Thursday, February 16, 2006

contest.
I don't know what to write, hmmm what should I write about? well ummmm.........how about, well I guess I would like to start a competition. I am very good at reciding and reading poetry. I would like to start a competition in which a lot of people will write and p.m. me poetry and I will choose the five of what I think are the best ones. After which I will post the five best ones and every one else can vote on which on is truly the best. good luck!
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Sunday, January 29, 2006

stuff I just made up and thought i'de post
Never die when you live forever in good harmony.

Happiness is almost always reached only after you have felt sadness.

Old bones can always dance to a new rhythm.

Love does not always look beautiful.

Life can be a teacher if you choose to listen to its lessons.

God will always love you, whoever you are, whoever you worship, how ever many times you’ve done wrong.

In days of the dark the light can only be seen by the blind, who blindly love that sweet freedom in which the dark days sprouted from.

A trumpet is both an instrument of war, death, and joy, celebration.

Animals are our brothers, nourishment, protectors, attackers, amusement, and saviors.

Technology is the new friend who quietly and slowly kills the old man.

Never say that you are pure evil, and never say that you are pure good. For only the damned is truly evil and only God is truly good, we are only the ghosts that lie in between. Neither all evil neither all good, that is the human road.

Even if your life seems worthless it will always be worth something to some one, some where, some how.

Jokes are insults who amuse others.

Never give up unless you have nothing to give up on.

Too much television can shorten your life. Unless taken in small doses.

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Monday, December 26, 2005

You are the Great Sephiroth. You probably knew you
were going to get this. You enjoy killing
annoying, slutty people and have an obsession
with violence and scary stuff. You resolve in
blind anger, but you have a loyal side as well.
Family matters a lot to you, just as much as
achieving your goals. You tend to keep your
promises and come across as a cold hearted,
ruthless person. But don't worry.... we love
you, anyway!


What Final Fantasy 7 Character Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

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Monday, December 19, 2005

I just felt like writting about Christmas, doesn't make sense though.
In the bible it is written that Jesus was born in Bethlehem in a barn because no one would accept Mary and her husband because they had committed sin, and Mary was living proof. When Jesus was born all the animals in the barn were still as if in awe of this baby, this new born king that they were fortunate enough to see his birth first hand. Soon after Jesus’ parents would have to flee for a jealous king had heard of the savior Jesus and wanted him dead. After running for a small amount of time the soldiers started to catch up to them, but they were saved by an angel who hid them at just the last moment. I leave out many of the details and names because I am either to lazy to look them up because I forgot about what the were or….no that’s pretty much the reason that most of the details are not there. I have recently heard from a friend that he saw a program on the television that said that Christmas originated from the Greeks and that it was a pagan holiday, I thought for a short while about what he had said and I asked him, “which program was that?”, I tried to contain my laughter as he responded, “The Boondocks”. I don’t know why people (even in the ones in little numbers and groups) dislike Christmas, maybe it’s because all of the animals called humans will always have a part of them that hates. They will hate all that is good and not just because the devil is telling them to. Well the #@$% with those people they can kiss my @$$ and *^&!@# burn in heck. I guess all that I’m trying to say is it doesn’t matter who you are, what you practice, what you have or don’t have, and how you look at things. You should always look upon what you should share and to make the way you worship your prophet or god is always upheld no matter what. So when some @$$ hole tells you that Christmas isn’t right, do what I do and do us all a favor and flick them off. The End.
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Sunday, November 27, 2005

Ghost Story: Written by Craig Dominey
To some folks, Christmas might not seem like the right time of year to tell ghost stories. But I've got a spooky tale to share with you. And to understand my story, you first have to understand the relationship between my father and his dog.

You see, my father loved his dog more than anything else in the world, including his own family. Or at least that's the way it appeared to me. There were no pictures of my mother and I in his wallet, only that big, sloppy, clumsy dog. He took his dog everywhere he went - on family vacations, out in the fields, even to bed at night! He showered every ounce of love he had on that dog, and it made my blood boil.

Back then, I was an only child growing up in a farmhouse deep in the South Georgia countryside. The wooden house sat at the edge of a thick forest that stretched on for miles. It was a drafty old place with high ceilings, cavernous hallways and dark hardwood floors that creaked loudly with each footstep. My father was an ex-army colonel, and a strict disciplinarian. He had a cold and stiff demeanor, as if some army trainer along the line had squeezed every ounce of emotion out of him. As the years passed, I grew more and more distant from my father. In fact, sometimes I was downright scared of him. And I paid little attention to any awkward attempts he made to show his affections.

But every human being needs an outlet for their emotions, so my father got something that wouldn't talk back or challenge him - a dog. As if by divine intervention, a stray black lab came bounding onto our property one day, wet and starving. After some half-hearted attempts to locate the original owners, my father named him "Mac" and welcomed him with open arms into our home.

Mac constantly tried to play with me - jumping up on my lap, nudging me with a dirty tennis ball in its mouth, licking my face. But I shoved him away each time, sending him running back to my father. Over the years, Mac never seemed to get the message that I wanted no part of his affection. I even shut the door to my room to keep him out. When I was about 13 years old, Mac grew sick with cancer. My father watched in horror as his dog deteriorated before his eyes. Mac spent his days lying in the middle of the family room, panting and unable to eat, his sharply defined ribs heaving with each pained breath. When my father would reach down to pet him, a joyous recognition would flash in his eye, only to be extinguished by his agony.

We had no choice - my father made the hardest decision of his life and had Mac put to sleep. After it was done, he wept and spent many hours alone. Each part of his daily routine - driving to the store, walking around the property, reading the paper in the morning - seemed empty without Mac around. But to be honest, I felt no sadness. Deep inside, I felt like we could now be a normal family with Mac out of the picture.
One day, I walked into my parents' bedroom and noticed a strange wooden box sitting on my father's nightstand. It was nailed shut, and had the name "Mac" engraved on a brass plate. When I confronted my mother about it, she rolled her eyes and told me the ghastly story. Shortly after Mac's death, my father had had him cremated, and now kept his ashes beside the bed.

Well, that was the last straw. My father couldn't stay away from that dog when he was alive, and now he was clinging to him in death. I simply could not live another moment with that dog in the house. So one night when my parents were away, I grabbed a shovel, stole the box from their bedroom and ran through the dark into the forest. I buried that box under a tree and covered it with pine straw. It was so far out in the woods that there was no way my father would ever find it. I knew I'd get the beating of my life when my father came home, and I didn't care. The look of agony on his face made it worth it to me. Now he would pay for not being the father I wanted. Hysterical with rage, he dragged me out into the forest the next morning and made me dig under every tree for that box. But I honestly couldn't remember where I had buried it. After days of trying, we finally gave up.

Needless to say, our relationship soured even more after that. We rarely spoke to one another, and when I grew older and left for college, I rarely returned home. Christmas seemed like a painful obligation, with a cold chill hanging over us as we sat silently around the festive table. My poor mother tried everything she could to bring us together as a family, but the damage had been done.

I eventually married and moved far away from my parents. They barely knew my wife, and we spent most holidays with her parents up north. But the bitterness of my childhood wormed its way into my marriage, and before I knew it, we were divorced. In the following years, my parents passed on, leaving the old family house cold and empty. I dreaded the Christmas season of 1985, for I knew that for the first time, I would truly be alone. The sounds of Christmas cheer were like nails under my skin, and I drank heavily to block them out. So when I was asked one day to look after the old family house while it was being put on the real estate market, I quickly agreed. Perhaps deep in the country I could get away from all the bright lights and wretched merriment.





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