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prout4 100%
El michel's affair, « Sounding out the city ») This'll be quick and ugly LOL Anyway … Meet my bro, Mr Volt 4 hours.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2018/03/26/prout4/
26/03/2018 www.pdf-archive.com
Adpocalypse Appeal by Joerg Sprave (Public version) 98%
I did set it to “private”, but it was removed a few hours later anyway] It wasn’t very successful anyway.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2017/12/19/adpocalypse-appeal-by-joerg-sprave-public-version-1/
19/12/2017 www.pdf-archive.com
runnerup 97%
Runner up ~chill intro, finger snappin’~ [Verse 1] Can you tell me What it feels like to be the last one standing Do you see me Breathless on the ground with cuts and bruises All the things I give my life To break apart and crumble down In front of my eyes Build a castle with my wornout tools Even though I know the throne will go to you [CHORUS] Hardly have enough to spare But you take, take, take And I try to keep it cool But finally break, break, break It’s hard to stand up when you’re always runnerup But it’s okay I’m used to it anyway [Verse 2] Start again Or risk it all for one turn of pitchandtoss Lose again Still I never breathe a word ‘bout my loss See I just strut the day with a painted smile Put fill the sheets with tears as I fret the night Darlin’, sleep away all the fears But your dreams become the killer And stays up ’till you die [CHORUS] Hardly have enough to spare But you take, take, take And I try to keep it cool But finally break, break, break It’s hard to stand up when you’re always runnerup But it’s okay I’m used to it anyway [Bridge] Don’t come inside It’s warm in here But you’re inside It’s so cold Don’t come inside It’s warm in here But you’re inside It’s so cold [CHORUS] Hardly have enough to spare But you take, take, take And I try to keep it cool But finally break, break, break It’s hard to stand up when you’re always runnerup But it’s okay I’m used to it anyway runnerup is a song about… ● being/feeling inferior ● exhausting yourself to catch up with everyone else; out of breath from trying your hardest ● controlled (puppetry?) ● haunted ● playing someone else’s game notable imagery: ● building a castle, throne ○ turnaround chair (or camera swerves around chair) ● crumbling ● dreams, nightmares ● (bridge part) blue and red neon lighting, glass door separating inside/outside NARRATIVEBASED glimpses into different people’s stories; several characters the song/story starts off in a defeated emotional state a bit of story prelude before the groovy song intro comedic tone she gets followed by this (somewhat omniscient) backing band (mariachi style but more modern costumes) maybe consisting of 23 people, playing the bass part, snapping finger, and drums. or followed by a hovering makeshift raincloud; swats it away dollhouse theme > different setups and costumes pastel colours, faded aesthetic, orange/pink background range of shot lengths shots synced to the beat esp. “take, take, take”, “break, break, break” pacing of shots to add variance to mood and tension like the LEGO movie, kid playing with toys and controlling their own world meta: at the end she stop the song (record player) in front of the child playing different settings indoor, and hk city (racetrack? or too cliche?) sunlight, dappled light nonlinear narrative don’t be afraid to be weird af go small, focus on details, show less instead of more. through simplicity, find poetry (thanks, tony zhou)
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2015/06/24/runnerup/
24/06/2015 www.pdf-archive.com
feedback irene 96%
As if she knows the answer to it, anyway.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2016/09/17/feedback-irene/
17/09/2016 www.pdf-archive.com
Untitleddocument (3) 95%
ANYWAY, let’s just cut to the fucking point, alright?
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2016/10/29/untitleddocument-3/
29/10/2016 www.pdf-archive.com
Hot Mess Express Contestant Packet 94%
If this happens, please continue on as if nothing happened at all, I’m sure we will end up making up the scores anyway as Lady Kakes will be using the judge’s sheets to roll joints.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2016/06/06/hot-mess-express-contestant-packet/
06/06/2016 www.pdf-archive.com
Punishment 92%
He exhaled deeply, "Tasha, you have every reason to be like this right now, in fact, you're stronger than any one should have to be, in this situation anyway."
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2011/04/25/punishment/
25/04/2011 www.pdf-archive.com
music's peaks 92%
Anyway, enough kidding around. ... Anyway, enough kidding around.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2017/01/22/music-s-peaks/
22/01/2017 www.pdf-archive.com
WMSTLitJournal14 92%
Over the phone these things get lost sometimes anyway.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2014/05/13/wmstlitjournal14-1/
13/05/2014 www.pdf-archive.com
SNews-Sept-v1 85%
You can have your ashes scattered in space (Upper Atmosphere anyway), have a glittery casket, have your family make your willow weave casket or even avoid the fires of cremation, for a water alternative – described as ‘gentler’ than the traditional method.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2019/08/31/snews-sept-v1/
31/08/2019 www.pdf-archive.com
film cizelge tr 2014 84%
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2014/04/01/film-cizelge-tr-2014/
01/04/2014 www.pdf-archive.com
MY THOUGHTS 84%
If I choose to settle into the flatlands, there would be an end to that middle median part of life everyone goes through, where nothing makes total sense but all of it happens anyway, when you meet someone and realize you aren’t the protagonist, when you fill yourself with an education to the point of absolution and end up with a job in fisheries, when you become an adult and have to provide.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2017/08/10/my-thoughts/
10/08/2017 www.pdf-archive.com
4 March 2017 84%
Anyway the lifts weren’t that good, one set modernised by Kone (but it's a generic) and another set modernised by Otis.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2017/07/29/4-march-2017/
29/07/2017 www.pdf-archive.com
Just What Was Rumpelstiltskin 82%
24723 Hockey RPF Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin Evgeni Malkin, Sidney Crosby, Marc-Andre Fleury, Kris Letang, Pittsburgh Penguins Ensemble Just What Was Rumpelstiltskin Expecting to Do with a Baby, Anyway?
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2017/09/21/just-what-was-rumpelstiltskin/
21/09/2017 www.pdf-archive.com
Untitleddocument 82%
Dear Sir or Madam, I am writing today as a whistleblower to inform you of some serious animal rights violations at the US Military’s Joint Special Operations Medical Training Center/Special Warfare Medical Group. As a former student, I have witnessed, and been forced to do nothing about, these abuses during Live Tissue Training. The JSOMTC/SWMG purchases upwards of 3000 goats a year, at approximately $400 USD a head. These goats are used for live tissue training, meaning that they are deliberately injured in order to provide realistic training to students. The goats are purchased through civilian contractors in Virginia, herded, dozens at a time, into tiny trailers, and transported without food, water, or space to lay down, to the JSOMTC in Fort Bragg, NC. On arrival, the goats are packed into small corrals, and “inprocessed” by school students awaiting training. These students, with no training or education, are forced to wrangle each frightened goat, inject them with several syringes worth of antibiotics, weigh, and take a set of vital signs. These students have no prior training in needle placement, medication and dose verification, or shot administration. They just follow the example of the overworked civilian staffers. Handfuls of needles and syringes are passed around, and each goat gets an injection in the neck tissue. During the hectic storm of inprocessing, sharps go missing, doses get wasted if the goat moves during drug push, needles enter the vasculature and cause bleeding, and extreme pain is caused to the animals during these sessions. When asked about it, one civilian member was quoted as saying “They’re only goats, and they’ll be dead in a few days anyway.” This attitude is very common among both the civilian and military staff in charge of the animal services and shoot chambers. After inprocessing, the goats are housed in small, indoor pens, with no fresh air or sunlight. They are cramped, often dozens of animals in the same pen, fed twice a day, and often left with no room to lie down. The pen floor is simply an open grate, to let feces and urine pass through to a “catch room” below. The grates are washed down twice a day with pressure hoses while the goats are still in the pen, soaking the goats, causing panic and, occasionally, injury to the animals. Their waste, meanwhile, simply accumulates in an underground concrete box, which drains into a single, easily clogged outlet. The ventilation units force a lot of air movement through the catch room, at a much higher pressure than the upstairs fans can deliver, causing a constant flow of humid, fecesladen air to circulate through the goat pens. This causes respiratory distress and occasionally pulmonary disease in the goats, as well as the students who get put on pen wash detail. When the time finally comes around for the goats to be used for training, another troop of barelytrained students comes by the pens to wrangle their assigned goats. They grab individual caprines, stab them with sedatives, and wait for them to pass out, with the more conscious animals trampling the sedated goats in their panic, causing more injuries. After the goats are moreorless unconscious, the students are made to grab or drag by whatever horns or limbs are available, and haul the animals off to the shear room, where the fur is shaved off to provide a more “human” type feel during wounding and treatment. They are then dragged back to the pens until wounding time comes. As they wait, the animals, freshly shorn, and often still wet from the pen spraydown, reach borderline hypothermia. “Doesn’t matter, they’re about to get put under and die anyway,” was the comment by one staffer when a student pointed out that the goats appeared to be in extreme discomfort from the cold. When their number finally comes up for wounding, the goats are put through the same process of sedation again, with doses often coming up short or not being fully delivered in the right locations for effective anesthetic or sedation. These mistakes are brushed over by the staff and military cadre. As long as the caprines aren’t actively thrashing about, and the documentation shows that the appropriate dose was delivered, nothing else matters. The caprines get dragged off to the wounding areas in preparation for training, able to feel pain or no. The wounding area is by far the most egregious abuse and violation of animal rights during this whole process. The documentation and powerpoint presentations that are brought out to show VIPs and observer personnel show a very methodical and humane practice of full sedation, careful wounding, and respectful treatment of the caprines throughout the whole process. In practice, and when there are no VIP or command tours happening, the animals are severely mistreated, being dragged, kicked, shot, blown up, hacked to pieces, or simply stabbed with scalpels in key places. There are certain injury sets which have been vetted by an external body as being acceptable, but the implementation is totally up to the individual providing the wound. For instance, an individual instructor was given a wound set for his particular animal, involving an abdominal evisceration and a minor wound on the leg. After completing the cut on the leg with a rusty scalpel, the instructor decided that he wanted a more graphic injury to the abdomen. So, after performing the incision and pulling some parts of bowel out of the goats abdomen with an ungloved hand, he taped an artillery simulator grenade to the abdomen, “Just for fun”. A rusty, bloodcovered axe is used for traumatic limb amputation, and two instructors were seen comparing how far they could get the hoof to fly away from the patient model. For facial lacerations, one instructor makes a habit of stepping on the goats lower jaw as he hacks away at the upper, just to ensure that the semiconscious patients don’t move. When a student pointed out that the patient legs were drawing up in pain, or the patient was moving its head, the instructor just replied that the patient was going to bleed out anyway, and that the student should be focused on not ****ing up his training run. This is just a very small sample of the abuses seen by one individual during one course and a refresher course at JSOMTC. The amount of disrespect and pain caused to the goats is just astounding. When there are no observers present, that is. When VIP tours or observer groups come through, all the unprofessionalism is gone. The extra goats are dealt with swiftly, leaving just a few happy goats munching away at their ample food in their spotless, uncrowded pens. The barn staff perform a careful and methodical takedown of the patients, using proper aseptic technique, with meticulously calculated sedatives to ensure that the caprines are entirely sedated and feel nothing. The wounding is equally careful, with precisely placed injuries, constant checking on patient sedation, and total professional demeanor. The folding lawn chairs are gone, the cadre stand close watch over aseptic technique, ensuring total respect and care is taken to treat the animals appropriately, through wounding and into the incinerator after the clinics are over. And as soon as the tour leaves, though, everything goes right back to the way it was before, with rampant abuse of the caprines and total disregard for their pain level. I have done my research, attempted to report violations of animal rights using the chain of command, and even contacted the senior officers in command of the program. All complaints, from myself and others, have been swept under the rug, and nothing has changed. I have been shown pages and pages of documentation and manuals, all providing a very humane and wellstructured program, with thorough oversight. In reality, however, the actual treatment of the caprine patient models is total abuse. Thousands of goats are systematically put through extreme discomfort and pain, mistreated, and brutally killed at JSOMTC/SWMG every year, all in the name of training, while dozens of computerequipped, stateoftheart human mannequins sit collecting dust in a warehouse just next door. The Live Tissue Training program needlessly wastes thousands of lives, when technology has reached a point where it is rendered all but obsolete. As someone who has been through the program and seen these abuses first hand, I urge you strongly to do your research, contact your representatives, bring attention to these abuses, and put an end to this program. Signed: A Concerned Whistle Blower
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2016/03/13/untitleddocument/
13/03/2016 www.pdf-archive.com
Caeruleus sample 82%
Not of people anyway.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2016/11/01/caeruleus-sample/
01/11/2016 www.pdf-archive.com
KUPOST KITAALAM KATIKA BLOG 81%
Anyway, hii huusisha kuchukua article mahara na kuihamishia kwako, na hapa ndipo mabishoo wengi hujikwaa na kudharirika mbele ya watoto wadogo.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2017/08/21/kupost-kitaalam-katika-blog/
21/08/2017 www.pdf-archive.com
The Amazing Prof Parrot 80%
Well anyway, this bloke comes to the door.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2017/03/27/the-amazing-prof-parrot/
27/03/2017 www.pdf-archive.com
coronerscriptv5 79%
Dog walker – or his dog, anyway - found them before dawn this morning.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2016/11/25/coronerscriptv5/
25/11/2016 www.pdf-archive.com
Time to Think - Google Docs 78%
Time to Think Sam Noyes February 2015 I don’t remember where I was when I heard the news. Come to think about it, I don’t remember anything at all about Thursday. All I remember was lying awake that night. Because life slows down at night. At this point it’s the only time I really get to think. I also remember the first thing I did the next morning. Every pill, every needle, everything, in the garbage. This isn’t high school anymore. To hell with withdrawal. I walked out onto Swasey Parkway and looked up at the sky. It seemed particularly bright that morning, a deep shade of blue that made me dizzy as I stared into it. I remember feeling a tremendous sense of calm at that moment, an inexplicable serenity. I should be in high school. I'm eighteen and would be just finishing my senior year, but I dropped out. I was failing anyway. Not like I had any friends either. Oh, I wasn't bullied, I wasn't an outcast. I was just forgotten. I was the kid who sat in the back corner, head in his hands, wishing he was somewhere else, knowing that place wasn't home, either. I could have done well in school, too. There was nothing stopping me. I was bright ever since I was an infant. The problem was that I never got invested. I just didn't care, and now it's too late. I squandered my chance at a normal high school education, and I can't get it back. Failing wasn’t my only problem. During sophomore year I tried heroin for the first time, sitting alone in the backseat of my mom’s crappy ‘97 Honda Accord. I'm not going to tell you that I was hooked immediately – that's not how it works. You don't try it once and get addicted. But I do know I liked it that first time. I liked it a lot. It's a slippery slope. 1 Where do I go now that it's all over? That was the question I asked myself, time and time again. My mother. She was the first person who came to mind. The Exeter Cemetery looked exactly as it had when I last saw it, back in the sixth grade when it happened. I remember seeing her white, cold body for the last time, seeing the coffin being shut and lowered into the ground. All I can remember was a sense of awe, that my mother would be in the ground, unmoving, for eternity. With those memories came back even more upsetting ones. The nightly sobbing, the screaming, the fights. That day in June, when I found her hanging from a branch in the backyard. God knows what she was on when she did it. All that I know is that it was inevitable. After that, my stepfather was less reserved. He had no one to impress, no one who cared about me to keep his temper in check. Because my mother cared. She had problems, plenty of them, but I know that she cared about me. From then on, he was drunk every night. I'd go to bed with a black eye if I was lucky. At that point, I was still hoping for a normal life. The time I spent with my mother was the happiest time of my life. So I didn’t run from him. I resolved to keep going, to make it through high school, to hang on. But it got hard. By the time I was in the eighth grade, he had lost his job and was broke. That’s when the kids at school started to see the effects. Because I had friends in middle school. I had a good time back then. But by the eighth grade I had grown quiet. My stepfather would keep me up until the early morning with his drunken bouts of anger and violence. I spent an hour in the cemetery, first gathering flowers for my mother and then walking slowly down each row, looking at the graves and wondering about the stories. I always loved stories, and even though I didn’t do well in school I liked to read. The graveyard was where the storyteller in me could go wild. Who were all these people? Does anyone remember them? 2 From the cemetery, I directed my steps to the banks of the Exeter River. I remembered the way perfectly – snake through my backyard, duck under the willow tree to avoid the view of the neighbors, scramble down a small, steep hill, dash across a clearing, and there it was, just as I left it a few years ago. The rock was there, too, its rounded top poking above the white, calm ripples of the rushing water. I used to sit on it for hours whenever I wanted to get away, skipping rocks absent‐mindedly or grabbing at small minnows, only to have them dart away as soon as my hand broke the surface of the water. The rock still holds a special significance for me, even though I don’t need to escape anymore, not since my stepfather left me last year. Just up and left. I woke up one day in late May, and his clothes, wallet, car, everything, just gone. I’ve been living alone ever since. I have no relatives, at least none I ever met. I don’t know what else to do. So, I got a job. I’m working at the Sunoco on Portsmouth Ave from nine to five, and starting at six I head to McDonald’s, just down the road. I barely sleep, but at least I’m getting by. I really should be there now, not that it matters anymore. I was planning on attending community college once I saved up some money, but that was a pipe dream anyway. I leaned down and picked up a rock. It was shiny, smooth against the rough skin of my hand. And I nodded with satisfaction as it skipped over the glassy water, four, five, six, seven times before coming to a rest on the bank where the river curved. ** I woke up this morning and I knew exactly where I was going. Out the door, take a left, right at the library, left on Linden, ten houses down. It was just as I remembered it – gray, slightly sagging, shingles coming detached from the roof. I had never been inside, but I passed it every day for years back when I was in middle school. I walked up the gravel pathway and knocked. And in a minute, there was Vinnie, looking just as he did when I left him, albeit with some wisps of gray hair starting to come 3 through. Same slightly crooked nose, hardened skin, huge hands. The bastard even had on the same torn, navy sweatshirt he wore every day on the bus. It took him a second, I think, to realize who I was and why he recognized me. He opened the door with the same uninterested, slightly condescending expression with which one might greet a Jehovah’s Witness or a door‐to‐door salesman. But before I had time to react, my hand was being crushed and I was being pulled inside by his powerful grip. He was clapping me on the back, smiling, telling me how great it was to see me. I couldn’t keep up with the onslaught. Finally, I was inside, sitting at the counter, and he poured me a glass of water. “How you been, man?” was the first thing he could think of to say. “I’ve been good. I’m working down at the Sunoco now.” “Since when you got time for that?” I smirked, and took a drink of water before answering. “Since I dropped out.” He put down the beer that he had been holding since I entered. Beer bottles acted as a sort of hand decoration for him. “Now what the hell’d you go and do that for?” “Hey, we both know I was failing anyway.” He grunted and looked out the window, so I continued. “You still driving buses?” “Yeah, still at it. One day I’m gonna quit, though. One of these days, just wait and see. Those brats in the administration, I’m done with ‘em. Soon as the wife lets me, I’m gone.” “How is she?” “She’s fine, man, she’s gettin by. Still working at the preschool.” “Nice.” He nodded. I sighed. One of the many things I liked about Vinnie was that he wasn’t afraid of silence. Some people, they have to be talking, all day, every day. Vinnie wasn’t afraid of a little silence. Gives you time to think. Finally, he spoke. “What made you come by? Just felt like checkin in?” 4 “Well, It’s been a big couple days for me. Real big couple days.” “Why? What’s been goin on?” “Well, Thursday I went cold turkey.” The thought of it made my head pound. “Been clean three days now. Threw it all right in the trash. Feel like shit, but I’m glad to be done with it.” Vinnie was no stranger to my drug habits. I’ve known him since the sixth grade, when he first became my bus driver. I live far from school, so I was always the last one on the bus, and I would sit up front and talk with him until we got to my house. Then, when I was in the eighth grade, he took on the role of janitor as well to pick up some extra money. He became something of a class treasure. Everyone in the school wanted to talk to him for his gruff humor and his good‐naturedness. I always felt lucky to know him. “Hey, congrats, man! Shit, wish I could stop drinking. How’d you do it?” “Well, I, uh… I had some motivation. I just, uh… I found out on Thursday that I –” I tried to think of the best way to say it. The letter from the hospital was so impersonal. It made me feel like a mark on a piece of paper. “What is it?” “It’s… I'm dying, Vinnie. Acute leukemia, stage four. They gave me four weeks.” 5
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2016/02/22/time-to-think-google-docs/
22/02/2016 www.pdf-archive.com
Time to Think, JF 78%
Time to Think John Farkerson February 2015 I don’t remember where I was when I heard the news. Come to think about it, I don’t remember anything at all about Thursday. All I remember was lying awake that night. Because life slows down at night. At this point it’s the only time I really get to think. I also remember the first thing I did the next morning. Every pill, every needle, everything, in the garbage. This isn’t high school anymore. To hell with withdrawal. I walked out onto Swasey Parkway and looked up at the sky. It seemed particularly bright that morning, a deep shade of blue that made me dizzy as I stared into it. I remember feeling a tremendous sense of calm at that moment, an inexplicable serenity. I should be in high school. I'm eighteen and would be just finishing my senior year, but I dropped out. I was failing anyway. Not like I had any friends either. Oh, I wasn't bullied, I wasn't an outcast. I was just forgotten. I was the kid who sat in the back corner, head in his hands, wishing he was somewhere else, knowing that place wasn't home, either. I could have done well in school, too. There was nothing stopping me. I was bright ever since I was an infant. The problem was that I never got invested. I just didn't care, and now it's too late. I squandered my chance at a normal high school education, and I can't get it back. Failing wasn’t my only problem. During sophomore year I tried heroin for the first time, sitting alone in the backseat of my mom’s crappy ‘97 Honda Accord. I'm not going to tell you that I was hooked immediately – that's not how it works. You don't try it once and get addicted. But I do know I liked it that first time. I liked it a lot. It's a slippery slope. 1 Where do I go now that it's all over? That was the question I asked myself, time and time again. My mother. She was the first person who came to mind. The Exeter Cemetery looked exactly as it had when I last saw it, back in the sixth grade when it happened. I remember seeing her white, cold body for the last time, seeing the coffin being shut and lowered into the ground. All I can remember was a sense of awe, that my mother would be in the ground, unmoving, for eternity. With those memories came back even more upsetting ones. The nightly sobbing, the screaming, the fights. That day in June, when I found her hanging from a branch in the backyard. God knows what she was on when she did it. All that I know is that it was inevitable. After that, my stepfather was less reserved. He had no one to impress, no one who cared about me to keep his temper in check. Because my mother cared. She had problems, plenty of them, but I know that she cared about me. From then on, he was drunk every night. I'd go to bed with a black eye if I was lucky. At that point, I was still hoping for a normal life. The time I spent with my mother was the happiest time of my life. So I didn’t run from him. I resolved to keep going, to make it through high school, to hang on. But it got hard. By the time I was in the eighth grade, he had lost his job and was broke. That’s when the kids at school started to see the effects. Because I had friends in middle school. I had a good time back then. But by the eighth grade I had grown quiet. My stepfather would keep me up until the early morning with his drunken bouts of anger and violence. I spent an hour in the cemetery, first gathering flowers for my mother and then walking slowly down each row, looking at the graves and wondering about the stories. I always loved stories, and even though I didn’t do well in school I liked to read. The graveyard was where the storyteller in me could go wild. Who were all these people? Does anyone remember them? 2 From the cemetery, I directed my steps to the banks of the Exeter River. I remembered the way perfectly – snake through my backyard, duck under the willow tree to avoid the view of the neighbors, scramble down a small, steep hill, dash across a clearing, and there it was, just as I left it a few years ago. The rock was there, too, its rounded top poking above the white, calm ripples of the rushing water. I used to sit on it for hours whenever I wanted to get away, skipping rocks absent‐mindedly or grabbing at small minnows, only to have them dart away as soon as my hand broke the surface of the water. The rock still holds a special significance for me, even though I don’t need to escape anymore, not since my stepfather left me last year. Just up and left. I woke up one day in late May, and his clothes, wallet, car, everything, just gone. I’ve been living alone ever since. I have no relatives, at least none I ever met. I don’t know what else to do. So, I got a job. I’m working at the Sunoco on Portsmouth Ave from nine to five, and starting at six I head to McDonald’s, just down the road. I barely sleep, but at least I’m getting by. I really should be there now, not that it matters anymore. I was planning on attending community college once I saved up some money, but that was a pipe dream anyway. I leaned down and picked up a rock. It was shiny, smooth against the rough skin of my hand. And I nodded with satisfaction as it skipped over the glassy water, four, five, six, seven times before coming to a rest on the bank where the river curved. ** I woke up this morning and I knew exactly where I was going. Out the door, take a left, right at the library, left on Linden, ten houses down. It was just as I remembered it – gray, slightly sagging, shingles coming detached from the roof. I had never been inside, but I passed it every day for years back when I was in middle school. I walked up the gravel pathway and knocked. And in a minute, there was Vinnie, looking just as he did when I left him, albeit with some wisps of gray hair starting to come 3 through. Same slightly crooked nose, hardened skin, huge hands. The bastard even had on the same torn, navy sweatshirt he wore every day on the bus. It took him a second, I think, to realize who I was and why he recognized me. He opened the door with the same uninterested, slightly condescending expression with which one might greet a Jehovah’s Witness or a door‐to‐door salesman. But before I had time to react, my hand was being crushed and I was being pulled inside by his powerful grip. He was clapping me on the back, smiling, telling me how great it was to see me. I couldn’t keep up with the onslaught. Finally, I was inside, sitting at the counter, and he poured me a glass of water. “How you been, man?” was the first thing he could think of to say. “I’ve been good. I’m working down at the Sunoco now.” “Since when you got time for that?” I smirked, and took a drink of water before answering. “Since I dropped out.” He put down the beer that he had been holding since I entered. Beer bottles acted as a sort of hand decoration for him. “Now what the hell’d you go and do that for?” “Hey, we both know I was failing anyway.” He grunted and looked out the window, so I continued. “You still driving buses?” “Yeah, still at it. One day I’m gonna quit, though. One of these days, just wait and see. Those brats in the administration, I’m done with ‘em. Soon as the wife lets me, I’m gone.” “How is she?” “She’s fine, man, she’s gettin by. Still working at the preschool.” “Nice.” He nodded. I sighed. One of the many things I liked about Vinnie was that he wasn’t afraid of silence. Some people, they have to be talking, all day, every day. Vinnie wasn’t afraid of a little silence. Gives you time to think. Finally, he spoke. “What made you come by? Just felt like checkin in?” 4 “Well, It’s been a big couple days for me. Real big couple days.” “Why? What’s been goin on?” “Well, Thursday I went cold turkey.” The thought of it made my head pound. “Been clean three days now. Threw it all right in the trash. Feel like shit, but I’m glad to be done with it.” Vinnie was no stranger to my drug habits. I’ve known him since the sixth grade, when he first became my bus driver. I live far from school, so I was always the last one on the bus, and I would sit up front and talk with him until we got to my house. Then, when I was in the eighth grade, he took on the role of janitor as well to pick up some extra money. He became something of a class treasure. Everyone in the school wanted to talk to him for his gruff humor and his good‐naturedness. I always felt lucky to know him. “Hey, congrats, man! Shit, wish I could stop drinking. How’d you do it?” “Well, I, uh… I had some motivation. I just, uh… I found out on Thursday that I –” I tried to think of the best way to say it. The letter from the hospital was so impersonal. It made me feel like a mark on a piece of paper. “What is it?” “It’s… I'm dying, Vinnie. Acute leukemia, stage four. They gave me four weeks.” 5
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2016/02/22/time-to-think-jf/
22/02/2016 www.pdf-archive.com
Telstra 4G wireless security - busted dec12 78%
Anyway im still hunting for an unprotected windows box like the RAYLENE-PC I found earlier.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2012/12/06/telstra-4g-wireless-security-busted-dec12/
06/12/2012 www.pdf-archive.com
Mythic Fel Lord Zakuun 78%
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2016/07/10/mythic-fel-lord-zakuun/
10/07/2016 www.pdf-archive.com
Nightmare Fuel 77%
Anyway, I noticed that they hadn’t included the actual ad in the video.
https://www.pdf-archive.com/2018/05/06/nightmare-fuel/
06/05/2018 www.pdf-archive.com