People do the strangest things. After Becky got cancer, she became a privacy fanatic and told her boyfriend not to print an obituary and not to tell anyone outside of her circle of Irish music friends in Kansas City about her cancer or her death other than her immediate family. For some reason she wanted her illness and death to remain a secret and wouldn't even let her friends come to the house and see her or visit her in hospital because the cancer ate half her face away and she looked terrible. She was actually HERE in my city in the state cancer hospital, and I didn't know it. She knew I lived here. She knew I would want to see her. She didn't want me to see her, I suppose, but we had known each other since 4h grade and she KNEW me, she knew I wouldn't care, but I guess SHE cared.
If her boyfriend hadn't organized a memorial Irish music concert in her name a short while after her death and if I hadn't found a Facebook page about it created by someone else, I would never have been able to contact anyone who knew him or gotten in touch with him and I would never have found out what happened to her, ever, because I didn't even know her boyfriend's name. I was lucky. I am still grieving, but at least I know now where she is. Her boyfriend scattered her ashes in the garden behind their house, and he and I paid for a memorial plaque to be put up in the family plot in a cemetery here in my town where the rest of her family is buried.
God, I miss her. And it's my own fault for letting so many years go by without contacting her. Alcoholism is a terrible disease, it breaks up families and friends, sometimes permanently, until it is too late, and she was a chain smoker, and it killed her. And then you reach your 50's and you forget your friends are also in their 50's and you just don't realize how time has flown by and that your friends are going to start dying. We think we are immortal, and then our friends start dying. It's such a shock. I'm 62 now, I go to more funerals than weddings. Thirty years ago it was the other way around.
I'm sorry, I seem to be suggesting that your friend might be dead, and I didn't mean to suggest that at all. It's just that I'm still grieving for my lost, beautiful friend that I let slip away from me. I hope to god you find your friend. Keep looking as hard as you can, don't give up. I didn't give up and I found mine, but I was too late.
You'll certainly get no argument from me. 67 as of last Monday. Mondays suck. Being 67 sucks, although I am once again a prime number, being divisible only by one and myself. Small consolation though.
I know. Sometimes I feel like Rip Van Winkle. I went to bed and was in my 20s and then woke up the next day in my 60s. Time just flies by when you're totally confused.
John Wayne Gacey was already a known sex offender when the police were showing up at his house. And complaining about the smell. He ended up with TWENTY NINE dead boys buried in there before someone actually took the time out to actually check if this nice, upstanding white man was perhaps a serial killer and rapist.
My doc is reluctantly agreeing to the poop test in lieu of colo. For some reason he felt the need to assure me that it wasn't because he gets more $ for the scope. Hubby did not have a good experience. Anaesthetic didn't work, they added more but he still pretty much felt it. No thanks.
Pease don't say "spastic," Dom. I don't doubt that you mean no ill, but it's a horrible word with a horrible history in English-speaking parts of Not America.
People do the strangest things. After Becky got cancer, she became a privacy fanatic and told her boyfriend not to print an obituary and not to tell anyone outside of her circle of Irish music friends in Kansas City about her cancer or her death other than her immediate family. For some reason she wanted her illness and death to remain a secret and wouldn't even let her friends come to the house and see her or visit her in hospital because the cancer ate half her face away and she looked terrible. She was actually HERE in my city in the state cancer hospital, and I didn't know it. She knew I lived here. She knew I would want to see her. She didn't want me to see her, I suppose, but we had known each other since 4h grade and she KNEW me, she knew I wouldn't care, but I guess SHE cared.
If her boyfriend hadn't organized a memorial Irish music concert in her name a short while after her death and if I hadn't found a Facebook page about it created by someone else, I would never have been able to contact anyone who knew him or gotten in touch with him and I would never have found out what happened to her, ever, because I didn't even know her boyfriend's name. I was lucky. I am still grieving, but at least I know now where she is. Her boyfriend scattered her ashes in the garden behind their house, and he and I paid for a memorial plaque to be put up in the family plot in a cemetery here in my town where the rest of her family is buried.
God, I miss her. And it's my own fault for letting so many years go by without contacting her. Alcoholism is a terrible disease, it breaks up families and friends, sometimes permanently, until it is too late, and she was a chain smoker, and it killed her. And then you reach your 50's and you forget your friends are also in their 50's and you just don't realize how time has flown by and that your friends are going to start dying. We think we are immortal, and then our friends start dying. It's such a shock. I'm 62 now, I go to more funerals than weddings. Thirty years ago it was the other way around.
I'm sorry, I seem to be suggesting that your friend might be dead, and I didn't mean to suggest that at all. It's just that I'm still grieving for my lost, beautiful friend that I let slip away from me. I hope to god you find your friend. Keep looking as hard as you can, don't give up. I didn't give up and I found mine, but I was too late.
I honestly didn't expect them to literally endorse him
https://twitter.com/SRuhle/...
Thanks for the recommendation!
Who cares what Fascist Barbie thinks? Not Mrs. Obama.
Klingons, also too. Worf is hot.
You'll certainly get no argument from me. 67 as of last Monday. Mondays suck. Being 67 sucks, although I am once again a prime number, being divisible only by one and myself. Small consolation though.
I know. Sometimes I feel like Rip Van Winkle. I went to bed and was in my 20s and then woke up the next day in my 60s. Time just flies by when you're totally confused.
Take the train up to Garmisch, at least for a day. Spectacular alpine city. Skiing is good too, if you are into it.
We are flying into Frankfurt. Definitely spending NYE in Munich...and other than that, the schedule is open!
How bad is the smell from the dead dingo's you have strewn around your place?
How bad is the smell at your place with all those dingo carcasses you have strewn about?
John Wayne Gacey was already a known sex offender when the police were showing up at his house. And complaining about the smell. He ended up with TWENTY NINE dead boys buried in there before someone actually took the time out to actually check if this nice, upstanding white man was perhaps a serial killer and rapist.
My doc is reluctantly agreeing to the poop test in lieu of colo. For some reason he felt the need to assure me that it wasn't because he gets more $ for the scope. Hubby did not have a good experience. Anaesthetic didn't work, they added more but he still pretty much felt it. No thanks.
Pease don't say "spastic," Dom. I don't doubt that you mean no ill, but it's a horrible word with a horrible history in English-speaking parts of Not America.
He looks different. Did Trump finally get a haircut?
It certainly feels right. If it's a modern concoction, it's very well done.
I wonder if it was a local scandal, and revenge for a sexual assault (minimized as "touched me without asking").