'Tis a short& sweet nature show....

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I am confused and shocked over the behavior of a "friend". I don't need to tell the Whole story...just the results. I was talking with a very good friend...when some upsetting news came up. Well...as usual there was an overreaction, and i was made to feel badly about myself. I'm beginning to think that I need to bundle my conversation in Bubble Wrap! I mean i am never allowed to have news that isn't good, or careful!! And when this happens, i am told "I won't talk/deal with you about this". ...Then I get the ole Yahoo hang-up >.< I am so frustrated over this!!! The thing is, i Love this friend...when things are good, it's Wonderful! ~ But what of this? How can you have a friend when they won't deal with the hard times...won't even discuss them!? I can't make life be a 100% joyride...I Love joy...I thrive on it...none the less, bad things do happen to good people. It's unavoidable! I am just very very sad that i'm not allowed to be a whole person with this friend, and I've no idea what the solution is
My mom used to call those friends "Sunshine Friend's"...because they were nowhere to be found when the skies turned grey. But I really need an 'All weather friend'....Don't we all? Well...I refuse to be made to feel bad...He will have to own that...About being left hanging...I suppose i'll fall at some point. After all this practice tho...I'm hoping it won't hurt too much. (Which of coarse it will...but being left hanging is damn uncomfortable too.)

Your Birthdate: September 24 



You understand people well and are a natural born therapist.
A peacemaker, people always seem to get along when you are around.
You tend to be a father or mother figure to friends, even to those older than you.
You enjoy your role, and you find that you are close to many people.

Your strength: Your devotion

Your weakness: Reliance on others for happiness

Your power color: Lilac

Your power symbol: Heart

Your power month: June 

I wonder what is wrong with people who are forever thinking
that someone is jealous of them?
I suppose that their egos have eaten their brains...

Man...this whole thing makes me feel really young, and not in a good way.

I'm trying to think what it is exactly. Do you ever remember having a friend, or maybe a parent...But whenever you felt really bad,they would take the chance to make you feel just a little worse.

I know that it was a complicated, difficult thing to talk about...but i hate not to know...to be sure what's going on. So i tried to figure it out...I needed to talk to find out. And no...everything i said wasn't nice. But i swear that i wasn't trying to be mean. But Damnit, if everything isn't "pretty" and nice, does that make me a horrible person?
I hate that i can't have a problem that's not "nice". I guess i don't know how to talk about some things...but it's also wrong to say bad things about me while i'm struggling with it.

to be continued..

Un uh...Not this time Fucktards....I'm onto your games >.<

          Perfume
         By Patrick Suskind
               
           Chapter One


In eighteeth-century France there lived a man who was one of the most gifted and abominable personages in an era that knew no lack of gifted personages. His story will be told here. His name was Jean-Baptiste-Grenouille, and if his name-in contrast to the names of other gifted abominations, De Sades, for instance, or Saint-Justs, Fouche, Bonapartes, etc. - has been forgotten today, it is certainly not because Grenouille fell short of those more famous blackguards when it came to arrogance, Misanthropy, Imortality, or, more succinctly, Wickedness, but because his gifts and his sole ambition were restricted to a domain that leaves no traces in history: to the fleeting realm of scent.
In the period of which we speak, there reigned in the cities a stench barley conceivable to us modern men and women. The streets stank of mouldering wood and rat droppings, the kitchens of spoiled cabbage and mutton fat; the unaired parlours stank of stale dust, the bedrooms of greasy sheets, damp featherboards, and pungently sweet aroma chamber-pots. The stench of caustic lyes from the tanneries, and from the slaughter houses came the stench of congealed blood. People stank of sweat and unwashed clothes; from there mouthes came the stench of rotting teeth, from their bellies that of onions, and from there bodies, if they were no longer very young, came the stench of rancid cheese and sour milk and tumerous disease. The rivers sank, the marketplaces stank, the churches stank, it stank beneath the bridges and in the palaces. The peasant stank as did the priest, the apprentice as did his masters wife, the whole of the arisocracy stank, even the king himself stank like rank lion. and the Queen like an old goat, summer and winter. for in the eighteenth century there was nothing to hinder bacteria and decomposition, and so there was no human activity, either constructive or destructive, no manifestation of germinating or decaying life, that was not accomppanied by stench.
and of course the stench was foulest in Paris, for Paris was the largest city in France. And in turn there was a spot in Paris under the sway of particularly fiendish stench: Between the Rue Aux Fers and the Rue De La Ferronnerie, the cimetiere Des Innocents to be exact. For eight hundred years the dead had been brought here from hotel-dieu and from the surrounding parish churches, for eight hundred years day in day out, corpses by the dozen had been carted here and tossed into long ditches, stacked bone upon bone for eight hundred years in the tombs and charnel houses. Only later-on the eve of the revolution, after several of the grave pits had caved in and the stench had driven the graveyards neighbours to more than mere protest and to actual insurrection-was it finally closed and abandoned. Millons of bones and skulls were shovelled into the catacombs of montmartre and in its place a food market was erected.
Here, then on the most putrid spot in the whole kingdom, Jean-Baptiste-Genouille was born on 17 July 1738. it was one of the hottest days of the year. the heat lay leaden upon the graveyard, squeezing its putrefying vapour, a blend of rotting melon and the fetid odour of burnt animal horn, out into the nearby alleys. When the labour pains began, Grenouille’s mother was standing at a fish stalll in the Rue Aux Fers, scaling whiting that she had just gutted. The fish ostensibly taken that very morning from the seine, already stank so vilely that the smell masked the odour of corpses. Grenouilles mother, however, percieved the odour neither of fish nor of the corpses, for her sense of smell had been utterly dulled, besides which her belly hurt and the pain deadened all susceptibility to sensate impressions. She only wanted the pain to stop, she wanted to put this revolting birth behind her as quickly as possible. it was her fifth. she had effected all the others here at the fish booth, and all had been still births, or semi-stilLbirths, for the bloody meat that emerged had not differed greatly from the the fish guts that lay there already, nor had lived much longer, and by evening the whole mess had been shovelled away and carted off to the graveyard or to down to the river. It would be much the same today, and Grenouille’s mother, who was still a young woman, barley in her mid-twenties, and who still was quite pretty and had almost all her teeth in her mouth and some hair on her head and-except for gout and syphilis and a touch of consumption-suffered from no serious disease.
who still hoped to live awhile yet, perhaps a good five or ten years, and perhaps even marry one day and as the honuorable wife of a widower with trade or some such to bear real children...Grenouille’s mother wished that it were already over. And when the final contractions began.
She squatted down under the gutting table and there gave birth, as she had done four times before, and cut the new born things umbilical cord with a gutting knife. but then, on account of the heat and the stench, which she did not perceive as such but only as an unbearable, numbing something-like a field of lillies or a small roomed filled with too many narcissi-she grew fiant, toppled to one side fell out from under the table into the street, and lay there knife in hand tumult and turmoil. The crowd stands in a circle around her, staring, someone hails the police. The woman with the knife in her hand is lying in the street. slowly she comes to.
What happened to her?
‘nothing.’
what is she doing with that knife?
‘nothing.’
where does the blood on her skirt come from?
‘from the fish.’
She stands up, tosses the knife aside, and walks off to wash.
and then unexpectedly, the infant under the gutting table starts to squall. they look, and beneath a swarm of flies and amid the offal and fish heads they discover a newborn child. they pull it out. As prescribed by law, they give it to a wet nurse and arrest the mother. and since she confesses, openly admitting that she would definatley have let the poor thing perish, just as she had with the those other four by the way, she is tried, found guilty of multiple infanticide, and a few weeks later decapitated at the place De Greve.
By that time the child had already changed wet nurses three times. no one wanted to keep it for more than a couple of days. It was too greedy, they said , sucked as much as two babies, deprived the other sucklings of milk and them, the wt nurses of their livleihood, for it was impossible to make a living just one babe. The police officer in charge a man name la fosse, instantly wearied of the matter and wanted to have the child sent to a halfway house for fondlings and orphans at the far end of the Rue Saint-Antoine, from which transports of children were dispatched daily to the great public orphanage in Rouen. But since these conveys were made up of porters who carried bark baskets into which , for reasons of economy, up to four infants were placed at a time; since there for the morality on the road was extraordinarily high; since for that reason the porters were urged to convey only baptized infants and only those furnished with an offical certificate of transport to be stamped upon arrival in Rouen; since the baby Grenouille had neither been baptized nor recieved even so much as a name to inscribe officially on the certificate of transport; since, moreover, it would not have been good form for the police anonymously to set a child at the gates of the halfway house, which would have been the only way to save the other formalities...thus, because of a whole series of bureaucratic and administrative difficulties that seemed likely to occur if the child were shunted aside, and because time was short aswell, officer La fosse revoked his original decision and gave intructions for the boy to be handed over with a written receipt to some ecclesiasticial institution or other, so that they could baptize him and decided his further fate. he got rid of him at the cloister of Saint-Merri in the Rue Siant-Martin. There they baptized him with the name Jean-Baptiste. and because on that day the prior was in a good mood and the elemossynary fund not yet exhasted, they did not have the child shipped to Rouen. but instead pampered him at the cloister’s expense. To this end , he was given to a wet nurse named Jeanne Bussie who lived in the siant-Denis and was to receive, until further notice, three francs per week for her trouble.

Grrrrrr. *Still hates the 10 image rule*!!!!

OK..this is seriously wierd...
my kitty brought a bird in this morning...
i reached for it, as it didn't look hurt,
kitty dropped it and it swooped toward my head...i did my "horrow show"scream....and birdie went up to the beams and perched there,
What now?...a waiting game??
It seriously freaks me out...i do NOT like birds inside...Eeeep!

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, why sure Atridane...i have links on my house that you may press any time you'd like to see.( my art )
Really....no artistic ability at all? You are so delightfully clever tho..that's an art all in itself! :)

Cool! I'm an autumn lover too! At some point in my life...some years ago...i picked up on the melancholily inherent in autumn...it messes with my love of it...but still, i'll love it forever. I love the smell of that season...the apples in the cool air...the smell of the leaves.......saying goodbye to the lake, to my garden, to all the living things i love...

Spring is much more seductive... a sunny day....a few first blooms....Mother earth is a sexy bitch...she knows we are all waiting for her to make the first move...  I'm patient with her, more than not...wow she used to try my patience....

So tell me all about what's going on,my friend....we still need that one day, you and i,,,to talk about Everything. I'll come see you this summer...
we may even need two days...hehe, i think we would.

I read everything Atridane...damn, why can't i remember your name...oh well.. I suggest some Richard Brautigan for you...just the thing..
But really, i love all sorts of writing...depending on my mood...
Do you have something to recommend me to read? I trust your opinion. :) You were a hippie from birth, hehe...i've never met anyone like you @.@ visit again Soon...
Much love,
J.Rae

Thank you janet,ooh what amurcyful people you are....thank you.
Ah if i'm to come there i'll do anything to make you happy and i'll never disobey you because i know where i'm coming from,world of surfering and i can do any work at home if possible day and night coz i want to work hard for my young relatives too.janet even in farms i'm very ready to work during holidays i'll work with one heart


sory to hear how does young people in your would behave,you know why because they are rich thats why they see sturding useless?
ooh God,anyway sendind my greetings to jack..tell him that proud of him too,he is soo murciful too.

  You know me sooo well !


"Come spring we can use the formula... janet, plus water, = happy girl"

Hehee...Good ole Gary Larson...



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