The Sensitivity of SeniorsTHE SENSITIVITY OF SENIORSMore Like This
This letter was sent to the Lions Bay School Principal's office in West Vancouver after the school had sponsored a luncheon for seniors.
An elderly lady received a new radio at the lunch as a door raffle prize and was writing to say thank you.
This story is a credit to all humankind and makes one feel there is still hope for us all !
Dear Lions Bay School :
God bless you for the beautiful radio I won at your recent Senior Citizens luncheon. I am 87 years old and live at the West Vancouver Home for the Aged.
All of my family has passed away so I am all alone.
I want to thank you for the kindness you have shown to a forgotten old lady. My roommate is 95 and has always had her own radio. She would never let me listen to it. She said it belonged to her long dead husband, and understandably, wanted to keep it safe.
The other day her radio fell off the ni
The FarmerThis one is thanks to Clive :icontaramara:More Like This
An old farmer went to the theatre.
When he was taking his seat a staff member asked him, 'what is that on your shoulder Sir?
The old chap replied, 'Oh, that's Chuck – my pet rooster - wherever I go, he goes!'
'Sorry Sir, was the reply. We don't allow any animals in the theatre.'
The old farmer went outside and stuffed the cockerel down his overalls. He then returned to the theatre and took his seat.
He was sat next to two old widows, named Mildred and Marge.
The show started and the rooster began to squirm, so he undid his fly so that Chucky could stick his head out see what was going on.
'Marge' whispered Mildred.
'What!' said Marge?
'I think the guy next to me is a pervert.'
'What makes you think so?' said Marge
'Well, he's undone his pants and got his thing out' whispered Mildred.
'Well don't worry about it' said Marge. 'Hell – at our age we've seen 'em all.'
'I thought so too' said Mildred 'but this bugger's eating my popcorn!'
My Dear Sons and DaughtersFall in love with everythingMore Like This
Fall in love with ideas: anarchy
and LaVeyan Satanism.
Fall in love with solitary back-packing
through Israel or Mexico.
Fall in love with gamma radiation
or tiger-taming, MMA cage fighting
or free-climbing the Rocky Mountains,
but do not fall in love
People will want you
for your similarities to one
or more of their parents;
they will want you
for the outline, the concept of you;
they will want you
because you want them –
they will not know
what they want.
People will take the bed you shared
and fuck other people
in the barely cooled indent
of your absent body
(they will also take your cat,
leaving you with scarred hands
and nothing for them to stroke).
They will promise to never leave you
and maybe they won’t,
but they will buckle you in with them
on the bipolar-coaster,
left flying off unfinished tracks,
and you will have to jump,
They will be perfect
except for little things –
answering their pho
..."Someday that's where we'll meet, at empty four-way intersections or on half-deserted streets, half drunk and twirling about ourselves to the sounds of sleepy violin sonatas. I'll kiss the taste of your cigarettes and promise never to waste my fervour on the mundane. We'll meet in Bedlam and Squalor, in churches adorned with the legend 'Ichabod,' scrawled above the double doors. We'll flee, laughing, from the suede-denim stormtroopers and call ourselves the Seeds of Moloch, the children who never chose and never quite made their way to the Inferno. For all our lust and hedonism, our burning tributes to the outlaw Pan, the underlying benevolence of knowing always leaves us smug and unsurprised among the philosophers.More Like This
The WordsIt started softly at first. Little words and instances, and small betrayals that left questions sticking in her mind like needles. Words that hit her skin like stones, leaving bruises that spread and scarred and left fear in their wake, words that kept her up at night.More Like This
Who I am? What am I doing here? And who are you?
The words start tumbling faster now, and come with twisted expressions of anger, bitterness, resentment and blame. It's taking her back to her childhood; the memories of disquiet and fear and always, always the blame. It's taking her back to the fear of speaking, the fear of being touched, ever. The fear of meeting someone's eyes. There is only anger around her. An atmosphere weighed down by secrets and the blush of blood rising into skin. And inside, nothing but emptiness and the echoes of something deeper, something that will never be undone.
There is a stranger asleep beside me. Someone I no longer understand, who no longer understands me. I am afraid of their