more for the cheery mood

        I stare down the length of my arm, tinted red by the adult movie theater sign next door. I start staring at my tattoos and scars and my mind drifts back to how and where I acquired each one.
       The scars on my knuckles are from a night of rage. I shattered all the glass in my house in anger and cut my entire hand open. It took over two hundred stitches in my flesh and seventy in my tendons. It was almost two years before I could even make a fist. 
        A little further down the scar on my wrist reminds me of the time I spent eighteen months in a mental hospital after I tried to end my miserable existence. I was useless for them to try to save me because, after my wife died, I lost all will to continue with this joke of a life. I did  what they wanted me to do; I took their pills and said what they wanted to hear but I didn’t mean anything I said. I just wanted to get out and it worked. 
       My eyes move further up my forearm and rest on the prison tattoo of a crying skull I got while serving time for aggravated assault and armed robbery. I got it for killing a guy in a yard fight. It was self defense, really, because he came at me from behind and stabbed me with an ice pick. I was bleeding everywhere when I snapped his neck and forced the life from him but, for some reason, I got a very satisfying feeling from doing that one act. It was a release and I reveled in the very thought that I had ended someone’s life. I thought that this must have been what the man who killed my wife felt like when he snuffed her life out like a candle. 
       I come back from the delusions of my past and into my harsh reality. I’d been homeless since I was paroled. My family disowned me because I didn’t meet their standards of behavior. I ended up begging for whatever I could get my hands on and I got hooked on alcohol but that lost its edge rather quickly and one of the guys from the shelter introduced me to heroin. It helped to ease the pain so I began stealing to get the money for my habit. That’s how I ended up here, with a rubber band tied to my bicep and a syringe hanging from my arm. I took enough cranks to kill a horse but I’m still here. I’m still suffering. I still miss my wife. 
       I feel sleepy coming. Slowly and deliberately working it’s way from my feet towards my knees and the rest of my body. Maybe it is death. Maybe it is the release I’ve been looking for. Maybe I’ll finally see my wife again. Maybe.     
       

as if my night didnt suck enough


http://news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&u=/ap/20050104/ap_on_en_ot/obit_eisner

He awoke in the morning as the sun peeked through the curtain less windows.
He wearily climbed out of his bed to do what he had done many times before: find his mommy.
The apartment had been cold for some time and the bugs had eaten all of the food that had been on the plates.
He didn't know how long his mommy had been gone but his diaper had been on him for so long that it stank badly and it was sticking to his skin.
He looked around the apartment again for her but couldn't find her so he climbed on his daddy's chest. He had tried to wake his dad several times but he would never open his eyes. He cried some more but it had been so long since he had food or something to drink that it hurt to even open his mouth.
He continued playing for a while and even tried opening the door but he wasn't big enough to turn the knob.
He eventually tired so he crawled back on his father's chest, said I love you daddy, and went to sleep.
That's how we found the two-year-old boy. He had died from hunger and the cold. The boy’s mother had killed his father a few days about four days earlier and left in the apartment.
The scene was one that I'll never forget. Even with the child's body being bloated from decay he still looked so thin. The boy's father had been stabbed with a kitchen knife and he fell onto the couch where he died. The boy had gone so long without a diaper change that when the coroner's tried to remove the diaper to, see what the sex of the child was, maggots fell out of the padding and a large part of the boy's skin came off as well.
The scene was so devastating to those of us with children that everyone that had been at the scene donated enough money to bury the boy and his father side by side in a perpetual care cemetery.
When I think of that poor sight all I can do is hold my children and let them know I care.
We eventually found the mother. She was living with her crack dealer and had no remorse about killing her husband. She said that he was trying to keep her from her drugs and she wouldn't stand for that. When we questioned her about the boy; she said that was one less problem she had to worry about.
She was found mentally unstable and sent to a drug rehab center where she will be out in eight months. Just in time, too, she found out at her sentencing that she was pregnant.

"Most people never run far enough on their first wind to find out they've got a second. Give your dreams all you've got and you'll be amazed at the energy that comes out of you."

 - William James, American Philosophe

You know, its easy to spout the words:"I love you" they roll of the human tongue easier than any other phrase in any language.
But it's not in the telling of love that its proven. Its in the actions of one person to another. the spoken and unspoken understandings they have. the inside jokes, the good and bad things they share with each other.
It may be displayed with those words but it takes roots, grows, is nourished, and sometiems dies, based on actions and understanding.

We are born into the asylum of life.
From the first breath we are shuffled from room to room
Looked at, poked, prodded, tested, tweaked, popped, perked, vivisected, disected,stuck, bent over, made to cough, turn our heads, pose, smile, frown, and walk the straight line.
We are then categorized and pigeon holed as being cute or ugly, smart or dumb, jock or nerd, shy or popular, loved or hated, a success or failure.
We are then labeled christian, pagan, jew, prep, punk, goth, rebel, geek, hick, outcast, or reject, comformist or misfit
In this asylum almost all have a labels and those that defy any form labels are put into soliarty confinement until the pressure becomes too much and the egg cracks, cooks and scrambles. Until the metal softens and bends and becomes maliable. Or the pressure is too much and they crumble back into the dust from which we came.
Rarely a gem is formed from the coal souls that are put into this solitary pressure. Hard, rough, but with an inner beauty that defies description and causes envy and jealousy in all that behold it.
still others transend their confines and fly from the padded cells of the asylum and away from the world that others know into the unknown..into the abyss that the orderlies fear and dread in their darkest dreams. They soar away , free from all confines and worries..into the morn
leaving the asylum and the inmates far below as they streak towards heaven

MST3K now available on 3 dvd set....*drool*

oh. almost forgot.
I am getting fresh inck on my right arm..nice sized tribal that with extent almost to me elbow and cover up one..maybe both of the tats already there.
pictures to follow

YOu must enter Yule Art for ULLR
or else

=p

I know its a week late but...merry christmas*evil laugh*

The Letter

    One night around the beginning of the new-year and while walking my dog I found an old clay jar that had been shoved into the hollow of an old cypress tree. Naturally curious I carefully pulled it from it resting spot to examine the artifact.
    The entire jar was large enough to fit in one of my hands. The body was about the size of a softball and covered with crude drawings of deer and children. The neck was roughly the diameter of my thumb and I could tell that it had been dipped in a red wax that, oddly, smelled of cinnamon and spice. The top had a cork shoved into it that the wax had concealed at one time but the extreme cold had flaked the wax from the top so I pulled my pocket knife from hiding and proceeded to dig the cork out. After a few minutes what remained of the cork finally fell from the neck to reveal the prize within the container.
    Inside was a small rolled piece of paper. I turned the jar on its end and the parchment fell into my hand and unrolled. The writing was very childish and seemed to have been scribbled with a piece of charcoal but it was clear enough to read.
    I could give you the general gist of the letter but I thought it would be more fun to transcribe it in its entirety to you. Here it is and I hope you enjoy reading it.

    “ Help! I hope someone finds this letter. If anyone in this world still cares enough pay attention to these words. I almost don’t know where to start but I’ll try to start at the beginning. I can’t remember my name. I’ve been called Hey You for so long that I almost think that is my name. I do remember how I got here, though.
    I remember living in a house with people that weren’t my parents but that took care of me because my parents didn’t want me. They were good people for the most part but they had five natural children and three other foster children aside from me. It went without saying that some children wouldn’t get a lot of attention but I felt that I never got any. I was ten years old and the youngest of the nine kids. I felt that I was just a way for these people to get a little more money from state. I was unhappy and, by the time I was eleven I was acting in ways that let everyone know that.
    I was constantly getting into trouble to try to get my foster parents to send me back into the system but they refused. Maybe they really did love me but I never saw the proof.
    Shortly before my twelfth birthday I started imagining a man that would come a rescue me from everything. He would take me to his home and he and his wife would love me forever. I wished with all my heart that this would happen. One night I finally got what I wished for. But, remember the old saying about getting what you wish for?
    The night before my twelfth birthday I lay in my bed crying and wishing for something when it happened. The night seemed to get darker and it grew eerily silent. There was no movement outside at all. There were no winds, no birds or crickets; nothing seemed to move, except me.
    I slowly crawled out of bed and started toward the window. I couldn’t resist; I seemed bewitched. Besides that, my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I reached the window and flung it open as hard as my eleven year old arms could. The windows should have banged against the side of the house and made a lot of noise but it was like watching a silent movie. No noise at all.
    I looked around outside and saw him. The kindly old man that I had dreamed would take me away to paradise was outside my window smiling and beckoning me to join him. I didn’t hesitate one moment. In hindsight I wish I had thought it through first. I leapt from my window and into my future. The year was 1947.
    Everyday I wish I had never followed that old, fat man. He took me away all right. He took me to his house to meet his wife and the others that were there and still are. His demeanor changed as soon as we reached his “shop”. He opened the door to show me what would become my prison, my hell, from then until I die. As I stood there looking at the place in astonishment he grabbed the back of my neck and shoved me into the shed. He told me to get to work as he shut the door.
    It was, and is, no more than a sweatshop. There were hundreds of other kids in the warehouse all in different clothing from various times in history but all were working hard. None seemed to notice me but I saw an empty stool and seemed drawn to it for some reason. I set down and felt a compulsion to pick up the tools and start working.
    It seemed like I worked for years before I became somewhat aware again. I was working on toys when the door opened and he threw another into the room. A thought flashed through my mind that there was no room at the table for this newcomer then I heard a horrific scream of pain from the farthest chair. The child there had burst into flames and disintegrated before my eyes. I was horrified! Was this what was to become of us all? Were we all that disposable? I tried to get up. I wanted to run but I couldn’t. My waist and legs seemed to be paralyzed somehow. A sense of fear ran through me that I had never felt in my life. Oh, how I wanted to be with my foster parents again.
    The new child started for his stool the way I had gone for mine but I grabbed his arm as he passed by and he seemed to snap out of the trance he was in. I asked his name; how he got here; if he knew what year it was; if he had seen anything to give any indication as to where we were; and I pleaded with him not to sit in that stool.
    He cocked his head back and laughed a little. He said that I must be slow to not know where I was. He asked where else does it snow all year round other than here? He said that the year was 1976 and that he couldn’t help but to sit in the seat it was an all-driving force. He answered my last question as he set in his stool.
    He slowly set down and said very solemnly:’ Why, I’m here for the same reason you are; I was naughty. That’s why we’re all here. This is where the naughty kids go. We serve him until our time is done then he gets another one.’
    All the information hit me like a freight train. 1976? How? I was still eleven. Was this some kind of magic, like the child bursting into flames? What was going on? The only place it snows all year long? We’re naught and that’s why we’re here? What was going on? Who was this guy? Who did he think he was? Then it hit me and I knew. I knew who my sadistic kidnapper was and I should have know from the moment I first saw him.
    I soon discovered that the other children could talk they had just lost the will to try after being here for so long. After some time I pieced everything together about our abductor. He was a manic-depressive with delusions of grandeur and anti-social behavior. He was an old wizard that had been run out of his village hundreds of years ago for kidnapping and murdering children who he deemed evil. He was so much of an alcoholic that his nose and cheeks were perpetually red. He was a glutton when it came to food. He would eat enough food to fill up three men and, if he didn’t get enough, he would go to his coral and kill a deer so he could eat it raw. He hated children with a passion. There was talk that his hatred was the fuel for his magic that kept him alive and us in his perpetual service. It was depressing and seemed truly hopeless.
    We kept track of time by asking the year when a new person was tossed into the prison. 1984. 1992. 2001. 2010. The years flew by and my friend died to be replaced by more hapless souls. I almost welcomed my time but it was unnerving because there was no set interval of time between abductions. It was as if he just went out when the mood hit him. It got to be so much one day that I took the screwdriver I had and tried to stab my leg. I thought that, maybe, if I punctured a major vein in my numb legs then I could peacefully bleed to death. A split second before the tool would’ve hit my leg it hit something invisible and stabbed my stool knocking a large chunk from the seat. Then, the greatest thing in my life happened; I could feel the toes on my right foot!
    I could feel my toes! This was great! It meant that there was a way out of the prison. I started chipping away and the more I chipped the more of my body I could feel become mine again. I was frantic to get lose. After hours, or years, I was able to chip enough away to stand! It was a glorious day! I could sneak out and find help. I could shut this psychopath down. The best part was my muscles had not become atrophied. The same spell that had preserved my body had kept my muscles from atrophying. This was great!
    I snuck to the door and the thought flashed through my head that the door was probably locked from the outside. This was discouraging but I had to try. Slowly, quietly I reached for the ancient knob and I turned it hoping against hope. My hoping paid off. It was unlocked and I readied myself to open the door and find freedom.
    I opened the door and took my first steps outside in over sixty years. I walked slowly at first then with more confidence as I got further from the shack that had housed me for so long. I was afraid that the snow would crunch and alert my oppressor but, like that night so long ago, there was no noise. This was probably put in place so he could sneak up on us to make sure we were still working but now I would use it to my advantage.
    I crept behind his house and away from his prison. I would make my way to the nearest authority and alert them to this mad man’s whereabouts. I would free my friends and I would see the man hung. I would make my way through this snow. I would find someone.
    I was about two hundred yards from his house when the snow and wind got so bad that I couldn’t see behind me or in front then it died and I found myself in the park where I am now writing this.
    I have no idea where this man is but I feel that he will soon be after more children. I hope that someone finds the jar that I’ll put this note in and can piece together the location of the others though old myths and legends. I feel myself aging at an accelerated rate now so I may very well be dead before too long. Don’t worry about me because I am lost. Find the others and free them. He must be stopped. His evil must be put to an end and everyone must know the real dangers of this man.
He must be stopped. Please, for the sake of the others, stop Kringle”

    I told you it was an interesting little story. The fact that someone would try to desecrate such an old holiday favorite like Santa Claus is revolting. Santa has always been such a sweet icon for a great time of the year.
    Still…they did find the body of that old guy not far from where I found the letter and he was wearing children’s clothes from the forties and had an odd looking little screwdriver in his hand.
    But it doesn’t matter because there really is no such thing as Santa Claus. Right?
   

old story of mine.


    I know not how much time I have left, nor do I know how much time I wish to have, but they will be here soon so I must make this letter as concise as possible and as short as possible, as well.
    They? That’s the word I use because I know no other way to describe them. They will take me to a place of unimaginable horrors where my flesh will be eaten by bloated worms and my soul will be torn apart only to be reconstructed so that the process can repeated for all eternity. 
    It’s my fault, really. I suppose it was my fault but, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I was fated to end my life in this retched situation. I had always been interested in the metaphysical, even as a child. Maybe the elder gods don’t like humans learning of them and there secrets. Maybe they set traps for people who learn too much. 
    The truth is that, being from a wealthy family, I was blessed and cursed with ample free time in which to daydream and ponder about strange and wondrous things. Since childhood I have been fascinated with the occult and in the Elder Gods and the horrible powers that they were reputed to posses, powers beyond even our God’s imagination. It was this fascination with the bizarre that led me to that dilapidated bookstore on an unwholesome street in the most putrid part of the city’s slums. There is where, I had been told, I could find any book I wished on the occult. My informant said I could find the one book I had been searching for and he was right. As I walked into that run down shack I saw what I had been looking for most of my adult life. There, on the first shelf in the store and covered in dust was the Tal’Mi’Uth. This wasn’t a copy that anyone could buy at a two bit, retail bookstore. No, this was one of the original versions left in the world. It had been written thousands of years ago in the ancient language of the Sumerians and, unlike modern translations, left nothing out. I looked around for an attendant but I failed to find one. Finally, after waiting impatiently for about fifteen minutes and making plenty of noise, I grabbed the book off the shelf. I put the money on I had brought on the counter and I headed out the door with my new, unholy plaything. I cannot swear by it but I remember hearing the faint sound of laughter as I left. 
    Now that I think about it maybe I was supposed to find that book so I could bring about my own, untimely, demise. 
    It is useless to blame anyone, or anything, other than myself because it was I who hunted for the cursed book. It was I who purchased the damnable tome. It was I, the adventure seeking fool, who delved into the pages of damnation. It was I who, in the end, brought this damnation upon myself. 
    I spent months after that fateful night, translating and retranslating the tome. I checked and double-checked my research and myself so many times that all I could think of was the wondrous volume of magic that awaited me. All I could dream about at night was the fantastic worlds and marvelous sights that I would see. It was going to be the grandest adventure of my life and I couldn’t wait for it to begin. 
    After I was positive of the translation I spent even more time preparing an old study for the up coming rites that were to be performed. I began to eat only bread and drink only water to purify my body for the journeys ahead. I also crafted all the tools that were to be used in the ceremonies as well as my robes. I was more prepared and more excited about this than I had been of anything else in my life. 
    One night, almost three years after I had purchased the book, I performed my first ritual. First, I nervously recited the ancient words to call forth the guardian to keep watch over the mystic portal I was going to create. If the words were recited properly the guardian would protect the portal the gate and my, physical body, with his life. If the spell were not recited properly the guardian would utterly destroy me as well as anyone else who came near the gateway. When the guardian arrived it was in the form of five flaming swords of fire. Each sword was as long as a man is tall and ready to strike down any interloper. I breathed a sigh of relief when the swords didn’t strike me down. This was a sign that all my hard work was, finally, paying off. 
    Being more confident and reassured about my abilities I called forth the gate and proceeded onward into another dimension. I cannot tell much of what transpired in that other world because I was sworn to secrecy by it’s ruler and god. What I can say is that it was beauty beyond compare. The average person would go blind if he gazed upon the splendor for too long. After I returned from that world I was melancholy for a time because I had left such a beautiful plane but I consoled myself by telling myself that there were even more beautiful worlds out there for me to explore. 
    Over the ensuing months I visited many more worlds and I even interacted with some of the creatures in those worlds. Worlds inhabited by sentient rodents; worlds where humans had never developed an opposable thumb but pigs had; worlds with creatures that shared a super conscience; worlds ruled by giant bacteria; even a few worlds with humans. The names of these worlds were as varied as their inhabitants. Names like Roth, Ishtar, Mongaria, and Durham, as well as names I would not dare pronounce with just one human tongue. 
    All the time I was traveling I was learning and being filled with power. I learned many things about the ancient gods and their powers. I even learned a little about our own creator. Never once, in all my journeys, was I ever fearful. Never once was I scared for my soul and my sanity. Never, until I reached the wretched world of Tultoth
    This nightmare of a world was such an assault on the senses that, even in my astral form, the odor was overpowering. Everywhere was fetid death. Bloated, decaying corpses of creatures big and small laid in hills as tall as any skyscrapers and these were pits as deep as the ocean. Everywhere I looked there were maggots as large as a person’s forearm and they were feasting upon the dead bodies that lay everywhere. Chained to the walls were men, or creatures, which screamed in pain as small, hunched, troll like creatures with feline faces and razor sharp claws feasted on the entrails of these living creatures. There were other things occurring elsewhere on this ungodly plane; things that would drive me mad to describe them again. Everywhere was heard the sounds of pain and anguish, suffering and pleads to respective gods to end it all. I came to the conclusion that, if this wasn’t Hell, Hell couldn’t be much worse.
    As I observed in horror the things that were going on I became aware of creatures roaming freely. They were grotesque, horrid abominations that stood seven foot tall and were slender in frame. Their heads were large and conical in shape with four tentacles covering what could be assumed was a mouth. They glistened with a slime that also trailed behind them in iridescent colors of sickly green and bloody red. Watching these creatures repulsed me. Observing them filled me with loathing and fear.
    As I floated above this scene I became aware that my astral body was, somehow, being pulled closer to the ground and towards these creatures. I noticed that they were looking in my direction and performing some sort of magic spell. I was in shock because no one was supposed to see my astral form unless I wanted him or her to see me. Obviously, these creatures were sensitive to shifts in space and time and may have known about me the entire time. As I felt myself being drawn in I also felt a tremendous wave of psychic energy wash over my form. I almost passed out from the barrage of emotions that had been sent my way. I sensed that they had been waiting for me and that they were going to do things to me that even the Elder Gods wouldn’t condone. I felt such hatred towards me that I panicked. I started struggling against the psychic and magical attacks by using the disciplines that I had learned. Frantically I started casting random spells to break their concentration. 
    I was, finally, able to return to my study where I hastily shut the gate and un-summoned the guardian because I doubted that even it could defeat these creatures. I exited the study and was barely able to padlock the door and bolt it from the outside before I blacked out. 
    From what I’ve been told; a servant found me the next morning unconscious in the garden. I have no recollection of how I got there but my servants finally got me into the bed where I had feverishly slept for three days. When I awoke and was able to move about I checked the bolting and the padlock on my study to ensure that they were still intact. I found they were still there but I was too scared to enter the room for fear that the unholy creatures may be lying in wait on the other side. 
    Since that night in that horrible world I have tried every means at my disposal to erase those visions and memories from my mind. I can no longer sleep and drugs and alcohol don’t dull the pain anymore; they have just made me a slave. Nothing works and nothing will ever work because the image of the Hellish cesspool of a world is forever burned into my mind, or what’s left of my mind. 
    Just when I was settling down to a semi-normal life the most unimaginable thing happened earlier this evening. I was going to check the locks on the door to my study as I have done every night since that disturbing encounter occurred to reassure myself that those creatures hadn’t made their way into my world. As I left my room and proceeded down the hallway I heard a banging that filled me with dread. I made myself walk the length of the hall to the top of the staircase just as two of those things broke down the door of my study. My god, they're loose in this world. They’ve found me! That’s all I could think as I ran screaming down the hallway. I yelled for the servants to leave; whether they heard me I do not know and I don’t care. All I was concerned about was finding the most secluded room in the house. I entered the room and found a pen and paper to write this hurried letter and to commence in ending my life with the gun I’ve been carrying with me everyday since I awoke. I just pray that no one will ever find that damnable tome and that they don’t ……… what’s that sound?
    Oh God, the door!! They’re at the door!! They’re at the door and I forgot to lock it; I forgot to lock the damn door!! Oh dear god n…

random

1135 tracks in playlist, average track length: 4:12
Estimated playlist length: 79 hours 29 minutes 25 seconds

ok....geek time.

I managed to completely take apart my computer(its been dead for some time). crack open the other one I was using and instill 2 cdrom drive, 2 diskettes, and a slave hard drive.
essentially turning the one dead PC and the oen working one into on fully functional pc with twice the punch.

I know it may not be that hard..but for me ..it was like turning water to wine.
anyway..back to your normally scheduled life.

   There is an isle at the edge of the world. It's so small that only a sparse few seafarers even know if its existence. It’s a harsh, rocky land where nothing grows and only seagulls visit regularly. The waves crash against the rocks and have welcomed more than one ship to its doom and the crews of a dozen vessels have found their final resting places on the rocks of the dead isle. The storms that rage here are constant and violent often ripping topsoil from the land and flinging it into the swirling sea.
    Though the rocky shoreline and lack of vegetation are unwelcoming the island is not uninhabited. In the heart of the island stands a tower that resembles a skeletal finger jutting out from its grave. Its grey stone and crooked, crumbling façade seem as inhospitable and foreboding as the island it stands on.
    The tower holds but one, lone resident. His robes are coarse burlap that have been bleached white to resemble sea spray over rocks. He is a gaunt, tall, bald man with a long, grey beard the stops at his waist and arcane tattoos that are etched into his head in place of hair.
    His name is Dalmood though no one has called him by that name, or any other, in eons. He has been alone is his vigil and duty. At times he himself has forgotten what his exact task is but not now. Now he peers out the only window of his prison home and smiles an all knowing smile and says in a powerful yet tired voice:” It is only a matter of time, now.”




    “Get up, boy. GET UP! You’ve got a lot to do before you go see the old man. Get up I say!” With that a rather portly man turns over the cot where his nephew was supposed to have been sleeping. To his surprise, though, his nephew was nowhere to be found. Confused he turned to leave and find his wayward ward only to come nose to nose with the very lad he was seeking.
    “Hey, uncle Javanth, I was looking for you.” He said this with a wry smile and mischievous look. “What’s wrong, uncle? You look a little upset. I’ve taken care of all my chores plus some of yours.” He winked and gave his uncle's belly a nudge with his elbow.” You know, you’re getting slow in your old age.”
    “Sho’ hon, this is no time to joke.” His uncle snapped.
    Sho’ hon shrank away a little at the retort of this large man. He hadn’t expected to get yelled at by his usually jovial uncle.
    Javanth’s face softened when he realized that he may have hurt Sho’ hon’s feelings.
    “Look, son, I’ve raised as my own since your mother, my dear little sister, and her no good husband died. You were three summers old then and it’s been a rough fifteen summers since then. It’s been rough for me because I never intended to have kids. I had no idea what to do or how to be a father. It’s been hard on me but I have loved every minute of it. Sho, I want you to know that there has never been a point where I regretted my choice. The has never been a time where I didn’t love you or think of you as my own son.”
    Sho ‘hon was getting choked up and he could tell his uncle was also on the verge of letting a tear drop so he thought he’d try to lighten the mood.
    “You always loved me?” he asked, “Even when I burned the southern half of the village down?”
    That did it. His uncle left out a soft chuckle” Well, it was hard,” he smiled” but I still loved you. No one else in the village did but what do they know?”
    Sho ‘hon stepped back and smiled. He’d never known his uncle to show too much affection and emotion. His demeanor always seemed to match his appearance. It was something that resembled a cross between a walrus and a grizzly bear. Still, though, it was nice to see.
   “Thanks, uncle Javanth, I needed that, especially today.”
    Javanth regained his composure and gruffly said:” Let’s not get all mushy soft, now. I will tell you, and this stays between you and me. The journey to see the old man is different for everyone but it’s nothing to fear. You’ve just got to stroll up the path then he’s going to say some stuff. Maybe it’ll be the history of the island like he usually does and then he’ll give you your name…your true name and you’ll come down. When you get back, you’ll get your first tattoo and, poof, you’re a man.”
    “Well, “ Sho ‘hon asked, “ what happens after that?”
    “Well, my boy, the entire village gets together to eat and drink ourselves silly and pass out in the streets and all for you! But, remember, what I told you about the old man is just between you and me, ok? Now, clean this hut up before I get you for that prank. You heard me, lad, go!” Javanth’s voice was harsh but laced with sentimentality and humor. Today the boy he’d taken in to raise would become a man. Today, his sister’s wish would be fulfilled.
    “Yes, uncle.” Sho ‘hon drooped his shoulders slightly and tried to look crestfallen. In truth, though, he had never been more excited in his life.
     
    
 

    
    

   

OK. Here's the deal.
I have 6 invites to get a Gmail account. for those who dont know what that is, its googles new email system but its by invite only and its in beta(not public yet).
The biggest plus to this one? 1 gig of FREE space plus loads fo extra stuff from the great guys at google.

BUT not just anyone gets an invite.=p
let me know whether you want one or not and how badly you want one. WE'll see who the true geeks are

Jeez this place is empty.
*echo*
I guess I should try to fill it up again.