Facebook Birthdays, Selfishness, The Spacetime/Lovetime Continuum, and Death Stalking

Well, I do believe we will kick this off with birthdays and keep it in order.  Maybe not entirely, but we'll give it a shot.

Birthdays are great most of the time.  Essentially it's like having a second New Year celebration, unless your birthday falls on New Year's day.  It's kind of cool that certain days be claimed.  Certain should be claimed.  There are so many of them you have to devote to being part of society it's cool that you can have your own and it's pretty interesting that there are days claimed of themselves where you, as a person, are forced to look up and away from everyone else and recognize that you are all just people and as such part of a single entity (country, nation, religion, belief, or just part of a grander scale of bodies in space rotating, dying off, being born, at a regular and calculable, to a mind demolishing degree, [God bless the collective scientific mind] interval).

When you are small, birthdays are celebrated.  When you get older, birthdays are celebrated.  Good grief I'm already trying to think of a macro I can program to type birthdays.  Let's call them bdays.  It's nearly as fatiguing to type as it is to read.  Where were we, as you get older bdays are celebrated.  Eventually, I think because of the enormous obstacle of longevity ... didn't the average age for death expand massively from like 35 to 65 in a stretch of helter skelter centuries?  Or was it a handful of decades less than a century ... cannot remember the history lessons exactly, but the obstacle of longevity was overcome on a large scale like feeling the X-1 break the sound barrier over a soundtrack stretched out over a week with rumbling bass against the soles of your feet instead of over a fraction of a second.  Are you seeing it?  The soundtrack of the first sonic boom, to scale it perhaps better and with greater accuracy, over a few days instead of a fraction of a few seconds of silence and then THWOOM!

Suddenly people weren't dying when they were supposed to.  The celebration of birthdays continued because you never knew.  Someone, many someones, were still dying viciously early.  If you made it beyond a certain age the birthday party would become a routine thing, but then you still didn't live that long and everyone else knew it even if you didn't so the birthday party would retain significance throughout much of your life because if you made it beyond the beginning the end was not that far away.  The space/time continuum of your existence was a fairly small swatch of fabric in a quilt of human lives demanding not only close contact, close ties.  The bday continued.  The swatches grew larger.

To present day.  I will not bore you with compartmentalized electro society and the kindness of strangers and asynchronous communication.  We're all on the same page, on the same planet, at the same time.  Birthdays are a lot less significant.  The stretch of life between birth and death has become a sea of time and space instead of a droplet.  Living to age five was awesome.  Living to 10 was nearly a miracle.  And on and on until you died at the ripe and tender age of 45 by incurable infection or bodily injury of one sort or another.  Fast forward and communal life ends at 18.  At the most.  If you decide to or are pushed to it ends four years after that.  Same cycle, larger scale.

If you make it to 13 everyone pretty much backs off and says "alright, this one should make it a good stretch."  Birthday parties every year until 13.  Then a few makes and misses.  Things may come up in the schedule or life barring them.  It's fine.  It's no big deal  Essentially you don't need to have another birthday party until you are about to die, but we've been having parties for so many years for so long before because you weren't out of the woods until you were 20 and then at 20 the parties tapered off until 40 when everyone knew you were probably going to drop dead soon and then they came back with a vengeance.   So we still try to have parties through the teens until 20.  We set an arbitrary mark at 20.  Twenty is when you are officially your own problem.  If you want to kill yourself afterwards, no one will blame you.  If anything they'll blame themselves for somehow screwing up a gestation period of 20 years.  Not that it's not impossible to screw up.  I've seen it happen and those people should blame themselves.  Moving on though: after 20.

After 20 the people throwing you parties are the people in that middle ground where it is so ingrained that every step must be a party because every step has been a bday party in the past back when the scale was all shrunk up.  Those people are throwing you parties because people threw them parties and the people they learned to throw parties from had parties thrown for them all the way back to when that party was also a wedding ceremony because you only had a solid 20 ahead of you to try to get a family going before you were killed by a hoof to the face trying to the milk the cow that morning and forgot to warm up your hands first because the whooping cough all night really took you off your morning game.  The parties are meaningless.  They try to flavor them up with "hey, you can drink now" but you could drink before, it was just a little bit harder.

Fast forward to the mid twenties and the only people still celebrating birthdays as celebrations instead of acknowledgements are the people still looking back to when birthdays meant something and desiring to keep them alive as an active denial that the space/time fabric is growing and much faster than originally supposed or hinted at by the people who celebrated your birthdays as iconic moments in everyone you've ever known (it really was everyone you ever knew because your swatch of fabric was very small when you were small too) and sometimes everyone they knew too's lives.  The fabric continues to stretch.  The stretch grows beyond the realm of sight.

The only way you know there is anything out there is if there is a thread you are holding or if the person units and units away is managing to vibrate space and time on your plane and at your level of harmonic excitement.  For all you know they are vibrating as hard as they can, however your lack of synchronized or harmonic phase or anything close to it to at least cause distortion to be investigated further and at most cause perfect reception is obliterating all abilities of detection.  Your birthday strikes.

You jump up and down on your birthday signal and there is one, two, ten harmonies where there were few before.  Not as many as you were young and not as many as when you will be close to death.  You are excited on your enormous swatch of space and time and communicate back.  Quickly though, you realize the distance is so great that nothing you say will bear any significance to the senders.  By the time it arrives much has changed and will continue to change at a fair rate, but absolutely quickly enough that keeping up will be virtually impossible and an occupation unto it's own.  The space/time is so bloated it is enough only to know that you exist in a sea of existence.  The birthdays must be celebrated though!  Every last one of them!

Though, nothing more.  Wholeheartedly, every last birthday must be celebrated, but please do not be upset if you do not receive a facebook birthday message.  It's nothing personal.  It is not selfish.  It is not "well I sent him one and he didn't send me one back so we're not friends anymore and if he sends me one I'm not going to send him one back" ... like no.  Don't be that.  That's trite.

The fabric of the Spacetime/Lovetime continuum is such:  fractal in portions and quilt in others all flexed over a membrane of space/time.  I remember you.  You remember me.  When was the last time we spoke?  A lot has changed since then.  We met each other during core formations.  If we're friends, there's something we liked when we looked at each other then.  Everything that's happened since then has been a branch or tree or fork or formation of adaptations and evolutions and events since then.  If I liked you then I'll probably like you now, but I may need to trace back a little bit to understand the face I'm looking at now.  Within you and myself.  That affinity will still be there.  Fractal.  Some parts are still quilt.  Have not changed at all, only grown larger and harder to see across.  Accentuated, in some respects conflated, but all there as it was when it was 20 and believing death was around the corner because birthdays are a big effing deal, yeah!?

Some sections remain as quilt.  All of relative directions are the same.  My relationship is the same.  My relationship to those directions remain the same as my portion of spacetime/lovetime expands.  The way that I will engage is across signals and waves that no longer ripple the shores of what used to be square plots.  Now they are jagged and hooked and crystaline.  "Why did you not wish me a happy birthday?  I leapt with all of my might to shake the webs and graphs.  I burned out my transmitter dish and everyone answered.  Why didn't you?"  I am bleeding in, but that's alright.  I will take in for a moment: my fractal development has not reached with the same fervor or life that others around me have grown.  Their swatches have been broken apart with year to year modification, willing and driven, while mine, willing and driven as well have been outpaced by the shear stretch of space/time, around which spacetime/lovetime is beholden.

"Why did you not wish me a happy birthday on facebook or in real time?"  Part of the reason is that you know, roughly, where I am, across the stretch.  Is you vibrate hard enough, I will pick it up.  If I vibrate as hard as I can, it will be picked up, maybe, and defuse.  More than that, the additional complications of your growth will require a degree of decoding to whom you also vibrate and I hate being explained.  Also, the time that I am existing in is the same time as the last time we saw each other and spent time together for a very heavy degree.  The characteristics, for all the stationary portion of quilt knows, being referenced, lauded, and celebrated, have very little to do with the current you and in fact may be portions so far back in the space and time we both occupied that they may be abhorred by the current continued people synchronized and harmonizing with your spacetime/lovetime.

I really do hope it does not come across selfish.  It's anything but that.  Who wants a person several iterations behind the rest of their peers appearing on their timeline without any warning beyond the blind celebrations, appearing ne'er before nor after, popping their head in the door to yell at them to live their lives to the fullest or drop a witt or a jab and zip away.   Or message them about a part of their life so incredibly irrelevant that .... well, you get the picture.  If anything, whatever comes of announcing your birthday on facebook is enjoyable.  I used to try to wish a happy birthday to every single person I actually met in person whose notification came up, but I realized I was just diluting the pool of communications they should be receiving and that's far more important than reciprocation.  Reception is a lot more valuable from stationary (as time and space grows and complications continue to thrive [wives, husbands, children, careers, mobilization, freedoms] the unstoppable movement toward greater complication reduces drastically the stationary ability to receive).  Projection, the opposite value shift.  There is no selfishness.  The relationship is appropriate and beneficial and also removes discomfort in bringing out the telescope that can pierce space/time to see a time capsule floating in square space and see from where the current coordinates came.

Since having the birthday though, I've been consumed with thoughts of aging.  Once the party faded, I was struck, over a morning cup of tea, that from here on out, maybe for a few years more there will be time to improve upon my frame, from here on out the best I can do is ward against sudden physical catastrophic failure.  The brain is it's own beast and will be susceptible to its own sudden failures, the much more important part of the aspects of being to protect the muscle and bones.  That prospect is frightening.

I am very quickly approaching the tipping point of being able to self destruct on purpose will be more difficult than waiting for an accidental failure or fault in the normal operation.  The idea that I will start to have to approach my body each day as an explosive device that requires constant disarming instead of as a device I must operate that is occasionally exceptionally demanding to pilot and often prone to conditions that lead to explosions or other massive exothermic failure is a tad frightening.  It's difficult to frame or explain, I will attempt.

My expected life span is 60 to 70 years.  I assume some of the rage inside of me will drive me another decade.  Perhaps reflection will drive me another five.  Desperation could drive me another five and hate could bring me across the finish line at angry, lucid, "where are my !@#$ing hover cars" 100 in the, of course, mind blowing year 2085, yelling at my robot nurse who simply amps my morphine and changes the channel to the meme network that just plays meme generator failures in fastforward with nature wide lens porn shots sprinkled in between and every now and then the base thumper strapped to the base of my skull goes off with a brief thud.

60 is the target with full apparatus to choice.  If I ever lose the ability to choose whether I live or die, put me down.  If I end up in solitary confinement I'll eventually find a way to kill myself.  You're virtually dead.  Just waiting for space to catch up with time as you've been, shall we say, fast forwarded.  Part of why... okay, I'm getting ahead of myself.  Collect.  Rewind.  Go.

Passing my 30th birthday I realized my body will likely begin, or begin the process of shut down, that will lead to death three to four to five decades from now.  Time flies.  As I sipped my morning die and blew the steam off the top of it and checked up on the news and weather and sports box scores it hit me that some piece of my body my fail at a moments notice in the coming years and perhaps less than that.  It was tremendously frightening.  I was afraid to go to work.  I work alone and have preferred to work alone for many years now.  Suddenly working alone comes with added risks that will compound as time progresses.  If you fall off of a ladder or spear yourself with a section of pipe because that muscle group or nerve system or other simply failed to respond to your intent you will have little to know time to call for help or bring or drag your frame to safety or at least the possibility of survival.  Suddenly your chances of surviving that car accident or freak mechanical accident symptomatic of daily engagement with machines (the more you fly the more likely it is there will be an air catastrophe, but you can't be struck by a bolt out of the blue if you're thirty feet below ground) go down dramatically as you become more frail and susceptible.  That's 100% out of your control

is what I realized.  You cannot suddenly begin hiding inside of a padded safe with provisions and a supply of oxygen.  Everyone dies.  You will more than likely or at least even odds buy the farm by no fault of your own as much as genetics or intent or negligence once you pass 30.  Every day you leave your house with a little less ability is one day slightly more dangerous than the last.  So you will work yourself ragged to try to keep that fraction at zero, even Stevens.  Every morning it will slip a little bit and you have to do a little bit more to push the numerator back over the denominator.  It'll work for a while.  In some cases a good long while until the growth in the denominator comes too fast and too regularly pinging and updating.  When your body let's go, you can still just brute force the math and bend your own time and space to whatever you want to imagine it to be.  The only reason why it will flex is because other people are leaping up and down and the fabric itself has grown so thin it can be distorted through pure force of will from either end of the spectrum of passions love and hate.  Until the stitches sewn when you were born finally snap and every one on facebook wishes you a farewell.

I did get wrapped up in the narrative for a bit, you see why bridging 30 and taking time to throw a few stones skipped on the river is important to me.  I'm not upset.  I'm in love and scared and aware and dreaming all at once and I never want to leave that bridge.  I haven't forgotten you.  For many, though, it is true, I can be spoken with or to, but I cannot speak to you.  On my birthdays I am reminded.

Let's put some Christmas lights on that.



///Kiln - "The Colorfreak"   far enough away from aphex to call it's own

Bonus Track

HOW CAN I PROVE IT TO YOU???  I am just like you.




///U*n*k*l*e - "Follow Me Down"

Dealing & Check In

Gotta change the motor oil now and then.  S'not the first time or the last.  I was concerned.  The panels were lighting up in not so good ways and it's kind of like changing your alarm because sometimes the tune you design to play goes doot doot doot and then you start dancing instead of waking up and that's no good, ya know?  It's no good.

Instead of waking up you get like "aw, this sounds great, who made this?  I can jam all day" and that's no good at all.  Time to change the motor oil.

An overactive imagination they said.  Spirits was put past me too.  Talking to angels got floated.  Talking to demons got floated too.  "Just pick which ones" got floated too.  Hawky talk.  All of it trash.  Waking up to the signals again.  The check engine light.  Sky zoe frania.   I hate that word so much.  I hate that word so fucking much.  I hate that word so fucking much!  I hate that word.  I hate that word.  I hate that word.  I hate that word.  I hate that word.  I hate that word.  I hate that fucking word.

Delusions of grandeur.  I don't understand!  I don't get it.  I'm very happy.  I'm working on a concussion free year and I think I'm gonna be able to get it this year.  The first one in five without one.  The first year in three that I haven't broken my nose.  I'm looking forward to it.  It is going to be a gold belt when I check off December.  I'm dealing.

Six years without a pain killer (minus alcohol but that only halfway counts.... a pain putter offer).  Nothing to the significance of a tylenol.  I'm not allowing myself to sniff anything near an edible.  It's good though.  It's a bad track to go down, plus pain lets you know where the line is.  There's nothing wrong with that.  I'm dealing and it's great and terrifying because I'm - not sure when the line happens, ya know?  When we click over and aren't talking to people anymore or are extremely unreasonable.

The concern comes from knowing that an existence without you is doable, highly doable, but not nearly as ... well, not that far.  I won't go that far.  Within the framework of citizenship, yes, absolutely.  An existence without you is by a landslide far more favorable and speaks to my heart in ways I don't always and can sometimes not do at all.  A self starter to a degree; turn the dial far enough and hydrolock blows the push rods to bits and reduces the engine block to a 300 lb paperweight.

Does that make me dependent?  I hope not.  I guess, what I'm saying is if I was the last man on Earth, my reign would be fairly brief.  We laugh saying it out loud, but it's true.  Maybe a decade or two, if that.  I hope I am doing a reasonable job of it.  I know I slip sometimes and the clutch engages and I am two gears off of first and I don't always know whose driving the damn thing to begin with and sometimes ... talking out of school.  Nope nope nope.  None of that.  Enough of that.

I want a fucking present.  I want a parade and a band and a fucking float.  I want the parade, the band, the float, and a present.  I tore after my pap paps for talking to me in snippets of things he's seen and not actually talking and here I am doing it too.  Anger management was neither of our strong suits.  I wonder who talks to him.  Who did he have to talk down.  Did he?  It would certainly explain a lot of a few things.  It really fucking would.  He's not talking though so I guess I'll grill him in heaven or hell.  Chaa!  Have the rest of eternity to exchange phone books.  Wouldn't that be the fucking cats.

I'm dealing though.  The committee deals back and we play our cards and try to beat the dealer sometimes.  Sometimes we just fill the house coffers and call it.

It's a juggling act with a little bit of severed limbs when the chainsaw comes down two seconds earlier than expected or turns a rotation before it was supposed to or hangs in the air a tad bit longer for no god damn reason whatsoever and control goes out like a tungsten bulb and its tomorrow already and you're talking to people in daylight and how the hell what the fuck am i doing here happens and you have to review your notes.  I really hope it's not like this when I'm fifty.  I'm afraid it might be, or worse.  Da fuck is paranoia anyways?  Why can't I sleep in the dark?  What is out there?  What the hell is out there???  I've been looking for you.  I've been searching for you.  Come out!  I know you're there.  I can fucking smell you, you fuck.  I can fucking hear you!  Why can no one else hear you!  It's not fair.  It's not fair.  You know what, 'ats fine.  We're fine with that.  For fucks sake, just once, speak to someone else too.  I dunno.  It's tiring and very difficult to explain how energy is expended without losing traction altogether and paying for it in a big way because I am just like you.  I want to be.  Let's trade.  S'not a grift if it's an even trade.  Keep routine.  Stay alert.  Routine will rescue you.  I don't like change.  I'm not stubborn.  I'm not antisocial.  I just have to maintain parameters and readings and locations to the "t" and to the dot.  Please don't be offended if I whip donuts and drive like a madman when designated play time comes about.  It's the only time I have to spend when high alert can be tuned down to "we are all present and accounted for."  Why won't you fucking die!?  Time to change the oil.

My tracking is suffering again on certain very important things.  We are not enthused.  It is unacceptable.




///Nancy Sinatra - (Bang Bang)

Over Simplification and the Missing Link and Father's Day

Something's missing.  I know something is missing because I am not grasping a few concepts correctly.  I can be as small minded as I want to be, sure.  I am a bit frightened of using all that I can produce, see control issue.  I suppose it is easier for me to take as small a perspective as possible.  I can't do whatever I want to do.  If I did whatever I wanted to, this would be a very different world, or I would be stone dead in the ground wishing I had rethought doing whatever I wanted to do.

I had many and, some, long thoughts about my father.  I hate saying that.  That word.  Makes me grind my teeth.  It was a road that had to be reevaluated, and no I am not going to kick cans in anger here.  It was a very positive approach couched mostly in pure analysis and attempting to see it from outside my head and look in at the relationship, while it still existed, from a third party.

What I started to think about and completed was that he may have seen some things from before my memory begins.  My memory begins around preschool, kindergarten.  I can't recall much of anything, virtually nothing, from before that and cannot vouch or insist I was one way or another.  What I came to was that he may have seen something in me and my ways then and made an attempt to push the tracks this way and that way as I got older.  Maybe.  I'll never know because I asked and was refused, flat.  Father's day.  What a hoot.

I do know I am missing something.  Not information.  Yes information.  My history is thoroughly incomplete.  I have to remind myself and update my tabs on who's kicked the bucket.  I'm fine with that.  Less interference.  I am missing something about being a proper citizen and holding down a job and, let's put it blank, growing up.  My concept of growing up is not aligned with what I believe the general population's concept of being growed up is.  But, I do know I can't do whatever I want.  That's wrong.  I can't fish all day, that ones easy to know.  I get that.  I have to wear pants and clothing in general.  I get that too.  I must participate.  That one's clear as well.  I am missing a, on it's outside, simple bridge.  I cannot keep offering disclaimers.  To do that is akin to handing out passports.  Far too reckless.

Rejecting life's intrinsic complexities is not a way forward.  It is a system failure.  Simplification.  Keep it simple, stupid, only gets one so far before the wall of sound and input comes calling and breaks your nose.  The mission for simplicity begins to damage the ability to engage, with necessity and vigor, peers, idols, fam, friends, and the rest of the grid.

Simplification denies and is denial when forced too far.  I understand that better now, but not completely.  No where near completely.  I'm not alright with the concept and it makes me smile to say and hear it from our own mouth.  We are not simple.  We are bright.  We are sharp.  We cannot use simplicity as a device for protection.  A way to consume information at a pace appropriate for us.  A way to do what we want.  Gain access to what we want.  Appropriate.  Unacceptable.  It's neither sly nor sneaky.  Plain dumb.

I suppose I will cut my tongue out one of these days.  It can be a weapon.  A technique.  Believe it or not, I need to learn how to use communication better, more efficiently.  Maybe I'll learn sign language.  I think I'll be better for it.   Better than learning another verbal language.  That way at least when I'm ready to have it removed I'll be prepared to talk in other ways.  I've been using sign language for quite some time, but not the official one, anyway.  I've been using my sign language, exclusive to me and my country and my time zone.  Hello there, and welcome to the rest of the world.




///T-Pain & Early Cuyler - "I Like Driving In My Truck"    ...i like driving in my truck...

Dry Motor and What It Is

Creeping creeping.   Creeping up on you like silverfish in your bedspread.  The anxiety has been hilarious.  Awful.  To the place on the scale where it ceases to be funny and "haha, that scared the shit out of me, but now I know I was imagining things, so I can laugh about it because no one was here to see it" and becomes "hahahaholyfuckinggodamnit, just get out of my head."  Balls of string, almost, that get knottier and knottier with each passing sunrise and then a glimpse of something that might have a been a flicker of spider's webbing in daylight is grown into a hunched fistful of glitter black something that makes you stop and look with both your eyes to make sure you are moving and not it and then the words come back in like crowd dialog in vapors and the whole morning there is no fix on what it is that smells like gas.  Get out of my head.

Creeping sense of rage.  A little bit of task lock.  There's no transition between the time fixitive and the free base of writing.  Well, I shouldn't say there is none.  There is none developed.  It's been a very long time since I had to generate one through my own channels.  Normally I hit the mechanical hard lever contacts and everything changes over like a locomotive switch track.  Or has the potential too if I can get the charge high enough to arc the distance (the switch doesn't always close).  What am I talking about?  So I haven't had that.  Oddly enough, or typically enough, smoking grew tightly threaded to production.  I quit smoking.  It is not at all tempting to go back to smoking in a bid to make writing easier.  That's a back blown lock.  Explosive decompression.  Sorted.  A bridge designed into the process I took toward quitting, but a necessary effort at sabotage, because I knew I'd never quit if I didn't hack myself.  I'm not sure if that's coming across, but you get the picture.  Things have been harder to do, is the bullet point.  For good reason is the second bullet.

I find myself outside the gates of my skull, mornings, looking in, trying to smell them out.  Where they've been and where they plan to go next.  Hard pressed not to cut myself.  An inexplicable taste for it, really.  You come to the moment.  To it and then back around to it.  Someone asks if this is it.  Don't be so hard on yourself, you're having a good time, Jack.  Necking with yourselves.  Across from you there is also you and they are talking their way around you like you're not even there.  Don't be so hard on them.  Without us, they would have died a long time ago.  And someone asks if this is it.  What is?  Through space and time, not in that philosophical, flowered hill top, poet staring at the stars nonsense, through actual manipulation of distance and the passage of time there has been an answer.  The distance problem.  Too close and then too far.  With no sense of balance.  The old states.  The newer state is orbit, not quite to deep space.  Where I belong.  A place void enough that violence drives nothing and no one away because there is no one near enough.  Sort of thing.

It's weird.  Wanting closeness.  The other part of what it is.  Mechanical maintenance demanding space to allow for irradiation.    Power on.  Wanting closeness and knowing it is exactly that which has the horsepower to turn the entire engine over in a fraction of a second.  Blow your skull apart.  A finger at a time.  Division, I suppose, is difficult.  Fragments.  It's hard to understand.  To put my thoughts around in a way that cuddles with the chemistry and wraps it up in something cool under force of touch.  Maybe nature.  I have to remind myself to not be alarmed.  Panic buries absolutely.  What it is: I can want it and have it sometimes.  Under specific circumstances.  Limited instances.  Hard wired for... something.  I dunno.  What it is.  Is weird.  Living within it.  All you have to do, if you really think hard about it, is understand enough of what you are to project beyond the black shaped box inside your head.  Before you can count to three you are the same as you and me.  Inside of there.  Developing ways to convert binary emotion into all the flavors of the analog rainbow.   Access rights, never found.

I'm trying though.  Ten days at a time.  One day at a tear.  Three tears ripped off at a clip.  I don't know.  Plus warning.  star streaming.  always always always dreaming.  of a perfect chemistry.  Get out of my head. I still have pictures to make.  Stories to write.  Music to make.  Too much to do.  I am me and you are you.


///Sneaker Pimps - "Water Baby"  sport is love and blood is sport

dear (______):

Dear residents of communities with private streets,

I have to get to work. Save your stiff posturing, high beams, and frowny faces for someone with the time to waste standing in large groups on street corners glaring at traffic and smoking black and milds. Those are probably the fellas you're looking for, and your "private" street is between where I'm at and where I'm going, so how many days in a row do you need to see me walking and smiling in a red jacket and orange back pack before you'll believe I'm not casing the joint? Silly bunnies.

up yours,

10 mile pedestrian