give me a smiley if your a fan

murder party

its crazy they actually kill animals in it

thank you kc
i try

im always happy to see you liked it

thank you
couldnt ask for a better compliment

i dont own a car

the first evil dead
cannibal holocaust

lollapalooza chicago
saw lots of great bands

honeybrown my favorite beer
but i always have an extra for an angel

i think we all could use a few

shall i open it for you

where are my manners?
of course

just opened my first beer
cheers!

thank you pk
its a work in progress
hopefully ill finish it

jonathon
hi how are you

neither
rock

revision comments appreciated positive or negative

I remember going to church as a little boy. It wasn’t boring, it wasn’t fun but it wasn’t boring. I remember the church was big; it was big, and it was bright in places and dark in places. The windows were many, made of stained glass with pictures from the bible. I didn’t understand what the father was talking about, but I knew he was talking about the pictures on the windows. I looked at them and the candles. There were lots of candles.
I remember everybody was nice, and dressed nice. And everybody smiled. Everyone shook hands and hugged before mass, and in the middle of mass, and after mass. It was like everyone was family. Laughing and smiling, touching and talking, people didn’t mind being close to one another. Maybe it was because everyone smelled good. Maybe they knew God was watching. My dad even joked with my grandpa at church. Whether or not they got along with each other during the week didn’t matter come Sunday .
Once I asked Father Joseph if this was his house. It wasn’t it was God’s house; it was our house.
My grandmother cleaned the church every Saturday. Sometimes I would go with her. She would touch every part of the church she could reach with a rag, until the whole building smelled of pinesol. She was old but the work seemed to make her happy. I would play and run around. I knew God didn’t mind it was my house too.
But what I remember most was communion. Everyone would quietly and politely exit the pews and line up to taste of God. Everyone it seemed but me. My father told me I was not baptized. My mother divorced him when I was little and I was never baptized. My older brother was and he would taste of God. And he was quiet and polite with his hands folded together in line. I would watch the faces of the people as they went back to their seats. They didn’t seem happy or sad, or even satisfied. I knew I would be filled with joy if I could only have a taste.

very good vivid and real

talkin $hit about a pretty sunset
modest mouse