tadah!...

This is what I found while I was surfing in wikipedia.


Meet the Möbius Strip:



He may not talk much, but this is one pretty cool little guy.

By the way, Mobius is supposed to be spelled with an o with an umlaut (Two dots on top of the o)

What makes him so cool?

Well, it's only got one side. If were to run my finger along the length of this strip, I would be able to run it all around the strip and back to its starting point without ever having to cross over an edge. I just made my finger feel like Magellan! XD

A model of a Möbius strip can be constructed by joining the ends of a strip of paper with a single half-twist. Humor me and try this at home. Ask you mom for help with the scissors :P








Then paste the ends together.



Yeah, that's me, my sketchpad and a webcam.

Notice the black line along the length of the strip?

Wikipedia says: "Cutting a Möbius strip along the center line yields one long strip with two full twists in it, rather than two separate strips; the result is not a Möbius strip."





Surprising? Hey, don't take my word for it. Try it yourself.

Wanna know what happens if you cut this like you did with the Mobius strip?



Okay, so you probably knew about this Möbius strip already, but cool no?

See what happens if the strip is cut along about a third of the way in from the edge, as in two cuts that divide the strip to three small strips.

It was a clear and starlit night; no rain fell, not the slightest tempest – except when the breeze briefly fluttered among the foliage of the woods and flapped the curtains of the window.  The moon was not in the sky, and had it been there, it would witness no horrific sight, and would have instead illuminated the gentle autumn scene. No wolf howled from afar. No ominous silence pressed its blanket on your house. Nightingales sang in the distance.

The stars were many, and they lit the clearness of the sky. No strange, unknown creatures flew above, and only the owl was flying in search of prey. No wicked women on flying broomsticks are to be seen. The bats that flew across were just bats.

Suspicious shapes did not lurk amidst the trees. No eerie, haunted eyes stared hungrily from them. The boughs did not creak threateningly; the branches did not whisper dangerous things to each other. The gnarled timbers failed to move when there was no gust, but followed benignly the whispers of the wind. There were merely squirrels and birds in the woods, some sleeping soundly, some busy with anticipation of the winter to come.

The well beside your house remains quiet. There was no scraping within its stone walls. It was lit dimly by the stars, and it revealed a placid pool of cool and shallow water, not an abyss of cold and hungry darkness. No creature of the night tried to crawl out of it. No mournful, desperate cries were heard from any ghosts inside, which it did not have.

Nothing that craved your blood was crawling patiently up the walls of your house. Nothing was slowly climbing up it in anticipation of the kill. Nobody smelled for your scent as they climbed to the open window of your room, nor did any devil insect sinisterly poise its venomous sting as it crossed the window to come inside. The ivy did not creep up to strangle any soul in your home.

No dark-suited men were silently pacing across the rooms downstairs. No eyes saw the homely secrets of your living room, no nose smelled for the smells of your used clothes, no lips tasted the food in the fridge. No gloved fingers lightly touched the handles sticking out the knife stand, carefully selecting which was good for a nice and painful stab. Nobody killed the cat, who had witnessed nothing.

The stairs did not creak with the sound of something going upstairs, painfully slowly, knowing it had all the time in the world. The door to your room remained closed, the doorknob did not click, the hinges did nor creak.

There were no frantic scrabbling sounds from the closet, no persistent scratching noises. There was no monster in it. The dolls on the table did not turn their necks to grin sightlessly at you. There was no evil grin in their teeth; they did not wield any scissors. They sat still, and waited for the morning when you will play. No dark shape stared at you from inside the big mirror. Hands did not press hungrily at the glass surface, longing clutch you in its cold grasp.

There was nothing under the bed. No long, blackened fingers slowly emerged, crablike, to reach your neck. No bogeymen peeked with yellow eyes from underneath. The other side of the bed was empty. No old lady with red, red eyes, white hair and black dress lay beside you, laughing madly, or crying. The song of long dead children crying for their ghost mothers did not sing you to sleep.

I was not waiting silently in your room for your eyes to open and the dreadful things of night to give you fright. You were simply there, breathing lightly. And as you were deep in slumber the stars kept on twinkling and the nightingales kept on singing and a gentle breeze entered through the window to kiss you face with the fragrance of autumn. You were not disturbed. You had no adventures; you had no nightmares.

Litmus Test

 

Perhaps I’ll try a letter to you

To see how much you love me too

And then maybe I’ll be content

If you react with good intent

 

I’ll write to you a litmus test

To see how much you love me best

I’ll leave a letter when you wake

To say it’s better that we break

 

The letter that I’ll leave in your bed

Will be of litmus paper red

And if you would read what I reveal

The letter that you’ve read I’ll steal

 

And from the letter that remains

I’ll check for any tell-tale stains

For if I see it stained with blue

I’ll know how much you love me too

 

Note: Normal pH of tears of around 7.5[1] is not actually basic enough to turn red litmus paper fully blue (as in major major blue). Litmus starts transition from pH 4.5–8.5[2] so this is iffy. Artistic license was used.

Two

In the end, they had to check with the doctor in charge, who checked with the hospital records, who got checked by the custodian, who had to call the doctor who was present at the emergency room. Having found little from there, they had to check their details with the emergency services and the police to gather the following facts:

One, the man was found unconscious in a small alley near the suburbs of the city. No visible sign of injury was apparent to the old lady who found him. She had the mind to call the police to the scene and not touch him herself.  The policeman then called emergency services when he did not wake up even after prodding him vigorously with his baton[1].

Two, because he was found to have been unconscious in that alley for some three hours in the police’s estimate, somebody must have stolen his wallet and other personal paraphernalia he could have had. Nothing was left but his clothes.

Three, he was utterly and hopelessly clueless as to who he was and how did he get into that small alley. It was not as if he has no memories of his whatsoever though. He could talk, and he knew what things were called, but in the case of more specific experiences and memories, there was nothing. It irked him a lot.

It took most of the afternoon to work out all this information and for that span of time the man was in his room, occasionally being visited by doctors. Most of the time it was the nurse who found him that dropped in and got him updates on his condition. Apparently, the old woman who found him was wealthy and bored so arranged for the pricey hospital suite as a gesture of generosity.

The doctors told him that he was okay. He did not suffer from a major stroke, nor was there any bruising or whatnot on his brain. The rest of his body was fine as well, as far as they could see. The only thing exciting they could find were traces of several psychoactive drugs and other, err… complex thingies in his blood. They think it was more than just a far too wild night out. Foul play was suspected… or possibly that he had accidentally swallowed a psychiatrist’s medicine cabinet. Whatever it was, it certainly was enough to keep him in a coma for three days.

“Meanwhile, it’s important that you should have a name to call yourself while we work out who you are” said the nurse. They were alone in the room as she was checking up on him for the third time since he was awake. This time she was wearing green scrubs and rectangular rimmed glasses that made her look ridiculously cutesy as they were highlighted pink.

“Eh?” asked the man. “But I don’t know my real name yet…” he was uncertain. “I don’t know. I’d feel weird naming myself. You do it.”

“Oh I can’t do that. I hardly know you. You have to be the one to do it. Come on, think of it as a working title for yourself, eh?” she encouraged.

“Hmmm… I’ll have to think about it. I don’t really know if I can find a good one for myself. Got any suggestions?”

She was busy changing his IV drip and she was penning in some details on the chart as well. Over her shoulder she said “Well, I always wanted a more striking name than Jane. That’s my name, by the way, thanks for asking. Something not common, like Clint or, err, Niall.”

“What kind of name is Niall?” said the man. “I just want an ordinary name. Something that would make me feel like a normal person.” As he said that, he realized that he had told the truth and that it had hurt a bit to tell it.

“Okay, okay. We’ll find you a name” said Jane. “It should be something from the Bible I suppose, since you want a common name.”

It took the man quite a while to figure out what Jane talked about. Only after some time did he remember a book of holy writings and stories of a God. “You know,” he said “for a second there I had to remember what the bible is.”

“You forgot about the Bible? You must have been messed up pretty good to forget that sort of thing. That’s basic knowledge, back-of-the-brain stuff, that is.”

“Yeah? Well I can’t remember most of it too” said the man. “Could you… uh… refresh my memory a bit? I can’t remember any names from that book.”

“Well,” began Jane. She was done with her work and sat on the sofa near the bed.”There’s Adam…and Paul, and Peter, and John… Joseph?” She enumerated. “Simon, Aaron… the list goes on.”

“I like that” the man said. A smile started to play gently across his face, his eyes unfocused as he thought. “Yes. Definitely Adam.” He looked directly at Jane. “Call me Adam” he said brightly.

“Okay Adam” said Jane. She stood up and straightened out her scrubs. “Well, I’m just about done here so I gotta go. I’ll be checking up on you tonight, alright?” she said. She walked briskly to the door and closed it behind her.

Alone, the man that was now called Adam thought. From there he transitioned gently into sleep.

 

The Diary of Jane Harper

April 14, 2009 4:15 pm

It’s official. It is one of those days. Morning I woke up late and slightly hungover from last night and had to leave home without breakfast. Work was crazy today but I’m getting used to it. Mrs. Epperly was released today from her appendectomy so there’s a good thing at least. I found that boy from Room 113 bleeding half to death from his stitches when I checked up on him. Hope he’s okay. The worst part of the day was probably that and the fact that the vending machine just barfed coffee at my uniform when I got a cup for my after lunchtime sleepiness.

This afternoon I went to room 122 and found that cute guy who is staying there just woke up. As in, from a coma. The shocking thing is that he does not remember anything from his past at all. He’s coherent and he can speak and socialize okay although he does forget about a few basic everyday things. I know, I feel like I’m in a soap opera. I wouldn’t be surprised if that guy had an evil twin or something even more cliché. He doesn’t even know his name, so we named him Adam (I helped him recall names from the Bible, which he sort of forgot). I feel sorry for him.

I wonder what it would feel like to wake up one day and know nothing. You would be yourself but at the same time not be yourself without the memories of who you are, or were.

Scratch that. Would you still be yourself if all your memories disappear? I just don’t think there will be enough left without the memories of your childhood and your life and all of that. I mean, sure, people have innate personalities but personality is not even half of what makes a person who he or she is. Would I still be the same individual that I am now if somebody erased my memories or would I be a different consciousness? A different being or self or whatever you call it? Perhaps I would still be the same person albeit less of me than I was. Perhaps there is a soul separate from the sum of our memories of the past. Shit. I don’t know. This guy has got me philosophizing all of the sudden.

I’m covering for Laura’s night shift so I’m staying till twelve. I’m writing this now because I’ll probably be too tired to write after midnight.

Had this short story for a while now. karon pa ko kathink to post.

               The first thing you notice about the ceremony was the colors. Reds, blues, purples, pinks. Yellows. Lots of yellows. Oh, and greens too. Admittedly, there was some black around, but that was worn by the men and that was just because men’s suits were usually of that motif: blacks, grays, whites and browns. All the people were made up to look their best in light, casual wear: tasteful and smart, yet nothing too formal for this event. Again, it was the colors you noticed they were wearing.

                The tables were cleared and the food was brought to the back, for it was time for the ceremony. The delicate soufflés and steaks and suchlike had been one of the highlights of the event, for the food was rich, hearty but stylish too, and served with notable presentation. Taste was ever the watchword.

                The rows and rows of seats were fully occupied in the final silences before the beginning of the ceremony. The garden was alive with people and decorated with an exuberant theme. The central aisle was covered by red carpet. The lampstands were festooned by decorative silk.  The lighting was just the right brightness, emanating from the aforementioned lampstands lining the central aisle, the back area, and the small elevated stage at the front, flanking the podium and illuminating the cask. The celebratory colors of the party were conserved in the decorations. There were flowers at the front and in the aisles, they were lilies and daffodils.

                Then, the ceremony began. A man walked up the stage and stood on the podium and greeted everyone. He made a joke about a certain kind of bird and something about walking into a bar. There was much polite laughter. Encouraged, he went on to talk about the man in the cask. How he knew him, what he was known for, stuff like that. He left the podium afterwards, and was replaced by a woman. By this time the people had warmed up and listened quite attentively to the new speaker. They talked about hard times, sad times, funny times. Then she went back to her seat and gave way to the next speaker. So it went for several speeches, and there was much variety in the speakers. Some were boring, but that cannot be helped. Some of the people who spoke made some people laugh so hard they cried, some made some people cry so hard they laughed. There was much fervent agreeing, correcting, and general audience participation between the seated people and the people up front. One notable speaker merely said that though some may know him for this odd character or the principles he had “but” he added “we will remember him because he was the best. That is all”. Finally, the woman in a silly yellow dress had done her speech and made her exit, and it was time to close.

                The first man who came to the podium was back on the stage. “Ladies and Gentlemen” he spoke, his booming voice easily carrying out to the back row “we shall now bury the cask.” He said this with the evil grin of somebody about to uncover a special surprise, which he did. He snapped his fingers and some men in black suits discreetly lowered the cask into the traditional rectangular hole in the ground as the musicians played the music. It was, rather predictably in keeping with the theme, the third movement of Autumn by Vivaldi. Then, the fireworks display began. It was an impressive delight, and with the music, the people in the crowd were torn between bouts of awed silence and much cheering and laughing. At the final note, perfectly timed, the last and most spectacular specimen of decorative gunpowder exploded in midair.

                The cheering subsided. It was time to bury the man, and there was the expectant silence waiting for the final rite. The man on the podium walked to the mound of earth beside the hole where the cask was lowered. Behind him the men in suits picked up shovels and struck the mound, ready to bury the cask as soon as the ceremonial handful of dirt was thrown in. The man lowered his hand, grabbed a fistful of earth and then straightened up. There was a brief pause, a minute hesitation. Then, he said plainly, “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a final round of applause to our host, the one, and only…” and he spoke the name of the man in the cask. The handful of earth was flung to the hole, the men in suits promptly began to cover the pit with earth. Most importantly, there was a satisfyingly huge round of applause. It was a standing ovation. With much whistling in it. It took the better part of two minutes to finish, with much crying and laughter all over. That is how the ceremony ends.

One

A lot of stories say of the creation of the world as a birth from a dark place, where chaos was only unseen for no eyes were there to see it and even if there were, the darkness was absolute. First, there was darkness… then there was light. That is how they go. Some others yet say that the world has always existed, and that nothing really ever changes as the cycles of history repeat like winter from summer from spring. These are among the oldest of stories, these creatures who dwell in the jungle of humanity’s collective consciousness. These are motifs repeated from the dawn to the present time, shaping us since the light of day shone on the first men and women who sought to answer the riddle of “Who am I?” and “So where is this place anyway?”.

Then again, some people have always wondered if, before the beginning of the world, there was another world just like it. They wondered perhaps that that world had begun within another world and the one before that too. Maybe our world began just at the height of the civilization of the old world’s inhabitants, and through our birth the old universe was obliterated like the flower in full bloom lost to the urgency of the growing fruit.  Perhaps everything did change, and worlds did begin and end properly, but in the end everything had always been there. This is the middle ground, if you will.

This story begins at the middle.

In fact, this story begins at the beginning, which also happens to be at the middle[1]. This is the real start, not the one told in the old stores. It has been proven by all sorts of scientist and such if that makes you feel better. Here we go…

In the beginning, there was nothing… which exploded.

He was awoken by the exploding pain in his head which seared through various dormant parts of his brain. It was, by its very definition, a rude awakening. After a few moments of dwelling on the pain, he finally remembered that he had his eyes closed. He opened them, and wished he hadn’t.

The light of the white room added resonances to the pain. It now vibrated through his brain in various colorful harmonics. He shut his eyes. He coughed, because a scream would make his head hurt and a grunt wouldn’t quite convey the feelings he was having. He coughed again. He did a third one for good measure.

There was silence for a while as he slowly came to terms with the kaleidoscope of electric sensations in his head. The pain subsided hesitantly to a level which was manageable enough for the moment. He tried opening his time again, but cautiously squinting.

He was in a well lit room. There was a table beside him. It had a phone on it. He was lying on a clean white bed, and the sheets were also white. It smelled sterile here, and the small room with the wide window which he surveyed had the feeling of impersonal accommodation. It was almost mistaken for a hotel room until the person saw beside him a monitor with a wire connected to his finger. It was on a steel stand along with some strange instruments. An IV drip was inserted into the veins of his left hand.

He was in a hospital, he concluded, and that he had just suffered from something. There were no fresh scars or bandages on his body that he could see and the only sore body part that he was aware of was his head. He must have been sick then, he thought. As he scanned the room again, familiarizing himself with his new environment, he was beginning to feel a prickling annoyance that he was missing something important. Some crucial mental step was eluding him, and even what it is that he wasn’t doing wasn’t known. It was a pebble in his shoe.

Meanwhile, he waited for something to happen, and by virtue of not wanting to waste paper space, something did promptly happen.

The hospital door opened. A nurse came in. She was wearing the general white color of all nurses, along with a determined and eager expression of somebody new to the job.  She went in, leaned through another door (let us assume this led to the bathroom with a mirror and sink because we cannot think of any other explanation to this behavior) presumably to check her reflection and then got back to the big room. She then realized that there was another person in the room.

“Oh.” She said “Hello.”

“Hi” the guy said hoarsely.

There was an uncertain pause before the nurse asked “Are you new here?”

“Mmm…”

The nurse went to his bed and took a clipboard which was hanged on the side.

“It says here you’re supposed to be comatose” said the nurse accusingly to the person in the bed.

This was met with a blank stare from the man. “That would explain the headache, I suppose” he said slowly.

“Oh, right. So you just woke up Mister, err…” the nurse read the clipboard again and stopped. “I’m sorry. The chart doesn’t have your name on it. What are you called?” she asked pleasantly.

It suddenly occurred to the man what he was missing since he woke up. Where others upon waking would gather their thoughts and recall who they were and what it was they were going to do, he woke up and there was nothing. He had forgotten his name.

“Oh, bollocks.”

Prologue

The Librarian who was writing on his desk seemed on edge. His long nose was channeling a bead of sweat precariously balanced at the tip. Aside from the sweating, his adam’s apple was bobbing up and down his throat and his lower left eyelid was twitching gently. He worked at a furious pace. No sound could be heard in the entire library.

Apart from those details, however, evidence would suggest that the Librarian was in an overall well-off state. His gold rimmed pince-nez shaded with a slight blue tint was clear and sparkly on his vaguely pleasant face. His fountain pen, though sliding back and forth speedily on the piece of card he was writing on was inscribing even, regular cursive. His hair was only slightly tussled.

The man himself looked somewhere around his late forties. He was a tall, imposing figure and even with his slightly thin build, he had an aura that made people slightly uneasy around him. His features were overlaid with a patina which is not exactly of elegance; reservation, perhaps, or quiet politeness.

After about thirty seconds of writing, what he was doing seemed to be near completion. With a few final strokes his strange sweeping signature was affixed to the bottom right corner of the card and with the final line, something finally happened.

The lines of ink on the Librarian’s signature began to glow, and in a few moments bright beams of golden-white sunlight lanced from them. A second later the rest of the text started to glow as well, though not as brightly. With a final flash the card shone with fierce brilliance before the light extinguished abruptly from a new looking shiny rectangle of print and signature.

Satisfied, the Librarian took the card and ran to a wall at the end of his vast office, leaving pen and pince-nez behind. Footsteps other than his own could be heard walking in a lethargic pace, and though he ran, each clack of the shoes that pursued him sounded closer and closer to where he was. He reached the wall and slotted the card into what looked like a small rusty iron drop box and was about to bend over to the opening to whisper something to it when his shoulder was gripped with force by his pursuer.

It had caught him, and so he sighed and straightened up, not facing his pursuer yet. It was too late to name an address to where the box sent his card, but he knew that it would be sent to somebody nearby, so he hoped that help was coming.

“Even if you manage to capture me now, reinforcement in forthcoming “said the Librarian bravely. There was a flash of danger on his tawny yellow eyes. Sparks earthed themselves on the Librarian’s fingertips. A rustling of what seemed like wind blew through the adjacent shelves of books, and small whispers and sighs followed the breeze. The pale gripping hand released his shoulder.

“It is too late now” said the pursuer. His voice was slow cold poison and a bubbling undercurrent of wrath. “There is no escape”.

                The Librarian swiftly turned to face his enemy and was now face to face with him, his yellow eyes staring into pools of dark night.

Messages to Cupid.

 

Dear Mr. Cupid.

As you may know, on Thursday, November 22, 2001 at exactly 9:53 AM you have fired an arrow to my direction. I was hit, quite badly in fact, squarely on the chest. Now I am smitten for some rich selfish oaf. I gravely resent that you have chosen to pair me up with him. He is a self-absorbed, stuck-up jackass who is insensitive, lazy and irresponsible. He has no tact whatsoever. He has a very “interesting” sense of humor and he smiles like a madman and the most offensive part is that I melt inside when he does. He smells nice. We are happily married with three children. There is no need for an apology. Rest assured I will be suing you for damages.

Christine Johnson

District Attorney

Received November 22, 2009

 

 

 

November 24, 2009. 8:38 PM

F*ck. You just shot me, didn’t you? Just saw Anne today and got this horrible warm gut feeling.

 

November 28. 10:21 PM

This ain’t fair. You already shot me once. I can’t have another hit. We talked alone today. I had a great time.

 

November 29. 1:25 AM

Can’t stop thinking about her. Dammit.

 

December 2. 6:45 PM

Saw her with her boyfriend Ivern today. They were on a date. Ouch.

 

December 4. 10:15 AM

If I ever see your face again I’m gonna kick your ass, did you know that? We keep talking after work. Do you know how it kills that it’s just her and me there? Do you?

 

December 9. 5:52 PM

Talked with Gayle today. She told me a lot of things. She told me Anne likes me.

 

December 9. 11:47 PM

Help. Tell me what to do. Should I tell her? But it’s kinda wrong. Oh hell.

 

December 10. 2:39 PM

I told her.

 

December 10. 7:28 PM

We talked for two hours or so. She told me she liked me. I don’t know where that leaves us. Should I call her?

December 11. 2:04 AM

To hell with you, you’re the one who got me into this.

 

December 11. 8:36 AM

She told me she’s left him. I feel a little sorry for Ivern. However, I do have a good feeling about the whole thing. This is it. No second thoughts. Guess I have to tell Clarissa that I’m breaking up with her.

 

Status updates from a Liam Emerson.

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t get how she doesn’t get how pretty she is. I mean, it's unthinkable. Her face is, in a word, interesting. It’s beautiful with some uncommon quality, a kind of foreign beauty. She smiles perfectly. When it’s a small smile her lips crease up just right: simple and elegant. Her lips are nice, not pouty nor too flat, just plump. When it’s a full on happy grin she shows her perfect set of teeth as her lips part and her dimple shows on her right cheek. She moves lightly. She doesn’t strut but when she walks you feel that she’s comfortable and secure. She could look comfortable sitting on a length of wire. Heck she could even lounge on it. We have known each other for three years, and you got me shot since day one. The funny thing is that nobody knows but you and me. I keep meaning to do it though; it’s just that I keep on putting off telling her. How do I start? “Hey, umm… “is as close as I have managed. I’m trying to work up the courage to do it. I’m just afraid it will go horribly wrong and I’d be so stupid and we would never talk to each other again.

                Anyway, I have decided I’m just gonna be out in the open about it. I’m gonna do it. Not today, cause I have to attend this important lecture. Probably not tomorrow as well cause I’m gonna be doing the laundry. But I promise, it’s gonna happen SOON.

 

Evan Garan

Received January 5, 2010

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Sir

 

This letter has been sent to you to express my deep displeasure about the condition of my misfortune, and alas, one finds that the direct cause of my plight. You, my good sir, have shot me not one too many times but many times upon counting. You have shot me for a cinder maid and I have had to find the correct feet that would fit those tiny glass pumps. You have shot me for a white skinned, barely concealed vampire. Cold and pale, she really deserves her title of snow white. Another notable hardship I undertook was that I had to climb a very tall tower by a rope made of plaited hair not once but twice. Let me add that it is not that healthy to find that after a long climb you find waiting beyond the window a very hairy encounter with a powerful witch. I will not stand for this sir. You have been nothing but injurious to me physically and emotionally. You would do well to remember sir that though I may be a fictional character I am known in all the land to be very kind, and gentle and to have a good swing with the sword. As you read this letter I will be riding on my noble steed on the fastest way to your mountain temple to have at you with the fury of my retribution. May god have mercy on your soul.

The Prince

Far Far Away

 

Found on a mountain path towards a small temple. Shortly afterwards, news comes of The Prince defeating a powerful witch dragon named Maleficent on a castle covered with poisonous brambles where a princess and her court sleeps. Rumor has it that the sleeping princess was awakened by a true love’s kiss from The Prince.

Received Once Upon a Time

 

 

 

 

 

I think I’m falling in love with him, and I don’t even know his name.

You probably don’t remember me, you seem to see a lot of people all the time. I’m Mary Hopkins. I work part time at the park as the hotdog girl because it helps to have extra pocket money and I have no other way to spend my weekend. That’s me.

He, on the other hand, sits on the park bench on the other side of a garden from my hotdog stand. He sits there on weekends. He’s got a healthy body. His face belongs in a painting by Leonardo da Vinci, or Michelangelo. He has locks of curling hair which he sometimes keeps long enough to halo his head, or less often he keeps trimmed neat and short. I like it better when his hair is short. Judging from what he wears he seems to like dark green.

He has always come to that bench, ever since I have been a hotdog girl. He comes here late in the afternoon to catch the sunset, which the park has a very good view of. He leaves at twilight. Sometimes he listens to music and he bobs his head. Sometimes he brings a sketchpad and seems to sketch the view of the sunset. Perhaps he’s a painter. A lot of times I see him writing something on paper too. Maybe he’s a writer then. Every once in a while he brings friends with him and they talk on that bench. I like some of his friends, but some are annoying. I like it when he’s with them though, because he smiles more often. My god he smiles beautifully.

He never buys from the hotdog stand. Ever. It kind of bums me. Sometimes I daydream that I would go to him and offer him a hotdog and ask for his name. And maybe he’d like me so much he’d ask me out on a date and we would have a wonderful night. Maybe. Ugh.

This sounds awful but one time I got so lonely because I can’t deal with these feelings that one night I went to that bench and just sat there alone for an hour on the verge of tears. At least I didn’t really cry, and it was a very bad day for me as well.

That’s what I have to write to you about. I just want somebody to talk to, you know? I hope one of these days we could meet face to face and talk. Maybe then I’d know his name. Maybe he’d get to know me.

Gosh, I feel like the idiotic airhead schoolgirl which I am.

 

Mary Hopkins

Received January 28, 2010

 

 

 

Thanks for today. We went out. We had a day at the park. We beat each other at Frisbee. We had ice cream at Ice castle. We took pictures and laughed at each other silly. We had a great time. Thanks for giving us love.

 

Manuel and Brenda

Messages to Cupid.

 

Dear Mr. Cupid.

As you may know, on Thursday, November 22, 2001 at exactly 9:53 AM you have fired an arrow to my direction. I was hit, quite badly in fact, squarely on the chest. Now I am smitten for some rich selfish oaf. I gravely resent that you have chosen to pair me up with him. He is a self-absorbed, stuck-up jackass who is insensitive, lazy and irresponsible. He has no tact whatsoever. He has a very “interesting” sense of humor and he smiles like a madman and the most offensive part is that I melt inside when he does. He smells nice. We are happily married with three children. There is no need for an apology. Rest assured I will be suing you for damages.

Christine Johnson

District Attorney

Received November 22, 2009

 

 

 

November 24, 2009. 8:38 PM

F*ck. You just shot me, didn’t you? Just saw Anne today and got this horrible warm gut feeling.

 

November 28. 10:21 PM

This ain’t fair. You already shot me once. I can’t have another hit. We talked alone today. I had a great time.

 

November 29. 1:25 AM

Can’t stop thinking about her. Dammit.

 

December 2. 6:45 PM

Saw her with her boyfriend Ivern today. They were on a date. Ouch.

 

December 4. 10:15 AM

If I ever see your face again I’m gonna kick your ass, did you know that? We keep talking after work. Do you know how it kills that it’s just her and me there? Do you?

 

December 9. 5:52 PM

Talked with Gayle today. She told me a lot of things. She told me Anne likes me.

 

December 9. 11:47 PM

Help. Tell me what to do. Should I tell her? But it’s kinda wrong. Oh hell.

 

December 10. 2:39 PM

I told her.

 

December 10. 7:28 PM

We talked for two hours or so. She told me she liked me. I don’t know where that leaves us. Should I call her?

December 11. 2:04 AM

To hell with you, you’re the one who got me into this.

 

December 11. 8:36 AM

She told me she’s left him. I feel a little sorry for Ivern. However, I do have a good feeling about the whole thing. This is it. No second thoughts. Guess I have to tell Clarissa that I’m breaking up with her.

 

Status updates from a Liam Emerson.

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t get how she doesn’t get how pretty she is. I mean, it's unthinkable. Her face is, in a word, interesting. It’s beautiful with some uncommon quality, a kind of foreign beauty. She smiles perfectly. When it’s a small smile her lips crease up just right: simple and elegant. Her lips are nice, not pouty nor too flat, just plump. When it’s a full on happy grin she shows her perfect set of teeth as her lips part and her dimple shows on her right cheek. She moves lightly. She doesn’t strut but when she walks you feel that she’s comfortable and secure. She could look comfortable sitting on a length of wire. Heck she could even lounge on it. We have known each other for three years, and you got me shot since day one. The funny thing is that nobody knows but you and me. I keep meaning to do it though; it’s just that I keep on putting off telling her. How do I start? “Hey, umm… “is as close as I have managed. I’m trying to work up the courage to do it. I’m just afraid it will go horribly wrong and I’d be so stupid and we would never talk to each other again.

                Anyway, I have decided I’m just gonna be out in the open about it. I’m gonna do it. Not today, cause I have to attend this important lecture. Probably not tomorrow as well cause I’m gonna be doing the laundry. But I promise, it’s gonna happen SOON.

 

Evan Garan

Received January 5, 2010

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Sir

 

This letter has been sent to you to express my deep displeasure about the condition of my misfortune, and alas, one finds that the direct cause of my plight. You, my good sir, have shot me not one too many times but many times upon counting. You have shot me for a cinder maid and I have had to find the correct feet that would fit those tiny glass pumps. You have shot me for a white skinned, barely concealed vampire. Cold and pale, she really deserves her title of snow white. Another notable hardship I undertook was that I had to climb a very tall tower by a rope made of plaited hair not once but twice. Let me add that it is not that healthy to find that after a long climb you find waiting beyond the window a very hairy encounter with a powerful witch. I will not stand for this sir. You have been nothing but injurious to me physically and emotionally. You would do well to remember sir that though I may be a fictional character I am known in all the land to be very kind, and gentle and to have a good swing with the sword. As you read this letter I will be riding on my noble steed on the fastest way to your mountain temple to have at you with the fury of my retribution. May god have mercy on your soul.

The Prince

Far Far Away

 

Found on a mountain path towards a small temple. Shortly afterwards, news comes of The Prince defeating a powerful witch dragon named Maleficent on a castle covered with poisonous brambles where a princess and her court sleeps. Rumor has it that the sleeping princess was awakened by a true love’s kiss from The Prince.

Received Once Upon a Time

 

 

 

 

 

I think I’m falling in love with him, and I don’t even know his name.

You probably don’t remember me, you seem to see a lot of people all the time. I’m Mary Hopkins. I work part time at the park as the hotdog girl because it helps to have extra pocket money and I have no other way to spend my weekend. That’s me.

He, on the other hand, sits on the park bench on the other side of a garden from my hotdog stand. He sits there on weekends. He’s got a healthy body. His face belongs in a painting by Leonardo da Vinci, or Michelangelo. He has locks of curling hair which he sometimes keeps long enough to halo his head, or less often he keeps trimmed neat and short. I like it better when his hair is short. Judging from what he wears he seems to like dark green.

He has always come to that bench, ever since I have been a hotdog girl. He comes here late in the afternoon to catch the sunset, which the park has a very good view of. He leaves at twilight. Sometimes he listens to music and he bobs his head. Sometimes he brings a sketchpad and seems to sketch the view of the sunset. Perhaps he’s a painter. A lot of times I see him writing something on paper too. Maybe he’s a writer then. Every once in a while he brings friends with him and they talk on that bench. I like some of his friends, but some are annoying. I like it when he’s with them though, because he smiles more often. My god he smiles beautifully.

He never buys from the hotdog stand. Ever. It kind of bums me. Sometimes I daydream that I would go to him and offer him a hotdog and ask for his name. And maybe he’d like me so much he’d ask me out on a date and we would have a wonderful night. Maybe. Ugh.

This sounds awful but one time I got so lonely because I can’t deal with these feelings that one night I went to that bench and just sat there alone for an hour on the verge of tears. At least I didn’t really cry, and it was a very bad day for me as well.

That’s what I have to write to you about. I just want somebody to talk to, you know? I hope one of these days we could meet face to face and talk. Maybe then I’d know his name. Maybe he’d get to know me.

Gosh, I feel like the idiotic airhead schoolgirl which I am.

 

Mary Hopkins

Received January 28, 2010

 

 

 

Thanks for today. We went out. We had a day at the park. We beat each other at Frisbee. We had ice cream at Ice castle. We took pictures and laughed at each other silly. We had a great time. Thanks for giving us love.

 

Manuel and Brenda

Received February 14, 2010

All through the day I wonder,
Could you be there?
My thoughts are always on you,
Your curves,
The way you open up one of your sides
I cannot get though the day without thinking,
Without checking
Will you be there?
I checked yesterday, you weren't there
I checked last night, still, you weren't there
I wonder if even now you are waiting for me
Will you be here tonight?
Will you be here to comfort me tonight?
And my only fear is that, in your place
In that special place where I expect to meet you
I might find somebody else
A stranger to me
Please be there
Do not let another wait for me there
My hope, my  dear
I've worked so hard
I've wrote letters for you
I've gone sleepless just to get you
I would bleed for you if that is the only way
And I would beg
Yes, I would
I would beg for another chance
Another chance to have you
I only...
I admit, I have had my mistakes
That I could have done much better
And that you are not perfect either
There were others who were better than you perhaps
But they are but fragments of a dream now
Aloof, unreachable
Now you are my only dream
My only wish
Do not forsake me
Please do not

This is my question

Will you be there when I check?


3.0




Hahahahahahahahahaha!!!!

:D