman. Your penis isn’t going to fall if if you don’t get laid for one night. Save yourself the hassle, and the other person the hurt. Stop being a cliché.


Stop gossiping already.
Sure, I understand the fun of gossip. But it’s also like, can’t you be interesting on your own for one minute? Read a book, see a movie, whatever. But mix up the conversation now and then. And know that the more you gossip, the fewer the people who’ll trust you...and the fewer the people you can trust.


Leave the toilet seat...not WET.
I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. The toilet is not a monster set to attack you the second you sit your ass down on the seat. If you really are that afraid, then by all means do what you need to do -- use a seat cover; put down toilet paper; squat...but for crying out loud, DON’T take a dry toilet seat and cover it with your drops of urine, or leave behind toilet paper on the seat. Et cetera, et cetera. Why you think your urine is special, I’m not sure, but it is not my job to clean it up, and that is disgusting. Either be dainty or don’t be dainty, but it’s not very dainty to display your own piss in public. Word.


Hands at your side! Hands at your side!
MEANING, if you really are just so important that you absolutely can NOT get off of your cell phone in a situation where you have to interact with another human being, at the very LEAST have the courtesy to put the phone down, you know? Town Bagel has the awesomest sign ever, that says something to the effect of, "We will not wait on you while you are on your phone, because you’re being rude." Not that exact phrasing, but the word rude is in there. And seriously. Whether at a 7-11, a supermarket or a restaurant, if the person taking care of you has a pulse, s/he deserves to not be treated like a robot.


Smile!
Cliché? Yes. But you know, my brother wrote something recently about how someone’s smiling at him really made his day better. And I thought about it, and there have definitely been times that a smile has made me feel better. At the very least, you are saying with your smile that you see the other person, and that he or she isn’t invisible, and is worth a smile. So simple, so easy -- but you never know who that smile meant the world to that day.




©2008

Requiem

It is with a heavy heart that I inform you about the passing of "Tell us how you really feel."

"Tell us how you really feel" had many fine accomplishments, including acting as a liaison between the dry and wet humor camps, bringing peace and harmony and paving the way for people such as Judd Apatow and Tina Fey.

Sadly, the world no longer saw the need for such a tepid phrase as time went on and humor got funnier, and eventually "Tell us how you really feel" grew tired and succumbed to overuse.

"Tell us how you really feel" has been laid to rest in Prague’s "You can’t handle the truth" Cemetery, and is neighbor to late phrases "Guesstimate" and "Not." They have become great friends in the afterlife, and often get together with "Impact as a verb" and "Utilize" at the "Show me the money!" karaoke bar, where they love to sing "American Pie" and everything by Shania Twain.

"Tell us how you really feel" is survived by fellow expressions "I drink your milkshake" and "Very niiiice."

But just barely.




©2008

The One Insult I Have Never Suffered

Tor: Do you ever wonder why nobody cool wants to hang out with you?

Buffy: Just thankful.

~ "The Pack"


Setting: Class in eighth grade that will go unnamed to protect the bitchy. We had assigned seats in unsaid class, but luckily I sat right in front of Krysi, so we could talk and pass notes much more easily.

To my right sat a girl whom I will call Sheila. Sheila was in the popular crowd. Yes, even in a school of -3, we had a popular crowd and I was not in it. Thank God. Because it seemed that every other day, Sheila arrived to class, which was right after our lunch period, with tears in her eyes, crying about some new way her "friends" had found to torture her that day at lunch.

Krysi and I just didn't get it. Sheila was so nice, and we always had her back and cheered her up. We had tons of stuff in common, and despite the fact that Sheila's group shunned us, as we were not "popular," we didn't shun Sheila. In fact, one day, in a moment that has haunted me ever since, Krysi just laid it out for Sheila.

"Why don't you stop hanging out with them? They're not nice to you, and you are a beautiful, great person. You shouldn't have to cry every day, not over people who are supposed to be your friends. You can hang out with us if you want." By this, she meant our group. Our school was very small, and God bless her, in seventh grade this girl Adenike rounded up all the strays, aka the people not crowned with the "popular" title, and started a club. We ended up becoming the best of friends, and we loved each other. We would have loved Sheila, too. Well we already did, but there was a bit of Capulet/Montague stuff going on in the way of junior high politics. But Krysi decided to encourage Sheila to switch her alliances and join the non-nasty tribe.

Sheila's response?

"No. I can't. Being popular is too important to me."

...

...

"Being popular is too important to me."


Now, I'm not saying that we were so awesome (though we were, of course) and my pride suffered a major blow that day by being called, by default, unpopular. Because I figured out from a very early age that popularity was a lot of bullshit ™Lucio.


I was popular in first grade. I was friends with Jenny and Marisa. They were the pretty girls, and the ones everyone wanted to be friends with. They were fun and nice to me, and I was new, so I stuck with them. Every morning we chased a boy named Bobby around the room and tried to kiss him. He ran away in a "girls are gross!" kind of way, but the bottom line was that chasing the cute boy around was my right as a popular girl.

In second grade, classes got switched up and though I still liked Jenny and Marisa, they were split up into different classes and as it goes, different popular heads of state gathered their masses and began to devolve into mean girls. And mean boys. There was this day that I will also never forget. Everyone was making fun of this kid who was fat. And this was before the country got all "Shaq's Big Challenge"-d out. This kid stood out as a fat kid.

Everyone was just making fun of him. Throwing things at him, not like cabbage heads and garbage, but straw wrappers. Empty little milk cartons that if you stop and remember their smell, you might be able to hear that background rumble lunchrooms seemed to always have had when you were a kid.

The only reason they were making fun of him was that he was fat.

The only reason they made fun of this one other dude was that he was poor and had to wear hand-me-downs.

The only reason they made fun of another girl was that she was shy and not traditionally pretty.

So I called bullshit on the whole thing at a pretty young age. Even at six years old, I knew that safety in numbers meant nothing if you had to be a mean person to have those numbers. Basically, I chose not to be popular. Which sounds conceited until you realize that popularity? Means nothing.

Seriously, what good is it to be considered popular, if all it means is that you get to be a sheep, because it's rare that the shepherd isn't a stark raving bitch. So you get to walk around in a herd. You get to go ice skating on the weekends with actual boys, and you get to have one of the lower-ranking "popular" boys go out with you because he can't get any of your superiors, so you'll do.

Being popular, by such standards, is nothing more than a chisel at your spirit, your individuality, your person. If you have to laugh at someone because he's fat, or at another girl because she is Native American. If you have no more creative way of choosing how to spend your time than to do what everyone else does. Nod your head, trip Rick, bring Ben the body of your dead father.

It's all the same.

Choosing to spend your life as a sycophant means relinquishing your life to the power of others. "For what does it profit a man to gain the world and lose his soul?" Some people are more comfortable being followers, and that's cool. But choose your shepherds wisely.

Sheila sat there that day and decided that she'd rather follow around girls who set her up on a date with the boy she'd liked for years -- as a joke. Because she needed that Pink Ladies jacket, no matter what the price. Her choice.

Everyone's choice. Sheep, hyenas...Personally, I'd rather be a human being with a mind of my own. YMMV.












©2008