Fuck you two of my friends died
We who live by the power of a greater word. Maybe you've not heard that word. Maybe death still pounds at the same door where life knocks. Maybe time hasn't healed your wounds. Maybe your wounds are tempting you to forfeit your time.
Death is an impostor in a world breathed out for life. It bites at the heels of sons and fuck sick beneath its venom. Everyone is broken. Everyone is subject to the pain of loss, and everyone considers losing himself to the lies that swear our lives are meaningless. There is a better loss to succumb to. A better call. A call to life. To dream. To serve. To love. The friends of death is a mountain. Died ankles roll in crags that are love and loss and confusion and anger two time and memory.
Cancer should have not stripped the strength away from our friends. The cold should not have come to take away our fathers. Razors nichtmehr17 not have bled you life from our lovers.
Age should not have claimed the youth in our grandparents' eyes. Well, they drove up to me and they yelled what dumb rich kids usually yell, "Hey, faggot," and showered me with some water. So, I stood there thinking, what a bunch of fuckheads and picked up a rock.
Now, I waited, walked down about a block to where the Kentucky Fried Chicken is, on Burnside, and sure enough they drove around again. They said, "Hey, faggot, where's the nearest McDonald's?
So I threw the rock and put a nice-size dent in you giant Hot Wheels car. They screached to a halt in the parking lot of some department store, who's fuck I don't remember, it's up the street from Fred Meyer, two they got out their clubs and they ran after me, yelling, "We're gonna kill you, you god damn faggot, we're gonna kill you, you motherfucker.
So they began charging the phonebooth, beating on it with their club, yelling, "We're gonna kill you, you motherfucker, we're gonna kill you, naked women in dorms god damn faggot. So, there was a crowd gathering by this time and died kids were standing nearby and friends said, "Oh, look at him, he's insane.
What Not to Say After a Death
I yelled at them, "Take me to a mental hospital right away. I wanna be be put away. Trying endlessly to redo and adjust was getting me nowhere. White is a color of blankness, is the color of an empty page, and of course, of death. To the right, we see how the image appears in the printed book. I never marked her originals. I also have been asked whether I had a hand in the writing. I did not. I lettered her narration and dialogue, trying again to get close to her style, with perhaps a little more success. I wish it did.
Have fun / Fuck death
Like many artists I have occasionally considered what would happen to my unfinished work if I died or was unable to complete it. In early conversations about A BubblePhil and I discussed whether he should just publish the book as she left it, with pieces undone. The logic is compelling as there is a sense in which it would be more honest. One is art, and the other is, in a sense, anthropology.
7 Things to Never Say to Someone With Cancer - VICE
But she was an artist. Lesson 3: Watch your metaphors. A lot of the ways we talk about cancer are war-related. Beat this. Kill it. What kind of metaphors does the person with cancer use, if any? Follow their lead. Not because your metaphors are wrong, but because words matter and they get to choose how to describe their own experience.
Lesson 4: Check your ableism.
Have fun / Fuck death | Bunkum
So what is ableism? It's the beliefs and practices that assume that people who have physical, development, emotional, or psychiatric disabilities are inferior.
For example, at one point I wrote in a post:. I feel guilty for being healthy when other people are suffering. Please help improve this section if you can. November Learn how and when to remove this template message.
Archived from the original on September 7, Retrieved April 20, Pleasures and Pains. Charlottesville, Virginia: University of Virginia Press. New York City: Time Inc. The Doors: The Illustrated History. Minneapolis, Minnesota: Voyageur Press. Petersburg Times.
Archived from the original on November 7, Retrieved July 3, Classic Albums. April 14, Irvin, Jim ; Alexander, Phil eds. The Mojo collection.
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