Brainlick

Dear Colonel; I don't know if I'll be able to view the new film right off the bat for a few reasons. 1/ A - Low Funds. 2 / B - Recovery.  It will be 15 years since I began to seriously go down a dark path.  I emulated madmen, I tried to be "tough", I tried to be a "loadie", it didn't work.  I failed myself, my family, my possessions, my responsibilities, my dreams and goals and forfeited more than i can fathom.  I ruined friendships, and caused great harm.  I've broken every rule and threw away the warped morals and sensitivities that I had for a coarse lie that i perpetuated through the course of those wasted years.  My skull hurts.  I can feel the pain.  I am coming down from something about one thousand times stronger than methamphetamine and cocaine was pumping through my pathetic body.  My knuckles are finally popping and the feeling in my hands is returning. I began to be violent, i am so very bad at that.  I hate violence.  I don't like fo

eyes - A while back, Years ago, some of my friends used to run a Computer Store, they ran it for about seven years, all together.   I used to help with taking out the trash once in a while for pocket change when I was  bored and take it to the local arcade.  One day, one of our close friends who worked in the shop and helped with the customers passed away from a heart attack.  Months went by before any of us went into the store, we were all very very sad, and very angry at the entire situation.  You see, he was very young, he had just turned twenty four.    About three months after our co-worker and friend passed, we had to close the shop completely due to the overwhelming bills, and the fact that none of us could see spending a day working there without him there with us.    We Closed all the customer accounts and the computers were finished, delivered and set up.  Networks wrapped up, the Internet Service disconnected forever.  Receipts organized, Taxes Finished up and closed

Not Here, Not Tonight-A Tale of Pie an Coffee After the dust bowl  in the 1930s, a young man who wished nothing much more than to read books and write poetry was making his way West by helping with the things he was good at, like tidying houses, helping on the  Farms, setting tables, assisting with homework, and doing any thing he could, just for a spot to lay his sleeping bag, like a shed or a side house, park his typewriter, and perhaps grab a bite to eat for a day or two, before heading off to the next place. One night, around or in Oklahoma, on the out-skirts of a small rainy muddy town, with some change in his pocket, he entered a coffee shop and put his last bit of change on the counter for a coffee and slice of apple pie before venturing into the evening’s icky weather, seeking shelter.   He sipped his coffee slowwwllly...  he ate the pie slowwwwwlllly as well, wrote in a journal, read the newspaper and a book from his bag and listened to the AM radio’s news and music fade i