the story for tonight

Good day people time for another diary entry so this morning i realized how disorganized my shelf and cabinets were so i decided to clean them up and while i was cleaning i saw plenty of things i thought i lost it seems i just misplaced it note to self always clean your room at least once a week or you will buy things that you thought you lost so anyways while i was cleaning i stumbled upon my written diary and they were very messy i should really take care of my stuff especially stuff that holds your deepest secrets lucky my hand writing is so bad that its like coded messages no wonder my teacher always told me to write for the readers and not for myself but its my diary like i am going around showing stuff i learned that the hard way when i was younger my life was a very active in plenty full of ways i think because of that i wasn't very much curious in my later day in collage and  boy was i always going outside and with the i wouldn't call them bad i will just call them horny yup that is the correct word horny crowd i guessed i enjoyed it to much and because of that my grades suffered but live and learn i have been avoiding those kind of stuff but back to the cleaning while going thru my stuff it was like going to memory lane each things seems to have a little story in it and each of those little stories build to our lives some of them bad and some of them good but all of those are a part of whole we become and learn from both as they hold lessons that can make us grow and plus its a very relaxing thing to see your room clean and in it you can place new memorable that you can look back or forward to so yup that is and you know what people say you can judge a person life by how he keeps his room.

thank you for reading have a great day

july 26

July 26 2019

So the title is just the date as i want to remember this day i thought my resting day would be longer but now its done as you know i always wanted to start my business again but i am not that good but i have learned much from it and  i am happy because of that i have learned to save more and optimized the spending i like this as i will finally get the chance to use all the lesson i have learned in online courses if they are really that great but hen again there is no greater teacher then experience i am correct i have learned to be able to admit new things in life you must do two things one admit you do not know that as sometimes pride gets the best of us on moving forward as the saying goes the bowl is only useful when its empty we must be like a bowl on learning on things forget what you know about it so we it be learning anew lesson all over again and the second one is be open to anything again with pride as sometime again when are ideas that has long been solid has been challenged we tend to fight against it i am guilty of both things as humans tend to not like admit when there wrong so must be open and must be willing i have learned this both in not the easiest way but with new knowledge time to move as for my business i have done in open way as business is always ever changing but not forget the major goal to earn income and to give what the customers want and to upgrade the business and with that i am in happy with this and very excited with this i have two new option one is food and other is not food both for me are amazing ideas they have both down sides but everything has so no biggy and with this my future and life move forward again.
thank you for reading my rants.

resting now

Resting now

so like the picture suggest i feel i had been fighting for long and i need a break from it all it doesn't mean i am quieting its just i need some time to fix my thoughts it hasn't been an easy life then again there are different kinds of difficulty in life what might be difficult for me is easy to other and what might be easy for me might be difficult to other as well such is life i have been watching some and learning now i just want to use this skills i have learned for knowledge without use is useless and i live with those words so i try to find a work while at it again with those path i hate waiting that is true but i let other people wait for me its kind of weird but then again i wouldn't be called not normal as well i think so anyways but i must admit my life is boring right now nothing much new is happening i make this post as i dairy which is nice but my life need a little more spice i do not put any style on this as this just for me mostly i am just sharing it as i do not really share hidden things here so back to the resting part as i was saying i feel i need a break then again i fell this whole time i am in a break so what i am really going to a break for so this feels redundant but i think i can do is just keep adding to my knowledge and maybe make my own work as it actually needs exprience to be hired and i got little of that so i need to work extra harder for my future with that i will move forward but for today i will rest and maybe work a little 

another way perhaps

Another way

seems i am in problem ones again i feel lost when the choices in me opened before it seems so clear but now it is not again i hate the fact that this is happening again i cant just keep detracting myself  as the video i saw i need a way to go in my dreams yes make step towards it this thing has opened again this time i will make sure to choose the right way of it all just to make i wont have this problem again i think the best way for me is the business route yup i can learn more in the internet on things i need but then theirs the work route again faced with all the same choices actually in the first i choose the school route then realized that both of work and business i better yes school might be great but in my i need to step up i should stop procrastinating so first i will set up my business this time a real fun one i am happy that some shirts i made before where being worn but i had to give those for free because  i just do not want them just to be stuck to be honest i haven't had a business that last more then one year because i always let other people handle it sure i have some mini business left i guess need to try some more i grateful to the experience that it has given me to be honest this blog post are kind of my therapy as it feels like i am talking to someone it not that i have friends is that i do not trust my self completely because when i open up it will be a flood and it wont stop i guess i needed to be more trusting and open to my friends it is the best way that it could happen plus with this opening business thing i need more connection i mean i saw the milk tea business but it on the mall so i need that is online so maybe food is not an option but nothings off the table i say this here because my family never reads this yes they do not which kind of liberating for me anyways so the end of this is i will now choose the business route hopefully this will be successful.
Thanks for reading my rant i do not even bother spell checking this as its ment to be this way.

secret life

Secret Lives
By: Eos

Interviewing for a new job used to be a fraught experience for me. When you harbor such an intimate secret, you must be constantly vigilant, watchful for questions you might stumble over, anything that might alert the interviewer to your dark past.
But over time, after hundreds of interviews, it does become much easier. The lies roll off your tongue smoothly, and the stories grow more concrete in detail and form. You learn to steer the conversation away from the locked doors in your history.
Eventually, it becomes so natural, so easy, that you don’t even think about it anymore. You truly become those stories; and with each telling, their narrative indelibly carves itself into the fabric of your being.
And so, after what seemed the perfect interview, I got a job; and not just any job. This was the role that would kickstart my career, put my feet on the well-trodden path towards a real future. One where I was something other than a poor student with too many secrets.
So long as nobody found out who I really was.

The first day was a predictable blur; I was shown my cubicle in the old but respectable art-deco building, then hustled through the induction process so I could be put to work as quickly as possible. Everyone in my team seemed nice. All legal secretaries like myself, we shared a four-seater pod in the cubicle farm, each workstation painfully personalized by the occupant, desperate to make some mark on the beige corporate landscape.
“Gosh, you’re tall,” declaimed Trina, the slightly chubby redhead who sat beside me, “I bet you played volleyball at school.”
“Oh yeah,” I lied smoothly, “captain of the team until a knee injury got me.”
Despite all my practice, I could feel the heat creeping into my ears and was immediately thankful I’d decided to wear my hair down that day. I know that seems like an odd thing to lie about. But the story I’d claimed as my own, the story that had now claimed me in turn, was so complete that I dared not deviate from its path, lest one wrong foot contradicted the narrative.
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. I half-dozed on the bus ride home, my energy depleted from so much social interaction, from navigating so many tiny, innocent pitfalls.
But I’d done it. I’d survived my first day of work without incident.

The weirdness began after the fourth member of our team returned from a conference, a week after I started. Deborah was an older woman, unmarried, who took an instant dislike to me. She refused to shake my hand when introduced professionally, then proceeded to pile complex work on me, before I’d had enough time to learn the basics of my role.
At first, despite creeping suspicion, I tried to write it off as simple envy. I mean, I was twenty, easy on the eye, and had a boyfriend; it didn’t take a psychology degree to figure out that she probably resented me for possessing everything that was lacking in her own life. But as things took a turn for the worse, I realized her behavior had begun to spread, and the environment in the office was growing increasingly hostile toward me. No more was I greeted with pleasantries in the break room or cheery hellos in the elevator – everywhere I went, I met scowls and uncomfortable stares. After I walked in on the third whispered conversation that day, I knew the gig was up.
My secret was out there, courtesy of Deborah, who I later discovered had worked with my sister in a previous job. The sister who didn’t exist in my new narrative; the one who delightfully informed everyone she met about her ‘brother’ and flashed around old pictures of me to anyone curious enough to look. And that seemed to be everyone.
Just like that, I went from being ‘that tall new girl’ to something less than human; an object of ridicule, suspicion, and loathing.

It was small things at first. Finding my keyboard unplugged, my papers missing, my coffee cup having an odd stain or odor. Subtle changes you could write off as nothings – accidents of no consequence. I mentioned them brightly to my team, commenting on how peculiar it was that they only seemed to happen to me. When Deb smirkingly sneered that the office ghost must not like me, my suspicions were all but confirmed.
“Must be the same ghost who was always hanging around me at school,” I shot back, with a humorless smile.
“Must be,” she retorted, “I hear this one doesn’t like men.”
“What did you just say?”
“I don’t have time for this,” Deb declared, turning back to her monitor, “I’ve got work to do.”
Forcing down the shame and anger, I swiveled my seat back around abruptly – and slammed my knees into my desk. It seemed that ‘the office ghost’ must have lowered it again while I was on my break. Concentrating on the pain as it receded from my bruised flesh, I let my rage go with it. With an ease born of practice, I watched it burn down to nothing, then extinguished it with one thought:
No matter what anyone did or said to me, they couldn’t stop me being me.

Three weeks later my swipe card stopped working on the door to the women’s toilets.
When I complained to ICT, they claimed it was a simple error, but the next morning, and the morning after that, my card access to the toilets had been canceled again.
“Maybe it would be easier to just use the men’s room,” the IT guy snarked down the phone, “there’s no swipe access on that door.”
On the fifth morning in a row that the mysterious ‘error’ occurred, I met Walt Sawyer. He found me leaning against the door to the women’s bathroom with my cellphone to my ear, wearily asking ICT to fix the fault again. Walt had been the janitor here for so long that he was practically furniture; he’d seen the company go through three mergers and countless restructures. He’d survived all of them by simply going about his business, doing his job so well he was practically invisible.
“Can’t get in again?” he asked, as I held the phone away from my ear to avoid the deafening hold music.
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think it’s right,” he mumbled, fishing in his pocket, “not right to treat a young lady like this.”
Surely the gossip must have reached even the janitor by now?
“Well, they don’t think I’m a lady, that’s the problem.”
With a small, secret smile, Walt pressed something into my hand.
“It’s my spare card. Will get you pretty much anywhere a janitor needs to be.”
Simple kindness felt so out of place in this building that I just stared at the card in my hand like it was some kind of magical token. I finally opened my mouth to thank him, but he cut me off,
“I wasn’t here. We never spoke.” He slopped a mopeful of soapy water onto the stairs. “You ain’t the only one with secrets.”
When the card reader flashed green and let me into the bathroom, I almost wept with relief.

What I expected to happen after that, I wasn’t sure. I was careful when I took my toilet breaks, making sure none of the other women saw me in the bathroom, so everyone would assume I had resigned myself to using the male facilities. You might think that this perceived win on their behalf would have de-escalated the situation, but with some bullies, any victory only emboldens them.
I saw Walt scuttling away from my office space two early mornings that week, each time carrying something under his arm. And when my colleagues arrived, after me on both those days, their behavior was even stranger than usual.
When I caught Mark – the fourth member of my cubicle family – staring at my desk, I asked him if something was wrong.
“No, nothing wrong,” he said, abrupt and defensive.
“It just that you keep staring at my desk,” I pressed, not letting it go, “as if you’re surprised about something?” But he was already typing busily, ignoring me.
Deb, especially, seemed put out. Her normal expression was less than pleasant, but today the downturned corners of her mouth practically touched her jawline, and she curled her lip like a caricature whenever I answered the phone or greeted someone entering our cubicle.

Walt was cleaning up a toner spill in one of the corridors, whistling tunelessly to himself while everyone ignored him.
“I need a word,” I hissed, when the hallway was clear, “I need to know what you’ve been doing.”
“You don’t wanna know, miss.”
“It’s Rebecca, not miss. I’m not your boss, I’m just a bottom-rung secretary. Becca, even.”
“You don’t wanna know, miss Becca,” he repeated, “they’re cruel people. You don’t need to see that stuff.”
“See what stuff?”
“Nothing. There’s nothing to see.”
My fingers gripped his shoulder, firmly, insistent,
“Walt, if they’re doing something awful, I need to see it, so I can report it. I appreciate you protecting me, I really do. But if I want to resolve this situation, I need evidence of what they’ve been doing, not just suspicions.”
He thought about that for a minute, his expression unreadable, as if he was listening to something. Then, with an abrupt nod, he headed down the corridor, beckoning for me to follow. In the janitor’s cupboard near the elevators, he gestured to the waste-paper bin beside the door.
“It’s all in there.”
Amongst the innocent rubbish were several balls of printed paper, tightly wadded up by Walt’s strong old hands. Smoothing them out on the low table against the wall, I clenched my teeth as I viewed the images.
It seemed my sister hadn’t been happy just spilling my gender history to Deb; she’d also furnished the sour old woman with intimate and painful photos from my teens – all with my old name and cartoon penises scrawled over them.
Balling them up in my fists, I threw the printouts back into the basket.
“People have done worse,” I whispered.
“They’re gonna do worse,” Walt replied, his walnut face screwed up with a concern, “this place, this building, it’s got history.”
But when I pressed him for more information, he shut down. The fear and shame I glimpsed in his eyes before he looked away reminded me of myself, and his hands shook as he hustled me out of the cupboard.

The chemical smell in the cubicle was strong and strange, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. Everything seemed in order on my desk, no more images had been taped to my monitor and chair.
When Deb arrived half an hour later, her shriek of surprise and rage startled me so thoroughly that I knocked over my coffee and smacked my knee on my desk drawers.
“You did this!” the woman shrilled, waving her hands at me above the divider. Her fingers were stained red. “You fucking did this, and I’ll see you fired for it, you pervert!”
Curious, I braved the furnace of irrational ire and walked around to her desk,
“What exactly have I done?”
But before she could sputter out any more insults, I saw for myself. Someone had slashed the seat of her office chair, through the fabric and deep into the foam, then poured a bottle of red ink into the gash. The ink which had soaked into Deb’s skirt and stained her legs as she sat down, unaware.
“Is this some kind of jealous tranny retaliation?” she squawked, waving her red hands in my face.
“Retaliation for what?” I retorted hotly, color rising in my face, “I’ve taken everything you people have thrown at me with grace and patience, yet you are accusing me of being the bad guy?”
“Pack your desk,” Deb snarled, “you’ll be gone by the end of the day.”

The HR manager looked uncomfortable as I sat, not meeting my eye. I waited patiently as he read through the statement from Deb, which she had of course embellished for maximum effect. When he was done, I calmly refuted the inaccurate details and explained that I hadn’t vandalized any office property.
“Well, nobody else had any motivation to do it,” the manager said, still avoiding looking at me directly.
“And what motivation did I have to do it?” I countered.
He shifted in his seat, glancing everywhere but at me.
“Deborah Young claims that she, ah, discovered that someone had vandalized your desk. Late last night, after you left.”
“How was it vandalized?”
Surprised, he blinked at me, actually looking at my face for the first time since I sat down.
“Well, you must have seen it.”
I squinted at him,
“Seen what? My desk was perfectly normal when I came in.”
He blustered. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Why? Why do you find that hard to believe? What the hell happened to my desk?”
“No need to be so aggressive, Joh-ah-Rebecca,” he managed, barely correcting himself.
“Did you seriously just call me my old name?”
He blanched,
“That was an honest mistake.”
I sighed, already letting it go. This was a battle I couldn’t win, no matter how unfair it was.
“Just tell me what was wrong with my desk, so we can get this shit-show over with.”
The manager swallowed, picking his words carefully now,
“On your desk is a plush toy dog, yes?”
“Blue. From Blue’s Clues. My boyfriend gave her to me.”
“The toy had, ah, been cut open. At the… crotch. And a, ah, plastic phallus had been inserted.”
Summoning everything I had, I kept my face completely neutral.
“You mean a dildo. Someone cut Blue open and put a dildo in her.”
“Yes.”
What I had wasn’t enough. The anger rose like a tidal wave, massive and unstoppable; but instead of breaking in a torrent of destruction and violence, it collapsed, flooding out of me in a wash of hot, shameful tears. As I sobbed, eyes blurred from salt and sorrow, the HR manager must have made a hasty exit, leaving me alone, clutching the edge of the table until I cried myself dry.

Walt shook his head as I showed him the meticulously stitched plush toy, the needlework is so perfect it looked like a natural seam.
“Wasn’t me,” he said, gaze darting nervously, “can’t sew. Never saw it.”
Looking at his grizzled hands, I had no doubt he was telling the truth; Walt couldn’t have threaded a needle to save his life.
“Then who, Walt? Everyone else here hates my guts.”
“Can’t say, miss. Can’t say.”
Something told me there was more to this. Someone had fixed the vandalized toy, then retaliated by attacking Deb’s chair.
”Maybe the office ghost doesn’t like you,” I remembered Deb sneering.
“Walt. You said this place had history. You said that after I saw the pictures. What did you mean by that?”
His eyes drifted to the staircase like he was planning an escape.
“Nothing. I meant nothing.”
“Who is helping me, Walt? Because if they carry on like this, they’ll get me fired, and I need this job. People like me don’t get jobs like this. People like me aren’t supposed to succeed.”
“I know.” There was agony in his voice. “But I can’t say.”
Frustrated, I left the little man to his work, determined to figure it out myself.

My second meeting with HR was called because of Deb’s car. Someone had smashed the rear window and poured what appeared to be pig’s blood over the back seat. Her car was parked within camera range in the basement carpark, but there had been a convenient CCTV ‘buffer overflow error’ for ten minutes, right around when the event had occurred.
“I’d left work by then,” I told the HR manager, “and if I’d come back into the building, there would be a security record of it. Pull my swipecard logs, if you haven’t already.”
He started speaking over me, but I cut him off,
“Yes, I’m aware that Deb was my secret Santa, and that’s why I got beard oil, a voucher for a male-only sauna and a pair of festive-print Y-fronts. Regardless, even if that counts as ‘motivation’ to vandalize her car, I wasn’t in the building, and there’s no evidence I did it.”
I stood and put my hand on the door handle,
“You know, this is pretty serious. I find it odd that she hasn’t gone to the police about it, don’t you?”
He didn’t try to stop me as I left.

The tension in the air within our cubicle was so thick that it felt like working in molasses. Every sound was amplified by paranoia, every movement scrutinized surreptitiously. The corners of everyone’s eyes were getting a real workout. I wanted to scream at them that they had caused this situation, that if they’d just left me the fuck alone, we could all at least pretend to be professionals and just do our damn jobs without their bigotry overshadowing everything.
If I thought it would have made a difference, I would have done exactly that; but experience had already taught me people like this didn’t respond to reason, that they didn’t have empathy for anyone who wasn’t like them. I would ride this bullshit out until it was resolved one way or another.
The email from Walt caught me by surprise – I wasn’t even aware he was computer literate, or that he had access to a computer. I felt shame when I realized my own assumptions were showing.
Meet me on the seventh floor in 10 minutes, the email said, go through the door on the left stairwell. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.
Reading, then re-reading the message, I hit the delete icon and emptied the recycle bin.
The seventh floor wasn’t occupied, as far as I knew. The company owned it, but it had lain unused for so long that renovations would now cost far more than the office space was worth. There were rumors that something had happened there, a long time ago, but it was all hearsay – nobody could back up any of the wild claims about the seventh floor.
But Walt might know. The man was seventy if he was a day.

I wasn’t surprised when my spare swipe card allowed me through the paint-flaked door and into the derelict gloom of the seventh-floor space. Cables hung from the roof, darkly curled like rotting tentacles, and piles of insulation foam clustered against the walls in curious drifts. Heaps of broken chairs and rolls of ancient carpet lurked amongst other scattered, skeletal furniture and sagging wooden shelves.
There was no sign of Walt, but a dim light shone from a dirty-windowed office, partitioned from the main floor space by naked chipboard walls and mildewed sacking.
“Walt?” I called as I pushed open the water-damaged door.
What hit me, I’m not sure, but the next thing I remember was trying to pick myself up from the rotten carpet, pain roaring in my skull and wrist. A crushing weight came down on my chest, and I realized someone was on top of me – Mark, by the size and smell of him; he always wore the same shitty cheap cologne.
Pinning my wrists, he looped plastic cable ties around them and pulled tight, while a voice protested from the gloom – Walt’s voice.
“You said you weren’t gonna hurt her. You said this was just to talk,” he said thickly.
“Well, I don’t see any her in this room other than me,” Deb said nastily, “just you, Mark and this cock in a frock.”
“I don’t have a cock,” I shot back miserably.
“A mutilated cock is still a cock.”
The anger swelled like a balloon but receded as I shut my eyes and willed reason to take over.
“What do you want from me?”
Mark propped me up against the damp wall, none too gently.
“A confession,” Deb said, “You’re going to state that you did all those things and we’re going to record it, then send it through to the CEO’s office and the police.”
“Good luck with that,” I spat.
“How hard do you think it would be for us to put a noose over one of these beams and hang you? Everyone will think you did it yourself. The suicide rate for you freaks is through the fucking roof, and it’s not like your loving family would investigate, now is it?”
“Just confess,” Mark growled, “you can fuck off and find another job.”
I shook my head,
“I’m in the right here. I didn’t do anything wrong! You people are the monsters, harassing an innocent person because of your own shitty prejudices.”
Walt moved for the door, but Deb closed it, holding the handle.
“And we know your secret too, Walter Sawyer. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why you never married, never had kids, and why you’re so sympathetic to this ugly shemale.”
The air seemed to ripple for a moment as she spoke the slur. Walt saw me notice it, too and closed his eyes, but it appeared that none of the others registered the odd sensation.
Mark thrust his cellphone in my face.
“Say that you did it all. Confess to all the crap you pulled, then we can all get out of this shithole and go home.”
Fixing my gaze on his hateful face, I spoke a single word.
“No.”
Shaking his head, Mark put down his phone.
“Deb, get the rope.”
As the last word left his mouth, the air swam again, as though the entire floor was filled with breathable fluid. Lights flickered and flashed in the rippling atmosphere and Deb cried out in fear as something fundamental changed in the fabric of the seventh floor.

Deb was still Deb, but she was also a young man, dressed in orange and brown, his bushy hairstyle as archaic as his clothing. She/he danced with Mark, who was also young, slender and long-haired, nothing like himself apart from a certain gleam of terror about the eyes. Their hips ground into each other as they gyrated to the heavy funk of music that belonged to another era. Around them the ghosts of other dancers – all male – moved with abandon, safe in a place that allowed them to be who they were, in a time when their kind was utterly condemned.
But they weren’t safe, and I knew it. I knew it because I knew who I was, and what I was. I was there to ensure that places like this didn’t exist, and my badge, my uniform, and my gun all meant I could do what I wanted here. They screamed like women when they saw my pistol, and I laughed at the faggots, reveling in the stink of their sweaty fear in the air.
I told them to get up against the fucking wall and they did; the queers and the sissies. The ones dressed as women I told to take their clothes off and they did as they were told, crying like babies. Well, all but one.
The narrative of my real self, bolstered by stories, yes, but built from knowledge and pain and truth, thrashed and fought against the alien mind I was occupying. I heard the voice of the police officer – my voice – yell at the offender to take off his dress.
“No.” The sissy said, eyes so bright and defiant and beautiful and… revolting.
The rage that flooded through me was far beyond anything that could be controlled. It was irrational, it was potent and it was unstoppable – the righteous rage of a person who had never really been told ‘no’. Someone who never needed to be careful with their truth, who had never wanted in life; someone who had never been dismissed as garbage for simply being.
The trigger was light under my finger and the blossom of red from the groin of the sissy filled me with such heady elation that for a moment, I stared at my pistol in wonder. Screams rent the air and the faggots ran for the door of the gay speakeasy, sobbing in terror. Two huddled under a table – Deb and Mark ghosted through them – and I kicked the table over before shooting them again and again until my gun was empty.
Out in the stairwell, I could still hear them, running and shrieking, and I followed, baton in hand. A young man in overalls ran into me, raising his arms defensively as I turned on him.
“I’m just a janitor!” he squawked, “My name’s Walt Sawyer. I-I work on the eighth floor.”
“You saw nothing,” I told him, as I pressed my empty gun to his neck, “you hear me? And if you ever tell anyone you saw me here, I’ll hunt you down. I’ll ruin you in ways you can’t even imagine.”
I saw the light of decision dawn in his brown eyes just a fraction too late. At that moment, he changed his story forever and ended mine.
The world upended as Walt’s strong young hands pushed me down the stairs. The last sound I heard was the horrifying crunch of my neck snapping on the risers as they rose to meet me, and as awareness faded, the whole scene rippled again, the air-fluid and nauseating, rank with the stench of urine and blood.

What was left of my breakfast came up quickly, splattering the fetid carpet? Walt was beside me, cutting off the cable ties with a pocket knife, apologizing over and over. Curled up on the floor beside each other were Mark and Deb, the former shivering uncontrollably and the latter whimpering like a dying animal.
We left them where they lay and stumbled out of that place, the ghosts of the massacre still clinging to us, the personas not wanting to give up their temporary flesh, even now their truths had been heard. The officer’s phantom hatred burned like a virus in my soul; the antithesis of everything I’d ever been and wanted to be. Walt seemed lost in his own recollections, of his own actions that night, barely responding when I pushed him up the stairs and back to the sanity of the eighth floor.
In the bathroom I cleaned myself up as much as I could, trembling hands blotting away mascara, quivering lips slowly stilling as I bathed my wrists in cool water. I knew that whatever happened, one way or another, my time in this place was coming to an end.
Holding my head as high as I could and straightening my skirt, I walked out of the bathroom, back into the office, and sat at my desk.
Deb’s cubicle was empty, and so was Mark’s.

Deborah Young was found dead in her apartment three days later, several empty pill bottles beside her bed, and her rigid face a blue-black rictus of agony. Mark hadn’t returned to work, but he officially resigned the day we all found out about the suicide. Trina and I watched with mixed emotions as Walt cleared out both of their desks. He didn’t look at me, but his strong hands no longer shook; they were steady and sure as he taped shut the boxes that contained all that remained of my workmates’ time in this place.
“I’m sorry I didn’t do much,” Trina explained, her lip quivering, “I tried to say they should leave you alone, but they wouldn’t listen.” She leaned in, glancing at Walt and lowering her voice like she was divulging a secret. “I think you’re really lovely.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I soothed her, “they’re gone now. They can’t do any more harm.”
Mark’s parting gift was a confession – not mine, but his. He admitted to all the harassment, and more – awful things I wasn’t even aware of, things which had inexplicably and impossibly been cleaned up before I’d even seen them. And not by Walt Sawyer. I brought an employment suit against the company and settled for a sum that I can’t disclose, though I can tell you that it was more than enough for me to go back to school and start my own business.
We’re tiny, and there’s a hell of a lot of work to do, but once I’ve finished my degree, look me up if you ever need a human rights lawyer. Or if you need really bad jokes from a really good janitor, one who’s just like a Dad. Walt’s on the payroll for life – and our new office has no stairs.
I wish the story ended there, that this wholesome fade-to-black is where we cut to the credits, but for those of you that want to sit through to the cut scene at the end, there is more.
I know exactly what Deb and Mark Felt.
I know why she killed herself. And I know why he became a homeless alcoholic, begging for booze money on Main Street. The feelings they had when they were inside those two young gay men – the unending terror and pain – wouldn’t go away. They would never go away, not with drink, nor with therapy. It would only end with their own deaths.
Just as the feelings I’d felt while I was the police officer won’t ever leave me.
The righteous anger lurks in the dark, waiting. It whispers that with a gun in my hand, with enough power, I can do anything. I can get away with murder, so long as I kill the right people. But even more than that, it remembers what it felt like to take a life of someone you have every right to hate absolutely, and the heady, intoxicating rush that comes with it. It tells me that if I kill just one person, my thirst will be quenched, and for a while, I can go back to being normal, to who I was before. To just being Becca.
I saw Mark yesterday, sleeping outside McDonald's, a tattered hat in his hand and a cardboard sign beside his head, begging for change. Ever since I saw him, there’s a picture in my head; my hand putting a gun to his stomach and pulling the trigger until the gun is empty.
I really struggled to know why the ghost of the seventh floor put me in the shoes of the cop, why I was chosen to contain the memory of him. But I think I’ve finally figured it out.
Anyone else would have given in to the hatred by now. It would have taken them over – and the mistakes of that night in the 60s would have been repeated, over and over, echoing through the ages, turning story after story into a tragedy, until its power finally faded to nothing.
But I already knew how to live with hate. I know how to rewrite it.
You might think it’s not fair, that I’ve already had enough struggles in my life. But this is a burden I will willingly bear. It’s worth it to change that narrative, even if it’s one drop in an enormous sea. And I have help, now. I gave Walt the absolution that he’s craved for the last fifty years, but he gave me family.

the fire that wouldn't burn

The Fire That Wouldnt Burn
by: NoSleep

“Are we theeeeeere yet?” asked Mike, in an obnoxious, nasally tone.

“You’re the navigator,” Andy replied flatly, “You tell me.”

Cynthia grunted. “I swear to God, Mike, if you say we’re lost and we wind up in a creepy cabin in the woods and getting picked off one by one…”

Mike fiddled with his phone. “Relax. I’m just kidding. We’re almost there.”

I wrapped an arm around Cynthia’s shoulders and pulled her close to me. “Well I can’t imagine a more romantic way to die than slowly being dismembered by my favorite person on earth.”

“Aww babe,” she cooed.

Mike craned his neck back to look at us. “Uhhh, he meant me.”

Cynthia kicked his seat as hard as she could.

I could hear the annoyance in Andy’s voice as he replied, “Settle down, kids.”

The three of us answered in unison, “Okay, dad.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “I should just leave you all on the side of the road.”

“Take the next left,” said Mike, “Not me, though, right? You’d never get rid of me!”

Andy grunted. “Especially you.”

Mike let out a whimper. “I’m hurt. I thought we had something special. All those late night cram sessions…”

The car turned left, onto a narrow gravel path.

“You mean the nights I spent studying and you spent getting drunk in my dorm room hiding from your creepy roommate,” Andy replied.

“Hey! I’m not creepy!” I shouted.

Mike cackled. “HA HA. Buuuuuuuurn!” He stretched in satisfaction and settled back into his seat. “Just keep going straight. The parking lot should be at the end of this road.”

Mike closed his map app and switched to social media. My phone dinged. I’d been tagged in a post. ‘OVERNIGHT CAMPING TRIP WITH THESE LOZERS’. All caps. Losers spelled with a ‘Z’. Classic Mike. Cynthia’s phone dinged seconds later. She looked at the screen, and then at me.

She winked. “I got this.”

She kicked Mike’s seat again. He toppled forward a little bit, then settled back in the seat and chuckled.

Andy pulled up to a slightly wider gravel area. “This looks about right.”

There were a few cars there already, half on the gravel and half on the grass. One of them was so caked in fallen leaves, I couldn’t see inside. It must have gotten caught in the storm a few days before. I remembered having to peel leaves off my own car in the morning. Of course, it hadn’t helped I parked right under a maple tree. My mistake.

We got out of the car and grabbed our camping gear.

“Got everything?” asked Andy.

Mike lifted a case of beer. “Everything that matters!”

I checked the back seat to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.

“Ok, so where’s the campsite?” asked Cynthia.

Andy looked around. “There should be a trail somewhere around here.”

I closed the car door and joined the three by the hood. I looked for the trail, but, since the ground was covered in leaves, nothing stood out. It’s hard to find the one dirt path when there’s a blanket of red and yellow all over the place.

Mike pointed towards an opening in the trees. “There!”

Cynthia quirked a brow. “Are you sure that’s the trail? Shouldn’t there be a sign?”

Mike shrugged. “Might have blown away in that storm this week. The wind was so strong, my umbrella flipped THREE times walking from the library to the social sciences building!”

Andy turned towards him. “Wait. What were you doing in the social sciences building?”

Mike turned redder than a tomato dipped in tomato sauce. “Uh. I. Um. I like the fen shui of their study hall?”

Cynthia snickered. “’Ol Mikey over here has a crush on the barista working there.”

“You don’t say,” murmured Andy.

I could see the cogs in Andy’s head start to turn.

Mike waved his arms dismissively. “I-it’s more of a mutual understanding and respect for the art of coffee!” He took a few steps towards the treeline. “It’s really not important. What’s important is setting up camp before dark. Come on, I’m sure this is the way.”

Cynthia grunted. “We are soooooo getting murdered, aren’t we?”

We followed Mike because, honestly? Even if no one was sure he knew the way, no one else wanted to take the lead and be wrong. Mike was an easy scapegoat. We figured we’d double back to the car if he led us down the wrong path and make him wear the proverbial cone of shame for the rest of the trip. It’d be a great team-building exercise. Unfortunately, it looked like he was right, because after trudging along for half an hour, we came across a clearing.

“Well, well, well, look who didn’t lead you right into the arms of an axe murderer?” Mike asked proudly.

“This is your greatest achievement yet, Mikey,” I replied.

The clearing was surrounded by tall pine trees which, based on the amount of pine needles on the ground, hadn’t fared much better in the storm than their non-coniferous brethren. There were two tents around the site. I assumed the muddiest and…uh, pine-needleliest…one belonged to the driver of the truck covered in leaves. There was a large fire pit in the middle of the site with a still roaring fire and a few logs stacked in a circle around it. If the other campers were around, they didn’t bother to say hello.

"Man, these are some messy sons of bitches," Mike said loudly.

He motioned to a few piles of ash and come discarded pieces of clothing scattered around the site.

Cynthia set her gear down and started sweeping pine needles with her foot. “Could be worse. Could be pee jugs.”

Mike shuddered at the thought.

Andy started unloading the tent. “We might fill some tonight.”

Mike’s face drained of color. “Are you serious? Do you know how disgusting that is?” He gagged. “Nope. Not going there. Change of subject. Cynthia, how’s school?”

Cynthia shrugged. “It’s fine.”

It didn’t sound fine, but neither Mike nor myself were going to push her for answers. We were here to relax, not worry about college. I grabbed the assembly instructions while Cynthia finished clearing a spot to pitch the tent. Andy ripped the instructions out of my hands and tossed them in the tent’s carrying case.

“Hey!” I shouted.

“We don’t need that,” he replied flatly.

“You might not need that, but I-”

He pulled a band off the flat tent, and it suddenly exploded into its proper shape.

“In my defense, no one told me you bought a pop-up tent,” I mumbled.

“Pass me the stakes,” answered Andy.

He nailed the tent in place while I helped occasionally by handing him another stake. At least I was being more helpful than Mike, who meandered around the campsite kicking stranger’s dirty clothes into a single pile. I guess he needed the peace of mind of knowing they were all in one place and he wouldn’t be walking on them. Cynthia, in the meantime, tossed our sleeping bags and other belongings in the tent, and then set up our electric grill.

We cooked ourselves hot dogs and sat around the campfire making idle conversation for most of the evening. There might have been a bit of drinking involved.

“Where is everyone anyways?” Cynthia asked.

OK. Maybe a lot of drinking.

I huddled up closer to her to steal her body heat. “What do you mean? We’re all here, babe.”

She pointed to the extra tents. “The sun’s been down for HOURS.”

Andy, sitting on the other side of the flames, narrowed his eyes. The angle of the light made him look sinister. “There’s an old legend around these parts about a dark shadowy creature that crawls into tents in the middle of the night and eats campers alive.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “You are so full of shit, Andy. I’m serious. What if they went hiking and one of them, I don’t know, slipped on a mossy rock and fell over the side of the mountain and his friend tried to save him but also slipped down and now they’re both almost dead at the bottom of a canyon, quietly trying to scream for help but their throats got crushed and they can’t make a sound? Or, I dunno, they’re lost? Shouldn’t we try to find a ranger?”

“I don’t think this park has rangers, does it?” I asked.

Mike shrugged. “No idea, man.”

Cynthia started shivering, so I held her tighter.

“Ok well, whatever. We’ll let those poor souls suffer and die at the bottom of a cliff,” said Cynthia.

Andy stared at the crackling fire in front of him. “I’m sure they’re fine. They left just before we showed up, so I guess they’re used to hiking in the dark.”

Mike snorted. “How d’you figure that, Sherlock?”

He motioned to the fire. “The fire was burning when we got here. That means someone was around to tend to it.”

Cynthia shivered. “Brrrrr! I’m going to get my sleeping bag.”

She pried herself free and stumbled to the tent. The sudden absence of her body heat made me shiver.

“It really is cold,” I mumbled.

Andy shrugged. “Get closer to the fire, then.”

I got up, rolled my log a few feet closer, and sat back down. It didn’t help.

“You’re still shivering,” Mike said.

“Yeah, well, it’s still really cold,” I replied.

He grinned and tossed me a beer. “This should warm you up!”

I popped the cap off and chugged it like a nerd trying to prove he’s cool enough to join a frat. I felt a flush of warmth radiating from within me, but it didn’t keep the cold from seeping in.

“There’s something odd about the fire,” Andy said.

Mike looked up. “Huh?”

“Has anyone fed it since we got here?” Andy asked.

I shook my head, so did Mike.

“Didn’t think so,” he replied. “Either one of you up for a game of fire chicken?”

“Fire what?” asked Mike.

“It’s when you play chicken with a fire. Two people slowly move their hand towards the flame. The first one to pull away loses,” I explained. I looked at Andy. “I’m game.”

I didn’t understand what Andy had in mind, but I was always up for drunken shenanigans. We stood on opposite ends of the fire. The look in Andy’s eyes was intense. I’d only ever seen that amount of focused determination during midterms. He stared at that fire like he’d just caught it in bed with his girlfriend, mom, and grandma. We stretched our arms out.

“Ready?” asked Andy.

“Ready.” I replied.

Mike bounced in his seat. “Set. GO!”

We mirrored each other in speed, but not in intensity. Andy was trying to prove something, while I was just having dumb fun. He took a step, I took a step. My arm felt cold. Or was it hot? It was hard to tell. There was something heavy in the air, overwhelming me with dread.

“This is stupid,” I whispered.

Andy didn’t pull away, so neither did I.

“Christ almighty, what are you DOING?” shouted Cynthia.

I started to turn to look at her, but Andy, with his damn cat-like reflexes, reached through the flames and yanked my hand in.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed.

He held me there for a good thirty seconds before I realized something: the flames didn’t burn. I looked at Andy incredulously. He let me go and focussed his attention on the fire. He knelt down and hovered his hand at the bottom, where the flames were supposed to be hottest.

Cynthia hopped over to us like a kid in a potato sack race, with her sleeping bag zipped all the way up to her neck. She was speechless.

“Dude, doesn’t that hurt?” Mike asked.

Andy wiggled his fingers. “No.”

“The fire’s not hot,” I told Mike.

Mike stared at us. “What do you mean the fire’s not hot? It’s FIRE!”

I backed away and stumbled, landing on my log. It was like I’d waved my hand through thin air. Scary thin air, like the kind you find in a dark room as you paw around trying to hit the light switch, but thin air nonetheless. Cynthia dropped next to me, her eyes on my arm rather than Andy’s. I could tell she was trying to size it up to see whether I’d burned myself. When she saw I was fine, she unzipped her arm free and whacked me upside the head.

“What the HELL were you thinking?” she screamed.

“Nothing, I-” I whispered.

“How stupid can you be? Do you know how PAINFUL third degree burns are? Do you have any idea how hard they are to treat?”

I should have known her internship in the burn unit was bothering her. She hadn’t been the same since she started it.

“Look, I’m okay,” I whispered, wiggling my fingers.

She looked away coldly. “I worry about you sometimes.”

“Duuuude this is so fucking cool,” screamed Mike.

He’d joined Andy by the fire. Andy pulled his arm out and gave Mike room to play as he inspected his skin. It looked fine. Mike swung his arms horizontally, cutting through the flames. He looked like he was having the time of his life.

“How’s this even possible?” Cynthia asked.

Mike jumped into the fire pit. “Maybe it’s a hologram?”

“I don’t see a projector,” answered Andy, scanning the area.

Mike shrugged and began to dance a weird fake tribal dance in the middle of the fire pit. “Fear me, mortals,” he bellowed, as he waved his arms and stomped his feet to an unheard beat, “I am Ra, god of FIRE!”

“Sun,” corrected Andy, “Ra is the god of the sun.”

Mike ignored him. He spun around and lifted his arms to the sky, “I AM RA! GOD OF FIRE!”

Through it all, the flames never seemed fazed. They never faltered, never weakened, and never swayed as a direct result of Mike’s movements. Maybe he was right about it being a hologram.

“We need to document this,” said Andy, pulling out his phone to record what was happening.

You would think the novelty of the fire wouldn’t wear off too quickly, but it did. You can only stare into a funhouse mirror for so long before it stops being funny. With the night getting colder and the fire not providing us anything in terms of warmth, we retreated to the tent about an hour later. A tent which might have struggled to fit four adults comfortably, but definitely didn’t fit four drunk adults comfortably. I found myself pinned between Cynthia and Mike, with each snoring in my ear, and Mike drooling in my hair. He kept twitching and smacking me in his sleep. Suffice to say, I didn’t get much rest that night.

Come morning, Mike was holding me in a lover’s embrace. I might have pushed him away, but I’ll take my body heat where I can get it, I guess. Andy was the first to “officially” wake up, and he left the tent before I even had the chance to whisper hello. Cynthia was next, and as soon as she saw the giant slug holding me captive, she whipped him with a shirt like a football coach with a towel in the locker room.

Mike grunted and unhooked from me. “I was having such a nice dream.”

“How d’you sleep, babe?” asked Cynthia.

“Pretty well,” answered Mike.

“Annnnd I just threw up in my mouth. Thanks, Mike.”

I laughed. It was great seeing my friends and girlfriend getting along.

“Where Andy?” Mike asked.

“Outside,” I answered. “I’m joining him. Come out when you’re ready.”

I yawned and got up. Well, crouched up. There wasn’t enough room to properly stand in our tent. I left the tent and heard all my bones cracking in protest as I stretched myself straight. Andy was sitting by the fire taking a million photos.

“It’s still going?” I asked.

“Yup,” answered Andy. “I think I’m going to come back with some equipment. Try to figure out what’s going on here.”

“Ok, well in the meantime, you want to help me pack up? I’m dying for a shower.”

“Yeah.”

We kicked the two sleepier ones out of the tent and started rolling up sleeping bags and disassembling the tent. Sans-instructions, might I add. Within about an hour, we were ready to leave. Andy snapped a few extra photos, and we went back down the trail.

We never did see the other campers.

We dropped Cynthia off first, and then headed to the dorms. All I could think about was my bed, with its warm down comforter, fluffy pillows, and all that glorious room to sprawl out on. Once home, Mike made a beeline for the fridge, and I went right for my bed, throwing my coat in the laundry hamper before passing out on my pillow. I vaguely recall hearing my phone ring at some point, but I was off in dream land.

A sharp, stinging sensation woke me up a few hours later. I opened my eyes, but the smell hit me before my brain could process the images. Something was burning. I felt a spike of adrenaline as I saw smoke rising from the laundry hamper. I jumped to my feet and ran to it, finding flames chewing up my coat’s right sleeve. I pulled it out and quickly tossed it in my bathtub before it could spread to anything else…or so I thought. Now that my attention wasn’t split anymore, I noticed the fibers of my shirt’s right sleeve slowly sizzling with microscopic ambers.

My entire arm was in agony. I couldn’t tell if it was searing hot or frozen cold, I just kept getting hit with wave upon wave of terrible, radiating pain. The only thing more sickening than the feeling was the smell. A disgusting scent like rancid beef on a frying pan. My sleeve had become a wick, and the wick was burning, no, melting. I ripped the shirt off without thinking. I could feel my skin pulling as I did it. Pieces of skin stayed on the shirt, pieces of shirt stayed on my skin. I could see the melted, woven fabric embedded into the reddened surface of my skin. My arm became a patchy mess of red and sickly yellow, like a blanket of autumn leaves on a forest floor. I didn’t know what to do. I needed someone to tell me what to do.

My phone went off.

Somehow, through the agonizing pangs of pain blurring my mind, I managed to grab the phone.

Andy was calling, and I had a new voicemail.

I picked up.

“Get Mike to a doctor NOW,” he shouted, with no regard for my well-being.

But I think he’d figured out what was happening, whereas I could only think about how much pain I was in and how nothing I did could make it stop. The burn didn’t get worse, but the pain wasn’t letting up for a second. It was excruciating.

“The doctor, Mike, now,” Andy insisted.

I could hear him say it through gritted teeth. He was choking back the tears that were already falling from my eyes. The authority in his voice was enough to snap me into action. I ran out of my room, whining at every air current that licked my raw, bubbling skin.

“Mike,” I whimpered.

Why was it so hard to speak? My arm was burnt, but my throat worked just fine. I think the problem was having to speak through the need to scream. Mike was sitting in front of the TV. He looked at me, then winced at the sight of my arm.

“Holy shit, dude. What the fuck happened?”

“Doctor,” I stuttered.

“Yeah man, I’ll call an ambulance. Holy fuck.”

I was shaking. I wanted it all to stop. I wanted someone to knock me out so I wouldn’t be able to feel the pain anymore. Mike called 9-1-1 while I stuck my arm in the freezer, feeling very little relief. I couldn’t even tell you how long it took for the paramedics to get there. I was in shock.

When they arrived and ripped me away from the freezer, I remember hearing Andy’s voice again in my head. Get Mike to a doctor NOW. I was dazed. Disoriented. I couldn’t think. I could barely breathe, but at the pit of my stomach, I knew I had to get the message across.

I pointed to Mike and screamed, “Him!”

They all seemed very confused, even Mike. One of them said he could ride along. That was enough. I tried to give in to my need to pass out, but the spikes of pain refused to let me. I simultaneously remember every single minute of agony spent in the back of that ambulance, and yet I couldn’t tell you if it took two minutes, ten, or thirty. I just remember, at some point, Mike’s screams drowned out my own.

My admittance into the ER was a blur. People kept asking me questions. Something about chemicals. I couldn’t answer. I remember seeing Mike thrashing in the background. I remember seeing Andy sitting on a hospital bed. I remember a needle.

The pain in my arm started to decompress, and the panic slowly subsided. Then, it hit me. Whatever happened to me probably happened to Andy, and would probably happen to Mike.

And then my stomach dropped.

Andy and I had put our arms in the fire. Mike had jumped in. Mike had danced in the flames that wouldn’t burn. He’d spent so much time in there dancing and laughing and making a royal ass of himself.

“Make it stop!” he screamed. “It hurts!”

I could hear him all the way down the hall. I jumped to my feet and ran out of the room. All I cared about was Mike, and trying to help him in whichever way I could. I met a wall of orderlies who held me back. Doctors and nurses were running into Mike’s room.

“Let me through! I need to see my friend!” I screamed.

I had enough adrenaline pumping through my veins that I actually thought I could overpower them, but I guess that was just in my head. They were accustomed to dealing with grieving family members. It wasn’t any effort on their part to hold me back.

A bright, flickering light poured out of the doorway to Mike’s room. I heard gasps and prayers and panic all around, but nothing was louder than Mike’s last scream. It poured out of him in one, long, horrifying stream. It started rough and primal, but tapered off into the cry of a child looking for his mother. The light went out, and smoke took its place.

All that was left of Mike was a pile of ash, and the stink of burn that spread to every corner of the hospital. It felt like it happened in an instant, but I heard it took over half an hour, and there was nothing anyone could to do stop it. I heard the nurses talking about it. They said his skin melted away, his blood boiled, his fat melted, and he finally caught fire. It all happened very slowly, and he was alive and awake to suffer through it all.

I hope to god that’s not true, because I finally got around to checking that voicemail on my phone.

“Hey babe, just letting you know I’m taking the girls to see that fire! I’ll be back tomorrow. Love you!”

By now, it’s already too late. I know, because I saw the photos she posted online of her and her friends dancing in the flames.

finally found a step forward

 A step forward

So recently i have been at a loss on what will i do with my life and i thank the heavens that i found one at last the reason for this is, i felt i had no meaning in life.  That it has become a endless cycle and now i have found a open way as the choices has opened before me to ether its work or school and i had a very small third choice which was opening my own work and learning along the way and because of this i felt i had little control of my life, That sad feeling still lingers around and i hate it so on the positive new all all the choices where actually opened to me i have another job interview a opening for school and a friend ask me if i would like to open a business with him so there is  that now i am happy that all of this offering to me by life but now opens another problem and that problem is what do i choose each has its own positive and negative side at this moment i realize that i can do it one by one yes i made my own choice of doing it all its a rare choice but a good one at best one, One of the jobs needs me to write at lest 3000 words a day i think i can do that i hope i am not very long writer but i have been know to put run along sentences and expanding the ideas so that a plus i hope or its down when i write i just let the idea flow into my head and i just keep typing i only stop when i am satisfied with the answer or i think i have written enough but it only means a step forward and that life i guess just keep moving forward only the dead stops and something there are people who are just surviving  i feel sad on those people they have a long life ahead of them but there just surviving i hope i wont  turn to like those that is one of my life goals so speaking of life goals i still want to make my own business but i feel i do not have the idea for it and because i feel my ideas are generic i need a person with vision i can lend the opportunity but i need the vision for that i have a few people that might help me with those but i do not want to be fort coming baby steps in this one as it will take a big decision for them to move forward in this and last but not the least the school i think that it very pretty self explanatory learning new skills is a key to growing so yup those are the three skills that i have been presented to me and i will take them all.

THANK YOU FOR READING HAVE A GREAT DAY

when life gets you down

When life gets you down

this won't be a fun post this just me ranting as my life right now is stuck and I write this to let go of  stress and move on I saw some articles on the internet that this a good way to let off some steam so as I was saying my life is kind of a downer my plans are falling apart but i will keep moving forward and realize my dreams maybe i should start or join a group little steps indeed there are ways already that i will move this school again I wanted to avoid it but if its a way than just standing its better that way and there's business i curse the workforce that doesn't want me but i guess i won't blame them they want the best and i must admit there is more room for improvement and while i am typing away i am thinking of ways there is always a third way and that making my own job but with making this one a lot of study for this one and this most i am leading inot but i must always be open for things as human being we must always adopt and i think thats my best i may be sad now but i will remind my slf there is tom and with each tep it will be better i just need to focus and have the determination to pass this endevour that my mind is into i won't give up, giving up meanins losing  and i hate losing a fight without me giving it all the internet is right typing your thoughts is teraphutic so thats whats with me hope someone reading this will understand this as its actually all over the place but the lesson is when lifes a let down just stand