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(She gives a little laugh and moves away from him a step right.) HELEN.
COMPLIMENTS OF LIVE.LAUGH.DENVER. REAL ESTATE GROUP Olivia represented us in both the sale of our home, and the purchase of a new home.
Oh, fuck…” He tears up with a short, dry laugh as he turns to Inês.
When people made fun of him on wickedfire forums, and exposed him for being a douche, rather than laugh it off like pretty much any normal person would do when made fun of by people on an internet forum, he decided to cry himself to sleep and take things to the next level.
Hate it!” Another massive laugh rings out through 1 the bar and the guy next to me with a beard that has maybe never been shaved slaps me on the back like we’re old pals.
2nd term Irregular verbs II be bite break can come deal do draw ** was/were been-ser/estar bit bitten-morder broke broken-romper could - - - -poder came come-venir dealt dealt-tratar did done-hacer drew drawn-dibujar fall fell fallen-caer feed fed fed-alimentar fight fought fought-pelear find found found-encontrar forgive·forgave·forgiven-perdonar get got got-conseguir give gave given-dar go went gone-ir ** have hear hide know learn leave let lose ** had had-haber/tener heard heard-oír hid hidden-esconder knew known-saber/conocer learned / learnt learned / learnt-aprender left left-dejar/irse de let let-permitir lost lost-perder make pay read say see sell shut sit ** made paid read said saw sold shut sat made-hacer/fabricar paid-pagar read-leer said-decir seen-ver sold-vender shut-cerrar sat-sentarse sleep smell speak spoil stand swear take tell slept smelt spoke spoilt stood swore took told slept-dormir smelt-oler spoken-hablar spoilt-estropear stood-estar de pie sworn-jurar taken-tomar, llevar told-decir/contar ** weep wept wept-llorar write wrote written-escribir ESL 1.-2nd term Regular verbs II achieve·achieved·achieved-lograr, conseguir add added added-añadir earn earned earned-ganar dinero help helped helped-ayudar laugh laughed laughed-reírse lie lied lied-mentir ** obey obeyed obeyed-obedecer offend offended offended-ofender phone phoned phoned-telefonear pray prayed prayed-rezar purchase purchased purchased-comprar push pushed pushed-empujar ** repair repaired repaired-reparar reply replied replied-responder solve solved solved-resolver talk talked talked-conversar, hablar type typed typed-escribir a máquina visit visited visited-visitar * Two readings:
But a piece of me knew there was a purpose for me, not just to make people laugh.
At the same moment Rafay began to laugh as well, as if the chief’s face had no effect on him and in an equally warm and effectivevoice he said, “Welcome Self.
His comedy has been seen by millions on TV shows such as Comedy Central’s “Make Me Laugh,” B.E.T.’s “Comic View,” Ed McMahon’s “Next Big Star,” &
A Change in Vantage Points Harmony Lowe Picture this: lots of rowdy people dressing up as other people and painting their faces with odd colors. They go to bars to eat and scream at TV’s with other fans when something supposedly important happens, or when they gather in giant stadiums to scream at the players live with thousands of others. Bosses let these people off work early so that they can go to the bars and shout, they understand the excitement of grown men tossing a ball back and forth intricately and sometimes using their feet. This is completely normal here in America, when you think about football. Now picture people watching a TV show or movie, reading books, and wanting to know more about this other universe, the fictional world. They go to meetups and conventions (which are like football games for geeks but with less screaming and more excited talking about intricate details). They will dress up as characters they love, choosing based on interest and love for the person (exactly like wearing the jersey of your favorite football star). But for this love of complex fictional worlds these people are namecalled: dorks, geeks, nerds, crazyobsessed fans. They are laughed at when they dress up as fictional people, mocked when they go to meetups and cons, bullied for their love of wonderful worlds where they escape to, and god forbid they ask their boss for time off of work without a humorous laugh and a shake of the head, as if it were a joke. In America it is more natural to be overinvested in a glorified version of catch than it is to be overinvested in a fictional universe with story arcs and plot or character development. Fans of sports are accepted, it is manly, macho, real. Fans of TV shows and those sorts of things are not accepted, it is wimpy, dorky, fake. In football a ball only goes back and forth on a field, moved by various muscled men. In fiction, in fantasy, people go on adventures, overcome evil, save people, deal with the problems of morally grey conflicts, sometimes they fall in love, learning and changing, maybe becoming the villain. So why is it that the society we live in worships the macho men playing catch while it scorns those who fall in love with the complexities created by others?
“The rules are simple,” He said, with that devilish smile of his, “You put the gun to your head and you pull the trigger,” he began to laugh, “It’s THAT simple, so simple even Nicky here will be able to win” he said throwing his arm around the fat man and pulling him close, before shoving him away violently, “Fucking hell Nicky, ever heard of deodorant, you sweaty fuck, sweet Jesus,” “I’m sorry, Johnny,” the poor guy mumbled out, “Ah shut up, it’s too late for your sorry.
I returned home a short while ago to attend the funeral of a childhood friend. While there and exchanging pleasantries, I was told a tale so peculiar I decided immediately to determine its veracity myself. A man whom I had known as a boy that had (last I had heard) succumbed early in life to some kind of madness was rumored to be living as an ascetic recluse deep in the woods west of town. For some reason, I was filled with curiosity as to his fate and state of mental clarity, and I decided to pay him a visit before leaving town. The road heading to his cottage degenerated slowly from asphalt to gravel and then overly vegetative dirt in its thirty mile deviation from civilization, culminating finally in a unkempt game trail, under the soft soil of which I could occasionally feel what may have once been an inviting trail of stepping stones. There was no flickering fire coming from the windows, no rocking chair, no clothesline. In fact, besides a small herbal garden, the residence looked rather moder, although unmistakably rural. I knocked. The door opened almost immediately, but deliberately, which seemed somehow more dramatic. No bearde oldd face met me, but instead one that was unmistakably that of an old friend: intelligence and calm behind kind, familiar eyes. He embraced me. “What a pleasant surprise!” was his genuine greeting, laughing just as sincerely as he once had with that laugh I remembered from the schoolyard so long ago; I marveled that such a laugh had ever broken bread with insanity. “Well I was in town, and heard that you were and I came to…” “See if I was crazy, naturally. Please come in.” The interior was just as efficient as I had noted before, and I made note that the man did not seem to purposefully live uncomfortably as I had been led to believe. I made myself comfortable on one of a pair of chairs in the corner of his open space that seemed to serve as his living room, and he brought over a fresh cup of coffee. Decaf, he assured me. He seemed to anticipate my curiosity, and as he sat down he began to tell his story. “When you discuss madness, people speak of hearing voices in their heads that tell them to do things. Foreign voices. This isn’t entirely true, or rather, it’s an analogy. Unless its a particular manifestation of the madness, those people you and I call insane hear voices no less often than do you — which is to say, you don’t narrate your entire life in your head but are still engaged in an internal dialogue. When we do hear this as a voice, it is a voice we identify with and call our own. “In the case of madness, we begin to witness identities that don’t fit the idea we have embraced of ourselves contributing to this dialogue, alien voices expressing alien ideas. When the person in question is not fearful and paranoid of these voices, he sometimes channels them vocally to others, to whom the ideas sound equally strange and alien: qualities they then attribute to the individual in question, who still also regards them as foreign and external. This creates a disparity between the idea of a persona that is now giving birth to these things seen as foreign, and the inclusive perception others now have of the chorus of voices they witness spouting from a relatively static physical body. The emotional impact this has on the insane person further alienates him, as the emotions which he now feels are not things the majority of his peers can empathize with. This dual sense of a self divided from within and disconnected to the without is the best sense I can give you of what it is like to be mad.” He paused to sip his beverage, and I spoke up: “But there are good medications for this type of thing these days, correct? Have you tried them, or do you take them..if you don’t mind me asking?” “Oh yes, silence can always be induced by force, because it is a form of obedience, and we must all obey some master or another — whether or not we exercise the freedom to choose whom it might be. There’s just something disconcerting about living in a prefabricated home, having your permanent environment be the product of someone else’s imagination. I thought about saying ‘prison,’ but decided against it. I will say this though, the difference between a home and a prison, and I’m not necessarily talking about houses here, is a lot harder to find than you might imagine. A prison is ineffective if it does not keep the world out as well as it does its inhabitants in , but a home is only a dwellin g if it does not draw us and what we want in as well as it does keep what and those we fear out . The only difference between the two is the purpose of their architects: we build the one for ourselves, but the other is built for us. To sit is one a source for pride, and the other, shame. Although, there is a lot to be said for ignorance and its role in mitigating these contrary perspectives of mine.” I sat silently, so he continued on. “I decided to build then, but to do that I needed to clear myself a space to work, and that took time. But, I’m sentimental, and I kept some trinkets of the old place to decorate with, my name for instance.” He laughed. “But in any case, I’ve found sweat equity to be a reliable investment, and I do not believe I will die harboring the idea of regret, and so I will die at peace.” “But what about your ‘voices?’” I interjected at this point, feeling a bit left behind. “Surely it’s not a matter of simply destroying them, willing them into oblivion?” I was greeted with a smile. “Of course not, there is no oblivion that one thing might meet and not the other, but just as all things change form and state by the rearrangement of their constituents, so it is with the contents of our consciousness. Mass is added and subtracted more or less gradually, and we become larger and smaller, more or less suited to different modes of existence. We exercise control of these contents inasmuch as we recognize them to be impersonal and transmutable, our being a configuration of clay that threatens to harden and become obsolete without constant use and care. So I took those foreign bits within my awareness, those ‘voices,’ and trained myself to reshape and repurpose them, learning along the way just how foreign that thing, that ego that had called the voices foreign, was in itself a stranger to the rest of existence, an unnatural projection filled with a hodgepodge of other people’s bad ideas that created this ball of existential tension — the feeling that being made no sense and that there needed to be some meaning in all of it to explain all of the senseless arbitrary pieces it was made of.” “But how did you repurpose them, not in regards to how you began to question your ego, but how exactly did you figure out how to so drastically alter the structure of your mind?” I asked, maybe a bit too doubtfully. “Well first, let me tell you that I didn’t figure it out, and it wasn’t any one person or school of thought out there; but yet, it’s something each man must figure out for himself: where it is his own answers lie. The best I can do for your question is to offer you an analogy... a rough sketch of the process. In a sense, you could say I gradually replaced those voices with that of an awestruck child, and then gradually trained that child to ask only ‘why.’ Over time, this child gave birth to another, and so on, until my mind became an endless oscillation between question and answer — and it’s in the middle I now find contentment. You see, meaning is not something we find in an engaging question or in a clever answer, but in the relationship between the two — just as beauty is not to be found in the eye or the canvas, but in their union. Goodness lies between good and evil, just as we find evil wherever there is good, and goodness in everything. To be good is to be just one thing, and to be one thing is not to be something in particular, but something in the present, and to be in the present is to be everything there is.” Suddenly, I felt myself infected with the same mirth he had shown me before, and I raised my glass beaming. “Here’s to soft clay and sweat equity,” I gushed. His glass met mine. “‘Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it’.”
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