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Last year I pretty much gave away all the donations we took to the uncle phil causes.
We've had some donations over the past couple of months, but I'm going to be short next month for sure as some personal things are keeping me from putting up the money. If you have something small to contribute it's greatly appreciated.
Please put your screen name as well so that I can give you credit.
Click here: Donations
- Last activity:
- Apr 16, 2014 at 7:23 PM
- Jul 14, 2011
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Möderätor, Male, from Toronto
"The shadow of the dome of pleasure / Floated midway on the waves" Apr 16, 2014 at 10:11 AM
- Baraka_Guru was last seen:
- Viewing blog entry 87. "You're in the car, aren't you?", Apr 16, 2014 at 7:23 PM
Signature“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.“
— Ray Bradbury, Zen in the Art of Writing (1990)“Humankind cannot bear very much reality.”
—T. S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton,” Four Quartets (1943)
The details of my life are quite inconsequential. But very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen-year-old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical — summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring, we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent, I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds — pretty standard, really. At the age of twelve, I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteen, a Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum, it's breathtaking, I suggest you try it —