One thing that has always bothered me. When people are HIV and Aids Positive, why would you give it to somebody else? In a sense, you are a murderer. That is one thing I cannot tolerate. So, with that being said. Respect your bodies, and give masterbation a try. Thank you , that is all.
Just as he turned away and reached for the garage door button, he heard an eerie screech and a slight thud. A sound any automobile driver was familiar with. Graham hustled his way to the driveway when he met, in the distance, an hysterical screaming lady, with her eyes wide, all white.
Graham ran up faintly surprised. Some cars were blocking his view, as he approached the direction the crazed woman ran to. Cindy and the lady Graham had never met before, were both hovering over a mangled little boy.
It didn’t appear the boy was breathing. Without a flinch of hesitation, Graham knew just what to do, for he had taken medical classes a few years back. “Step aside mam,” he said in a respectful, heroic tone.
He was already on his back, head slightly turned. He began to give him CPR. He had two lady’s behind him crying rivers. The lady began to shout and push Cindy, “How could you do this?” As Graham remained calm.
Just then, the boy began to breathe, making snorting sounds.”Call 911 hurry,” Graham panicked out. Cindy volunteered. Graham made sure their were no bleeding outs, and sharp bones.Their was no need for a tourniquet, he was relieved to know.
Before they knew it all emergency personnel arrived.
What’s the point of being awake, if everyday you wake, Not being awakened?”
It is to my knowledge that a certain Police reference or code, is the number 420, in regards to a person smoking marijuana on the scene. Not too sure about the California Law Enforcement codes. The term goes for a code of people that use the still illegal, tried to made made legal, but surpassed by medical consumption, also known as the “gateway drug”. Also known as a peace day (that should be everyday) and the birth date of Dictator Adolph Hitler.
My personal reference was to call on the “Call of Duty” players who wanted to play online, the cyber world of Modern Warfare 2. The game I would ultimately get addicted to, as I played several opponents. I started the 420 number in reference to all the meanings of the number.
Personal belief, as many would agree, that alcohol is closely related to heroin. It seems an argument to be my “gateway drug”. In adaptation to natural highs like adrenaline or spinning in circles, and getting dizzy until you throw up. Not to mention DWI’s, or a number one death sentence if you think you’re invisible in a car, and invisible to sexual transmitted diseases. Good old liquid encouragement.
Doing my share of partying is at a cost, never knowing what the people you are involved with really have the best intentions for you. It is a harsh world out there for people who might just wanna have fun, and have to pay a price for it. I’ve learned this all through experience. Having slowed down I try not to get addicted to anything, even sex anymore.
The take on 420, I’ll use still to this day. Having lived in California, you know what I’m talking about. Playing a game of war is fun, but you still have to realize that it’s a game. I used 420 for the divine intervention between being a symbol of peace and hatred. A code for whoever grace’s their online presence with me. Almost saying that I come in peace. The hate part of it is something I’ll never understand.
Writing is a form of expression. It’s the only thing I like to do. Write and share stories. I’m not the greatest writer, having been out of the loop for a while. A little “rusty” you could say. I recently just started my own “blog spot”, and trying to excel in the “art of writing”.
At the age of 13, after my Father and Mother’s big custody ordeal , I began to feel a little rebellious. I might have lashed out at this, not realizing it was creating more trouble. Building some pent up feelings. I began to write, which consisted of songs and poems mostly.
My Grandma bought me my first acoustic guitar, and my Grandpa bought me my first electric guitar. So in a lot of that time I taught myself how to play the guitar. With the help of a few other gutarists. I slowly started to seclude myself, and become a little depressed. I guess it started to illuminate, or bloom my writing.
Having a few peer pressures is always on the agenda for a new teen. Emotional or Emo music would stir up feelings that consisted of past molestation and frustration. Getting in trouble and failing grades began to show. Wanting to act out so I could be by myself in I.S.S., instead of in a normal classroom. There I could write and lose myself in the world of words.
I wrote a paper for history class in eighth grade about the medical science of the Civil War, and just didn’t turn it in. It was pretty good work. This was about the same time my Language Arts teacher got real mad, cause he saw some potential in me. I later thought about why he got on to me so much, but I was interested in girls or whatever everybody else was in to.
The notebooks I would use were always my pick of choice. I wrote through the paper like a “bad habit”. Their in these tablets would remain my archive through the years. From the time I was 13 to about 21 There were some writings here and there, when I got married and had a baby, but not very many. All that hard work was in those notebooks.
Having some of the most creative peices I have ever written in there. They would not last through marriage and getting divorced. Getting lost in the midst was, a lot of passion thrown out the window. If I could only find them. It would make my life complete. Those writings were a really big piece of me.
Well, I know one thing, those things I search for endlessly. With my passion Lost but just recently Found, even as I’m writing this. Nobody has to care. If you are a writer, you should care about the art of writing. Carrying on a conversation like their ain’t no tomorrow, and can make something out of nothing, is why I love to write.
A couple of weeks ago I was riding the Dart Green Line to downtown Dallas. I use the Dart system for part-time work at the Galleria Mall. I try to bring books for my 2 hour trip. Sometimes I don’t have time to eat lunch, so I bring a little bag of Ranch sunflower seeds. The bus can get boring, but not on this particular day. I kinda wanted it to go back to boring.
The bus I had ridden on picked up some church choir singers who sang pretty good. It was different for that day. I liked it when they sang their tunes on the bus. We all exited the bus that was now at the Bachman Train Station. Stuffing seeds in my mouth I trailed over to the rail track, so I could be considerate of my shells, and dispose of them properly.
I kinda avoid people when I notice or sense a bad vibe from them. I glanced at the people singing on the bus went walking around the station to some apartments. Then they came back to the station. I had no idea what they were doing. Shortly after, I sensed a presence walking towards me, and my intuitions were alarming like Spiderman’s “spidey sense”.
Walking away, I held him in the corner of my eye, and moved backwards. Noticing this as well, he stopped. He looked over and asked me “Do you believe in God?”. Okay, at this point, “spidey sense” was right. I put my guard up, but remained calm. I paused for a minute trying to stay cool, and said, “Yeah, yeah I do.”He then replied back, “My name is Steve, please pray for me”. He also went on to say “So I don’t do something that I don’t want to do”.
Now at this point I’m wigging out on the inside. Before I could say anything, Steve walked away. I said, “Be cool man, it ain’t worth it”. I was about to alert a few people but I didn’t, wondering how I would react to a serious scenario. Just then the train pulled up. Still keeping an eye on him on the train, we arrived at my departure at the West End station. Nothing happened after that, and I hope nothing did.
………..Minding My Own Business, can only get by so far. From Bachman to the West End station is where all the “crazies” are. It brought to conclusion that maybe we are all in this together. I do believe in God. I do have my own perceptions, and can only say, “Baby I was Born This Way”. To some of you that might not be exciting, but I thought he was going to flip out and “Go postal” or something. I still think about Steve. I hope he is “making it’.
I have a son whose name is Raiden Luke Frysinger and he is six years old. He’s a normal boy with a big imagination. Already getting in trouble in school for kissing girls, being disruptive in class, and eats lunch with the principal. He does know right from wrong, but he can’t slow down enough, with his energy.
Lately I’ve been doing my visitations at my ex’s house. Yes it is ridiculous. I was set with temporary visitations. Due to some overwhelming situations. Freaking out Britney Spears style you could say. I’ve been grateful enough that I can still see my son.
While I was over at my ex’s house, I’ve been making it tradition to stay out of her house as long as I can. We take walks to the woods in Lewisville, where I literally see trash everywhere I walk. Along with trash, I see big mounds of dog poo. I often ask why my son lives in those apartments where people can’t take care of their surroundings.
Noticing all this, I made an entrance back through the front of the apartments, (Funny I was nominated to walk my ex’s dog Bella during all this) when I look over and Raiden is walking to a random apartment door. (I made a funny to myself, and thought he better not be knocking on the door and run off). What do you know? He did it, and started running.
I know what your thinking, I ran with him too.(We called it something else when I was a kid) Now I’m not a bad father. With all the trash, and me walking the dog, I already felt like a horse’s ass. I was a little worried about his influences honestly. His mother thinks she’s mother of the year, and I’m sure she would like to be hypocrite on this matter.
In all accounts of his actions, I am very worried that he is influenced. I would only hope to teach him to do his own thing and be his own person. As I tell his mother that I would like to have more time with him. All this, it was a great time. We ran around like we owned the place, like we usually do. And I would say, that’s Funny, son. I freaking love you.
The cold air is chilling my bones
My heart is beating slow,
From the depths of my dirty soul
Secluded to find seclusion
A world far from delusion
Revolving in my mind the things that could have been done
with only words you told me to be ready
I feel you, I relied on wasted time
Then, I lost me, the feelings I had
The old man turning old
That passion I search for endlessly
Dark smoke and made out poison
Twisted thoughts, noise and emotion
Forever too much