Will not chase mice. The phrase when the cat's away-the mice will play doesn't work at all for this cat. In fact, when the cat's at home even more the likely chance that the mice wouldn't mind being around the house.

For you see-this particular cat loves to eat not cat food but LASAGNA. Or

rather let's just say Human food.

Do not even expect this cat to go on a Diet. That won't work. You'll end up regretting telling it to do so.

In fact, you'll end up regretting because your meals will be consumed before you even say Grace. It's a real wonder how the beloved non-human keeps fit. 

It could be that all the naps it takes count as a way of staying active or a way to keep it from eating all day long.

This cat has a funny animated show. & in the show-most of the time the dog, Odie-the adorable, sweet, kind other pet is treated badly by the fellow pet.

There is no other cat on earth like Garfield!

The beautiful blue sky glowed behind the soft white clouds drifting aimlessly across the distance landscape. Shadows danced gracefully over the green restful plains, blending the gentle light of morning,— offering a reprieve of the darkness that follows all our lives. Sleep is how we hide from the depth of our trials when we are alone in our dreams, hiding from despair. But your love is the guiding light that awakens the spirit of hope within no matter the blackness of the night. My treasure shared as we walk through the glory of togetherness. Your soft green eyes,— like pools of emeralds, sparkling with life,— calm my weary soul when the anxieties are too hard to bear. The touch of your hand and caressing embrace,— your soft voice is the breeze that refreshes and brings tranquility, warmed in your arms. You are my peace in a life of pain,— the restful scenery of pleasure, offering life to the tired soul. You are my meaning in a reservoir of doubt, the dream I awaken to that is my reality. My sanctuary where I am never alone, because you are always with me; and peace is the blessing I have been granted because I’m yours.

The old man slammed his fist down on the dainty Formica tabletop, unnerving the peaceful aura of the small coffee-shop. “Damn-it…! What do you mean? — Over use of dashes, you turd nozzle. I like writing with dashes. It’s rooted in the very essence of my own persona, you need them to know where to pause, — for emphasis!”

Jace looked at the older man and knew he was kidding. Ben may have looked angry to anyone else, but the younger man could read him, well, like a book. He smiled slightly at the mental pun. Enjoying the coffee, his companion, the books they had written, and the banter that was to come.

Ben kept his scowl and brought his coffee to his lip. Jace stared at in disgust. Probably some pansy latte heavy on the sugar and whipped cream and lacking any true substance.

Once the older man took his sip the grey of his beard gained some white, said beaten cream nestled into the thick facial hair. Ben didn’t seem to care, which was normal. This was a man that when he was in his mid-forties told people his was 50, because reasons and stuff.  He cared little of the opinion of others, save for Jace’s and few choice friends, which, he really did have any? Jace didn’t mind, he happened to be in the same shitty boat.

“Don't get pissed at me, I am just saying what they said at the writers group.” Jace stared at the wooden slab that made up their current beverage supporter. He decided to take his first swing in the coming battle of words. A flicker of thought dashed through his mind and elicited a smiled. “And stop beating the wood counter — or any wood in general for the matter. Though, this is pine and thus a soft wood. And while you may have experience trying to beat soft wood, don’t do so in public—or in my presence.” He waited, unsure as if he went too far. Did the jab cross the line? But Jace chuckled; it was something he could never resist. His mind and mouth did have a habit getting ahead of his good sense. It was something he had learned from Ben.

There he goes with the old fart jokes. Chip off the old block! Bring it. “Hey—I will have you know I have plenty of experience working soft wood,— especially with exotics. But this is fake wood,—— laced with formaldehyde. You know? Embalming fluid, just like your sex life. And if I need to pound something right NOW. Let’s go out back.”

Jace saw Ben smile ever so slightly. Barely a blip on older man’s façade of fury, but there none-the-less. Jace took this as encouragement and went on. “You-know,— you’re kind-a’ a douche bag since you stopped consuming gluten. This is what happens when you can't have a proper beer.”

“Real men drink hard-cider —wuss. You and that amber colored armadillo piss you call a beverage.” The old man barked back. “When’s the last time you caught a buzz off that shit anyway,” he smirked taking a sip of his caramel frap.

Jace shook his head. He drank cheap beer, he knew it. When one had to buy beer on a budget and had to choose between quality and getting a buzz economically, anyone with a shine of good sense drank it. Besides, Jace knew his beer tasted like crap, not piss, slight deference in his mind, not necessarily a good one, but still. He took a sip of his coffee.  “And how precisely do you know the flavor of armadillo urine? That is also an odd comparison considering how closely apple cider appears piss like. Besides, I drink Steel Reserve, 8.1 alcohol by volume, thank you very much. A buzz is easy, and the flavor, while not tainted with urine is okay once you get past the taste.”

“Yeah, I saw a documentary on the brewing of that shit; they had a room full of them armored leathery rodents pissin’ in the vats.  …That’s why it’s hard to get past the taste.—8.1—— Lightweight, probably get wasted on less than a can.”

“I would hate to see your google history. Where did you see this fabled documentary? Netflix? If so, your Netflix's suggestions for what to watch must be really weird.”

“Yeah, Your momma!”

Jace snorted mid-coffee sip. "You are absolutely NOT allowed to say yo’ momma."

“Oh,—— yeah.” Now, here comes the long winded blah, blah, blah — his mom being a virgin and all! Snicker

“Yeah. The purpose of a yo’ momma joke is to impugn the reputation of one’s mother and imply a diddling, usually in rather dirty manner, that would be otherwise unlikely.”

“My point exactly?” Now I’m going to be too white. Chuckle.

“Namely, you being way too old and way too white for yo’ momma jokes? My biggest issue with the whole you and the yo’ mommas is the fact my mother is your wife and thus a diddling, nasty or otherwise, which—eww — is a forgone conclusion therefore defeating the whole point of your — yo’ momma rebuttal.”

“I think it hammered my point quite well.”

“Certainly, five times at the very least.”

“So in forty years of marriage I’ve only yo’ momma’d five time? Right?

“Again, ewww. Insertion of thoughts that involve you and mom commingling harm my innocent little brain.”

“Hmmm, — by your logic, you’ve only been lucky three times? Must be a side effect of armadillo piss.”

“I am 35 years old, I am absolutely NOT discussing my sex life with you. Besides, it is a little late for the 'talk'.”

“When mommy’s and daddy’s love each other very very much —— they get nasty!” He burst out laughing. “The sweat, grunting, weird fart sounds…”

Jace smacked him hard enough to make spilling coffee a real concern.

Ben got serious,—— for him anyway. “Fine—— enough, — I just don't understand why they didn't seem to like what I wrote.”

“They liked it; they just had a few suggestions.”

“Well, —— Bob hated it.”

“But Bob only likes stuff that is written the way he writes. He thinks writing should all be done the same. No room for creative flair. Besides, didn‘t you hear the suggestions they have for my stuff. Apparently, I overused passive voice. Whatever the hell that means — speaking of things that harm my little brain.”

“You do use passive voice a lot.”

“So what? I care little for that, I have my reasons.”

“Look, passive voice is like beating around the bush instead of getting to the point. Your wife probably loves this about you, but in the world of most writers, they believe you need to write in active voice. Get to the point immediately: like premature ejaculation, self-gratification without concern for both reader,—— and narrator,— on the journey together. Most just lap up active voice thinking after the fact. But a blend in a good narrative can unite reader and narrator,—— build anticipation,——feeling the emotion. Knowing when to change it up and go in with active voice will peak the reader waiting for the hammer to drive the point home. Personally, I think there’s room for both. Good writing is more than just telling a story, it can be a beautiful journey that brings both reader and narrator gratification.”

“I understand that, truly. Which is why I use passive voice at times as an interjection of the narrator’s thoughts on a matter. Or, a reflective thought of a first person perspective. I sometimes use it like an 80’s action star dropping a bad pun before killing a bad guy. Just slamming short clip sentences of action is tedious and lacks flair. There is nothing wrong with changing things up mid flow. Throwing in a bit of the fluctuation on pitch, pace, and power can make the climax better.” Jace looked away from his dad and stared at his coffee. “Can we get off the sex analogies; this has traveled far beyond wired and uncomfortable.”

“What? Just talkin’ normal here —— trying to plug the whole with a filler you can package and deliver to a stiff audience. Or, maybe I need to stroke it a-little more to get that head of your’s to sink into the beauty of rhythm and balance with a dramatic dash of peaks and ——climaxes. I’m just sayin’...”

The older man was on a roll, but Jace really wanted to change the subject. I know how to change the bad puns.— “Your dashes shock people. They’re not use to them. To most people they’re an archaic form of punctuation that went the way of our forefathers.”

“They’re not archaic!” Ben was passionate about his perspective of punctuation and it came through his voice inflections. “The true value and individual writing flare that can be expressed through the correct use of punctuation, like our forefathers used it,— has been lost. The only way society can regain the power of individual expression is through the full use of the punctuation tools available. And the only way for people to see it — is by exposure.—— The tools have to be seen.

“But it’s fallen out of favor. People don‘t like it!”

“People don’t like it, because they’ve been taught you don’t need them. But the teaching is wrong! There are so many ways to express a thought in the English language, but people are being limited in they’re individual expressions. The individual expression shown through pitch, pace and power; time and emphasis. All of these things can be relayed through punctuation.”

“Well at least the bad sex analogies are over,” Jace chuckled. He could see the twinkle in his old man’s eyes through his father's stone cold façade.

“What sex analogies?” 

Legacy

 I looked down on my father. He was struggling to position himself comfortably in his bed, but he could not seem to get it just right. Deep down I know, I can’t help thinking: A lot of things are that way now. Dementia had taken its hold, robbing him of the man he was, stealing his identity, stripping away his memories like a putty knife scrapes away old paint. Today’s his birthday, March 1, 2015, but recognition of what that means is lost somewhere in the translation. When it comes to my dad — at this time in his life, a lot of things are missing. But I know the real truth, as I pondered the reality: — The time when I lacked understanding regarding my father.

He rolled onto his back exhausted. “Ohhhh, I hurt,” he moaned softly.

“I’m sorry dad,” I replied while adjusting his pillow a little lower to help support his neck. “Does that feel any better?”

He shivered, folding his arms. “I’m so cold.”

The room is warm, but I knew the truth, “The blood thinners have that effect, dad.” I pulled the covers up and tucked them around his frail body. “Is that better?”

He nodded, looking helpless at me, — the once powerful Marine, the soldier that served his country twice. His second call came as a sergeant during the Korean conflict. Looking through his service papers the other day: discharged honorably, but his papers were held up leaving him there longer than he should have been. Frostbite was the constant reminder. 

Cold seemed to follow the man, one who had difficulty in expressing affection while I was growing up. The man who was stiff the first time I remember hugging him. I was in my twenties, — raising my own family. I had learned how to hug from my sons. My father had followed the pattern learned from his father; but he was humble enough to realize it was okay to show this kind of affection to his son, although, it came late in life. 

Dad was a proud man, reduced to needing help just to get to the bathroom. My wife and I live with my parents now, taking care of them.

He sighed, “Thank you, son. You’re a good boy.”

My eyes watered as I ponder: It wasn’t always that way. There was a time when I was the one that lacked comprehension: When I was an angry young man that couldn’t grasp who my father was.

I moved his transport chair back from the bed.

“How’s school going?” he asked.

“I’m enjoying it.” but I can’t help thinking: It’s funny what he remembers,— or does he?

“That’s good. A man is nothing without an education.”

It was a phrase I had often heard. The first time happened at the dinner table my sophomore year in a new high school. Missouri was a big move with my dad’s job transfer from Illinois and his first promotion into management. I had made the varsity wrestling team in the 138-pound weight class: no small achievement, although my dad only made it to a few of my matches that year. Mom never missed one. The message perceived, — dad’s work is the most important thing in his life. I selfishly resented him for it. 

High school was a tough time for me, but I had no idea the pressure he was under. When he was home, he drank.

I still remember that Saturday in the kitchen; the three of us sat around the dark oak table with four chairs, eating steak: T-bones with baked potatoes and collard greens. Mom was silent, — cutting her meat. My older sister was gone, away at college, making something of herself. She would go on the graduate with her bachelor’s in a mere two years. She was always the smart one.

Dad sat there; his speech slurred while sipping his sixth martini of the night. He liked them dry. “I can get you into Annapolis, but you need to get off your ass and show me you want it.” 

The offer placed on the table came out of the blue, but at the time I had no idea of the volumes spoken in those few words. A possible future proposed and what it meant regarding the true weight my father carried. The power within the fact expressed of such an opportunity without any allowance of doubt. The gift would not have been laid on the table as an empty gesture. My father didn’t lie: “Always Faithful.” The contract was true, but to me they were fighting words.— I stood, the heavy oak chair falling backward with the motion, “Why the hell would you care?”

Mom rose to intervene.

My father stood, his feature’s stone cold, and I clench my teeth while my fists closed tight. I was ready to attack, but the old Marine’s eyes peered straight through me.

“Now you two settle down.” Mom’s words were the voice of reason. They carried authority, but it fell on deaf ears.

Dad never flinched. “A man is nothing without an education.”

The words were spoken clear and precise through the alcohol. They burned, yet they were expressed as a mere formality, sterile, unfeeling. It was actually his way of expressing humility. He was speaking of himself; a revelation of how he viewed himself. But I thought the words were directed at me; a reflection of who I was. And at that time, I was an angry young man with no tolerance and little understanding. What I heard: You will never amount to anything. And the words, — like a wedge, — turned me off from even thinking about academic pursuits. This was a course I truly regret, — a darkness within my past.

I smiled as I looked at him lying comfortably tucked into his bed. Thinking about his words now, I fully comprehend: this man grew up with nothing in the wake of the Great Depression, raised in a poor family in a small mid-western town, and enlisted in the Marines right out of high school. His only higher education was a trade school after his first plug in military service; but he retired in 1987 as “Vice President in Charge of Sales” of the eastern division in a major corporation in the air conditioning and heating industry. One of the driving forces behind Glenwood Carol O’Dell senior’s motivation was to give to his family what he didn’t have growing up. How my father accomplished this is his legacy: the true nature of his strength and intelligence, the true testament of the man. He understood people when it came to marketing and sales. He understood business. He could read people and know their strengths and weaknesses. Because of this, he knew how to effectively shuffle and reassign people into a powerful sales force — demonstrated in the Midwestern Division of the company, Lennox, during my high school years.

After a relatively quick climb up the business ladder in Missouri, they moved him to Ohio: the Eastern Division, with full management-autonomy to correct the weaknesses in the seventeen eastern states of the company. That division had run in the red for years. I had moved away by that time and had started my own family in Northern Illinois; but my father’s proven track record, built on his regional management during my high school years, earned him a promotion and within one year he had restructured the Eastern Division’s sales force and setup an advertising program that turned losses into growth— and profits were pushed into millions. The eastern division remained in the black all the years of his management style until his retirement in 1987. His successor failed to carry on my father’s legacy.

Contently tucked into his bed, my father asked, “Lynn, could you get me a glass of water?”

He thinks I’m his younger brother, “Yes dad.”

Earlier that week on Wednesday at the Neurologist,— I told Dr. Sarwar that my dad was calling me by his brother’s name more frequently.

She smiled at my father and asked, “Can you tell me the year?”

Dad looked over at me, distressed, “1945? Right?”

The doctor stopped halfway through her simple test of his cognitive ability and looked directly at me. “What’s your age difference?”

“Thirty years.”

She returned her attention to my father. “Who is this?” pointing at me.

“That’s my son,” he answered confidently.

“Can you tell me your age difference?”

Father again looked at me, distraught. “Two years? Right?”

“If he’s your son, how can he be only two year’s younger than you?

My father fell silent. His head dropped as he stared at the floor. “I don’t know.”

The doctor’s head shook slowly and with compassion, she stated: “He’s lost his comprehension.”

But I already knew that and I put my hand on his knee, “It’s okay dad,” and I reassure him, “everything’s fine.”

When living with people with dementia it is easy to see the decline, up close and personal. It’s a choice my wife and I made together to help my parents retain their dignity, so they could live out their remaining years in their own home. My business has suffered, because of the decision. But I don’t regret our resolution; after all, they took care of me when I was struggling to understand.

These days, the four of us sit around the light maple kitchen table at dinner. My father sits across from me. My wife is on my right. Mom, diagnosed with Alzheimer’s two years ago, sits on my left. Dad’s dementia has differences; it was brought on by strokes. They’re subtle distinctions in the memory loss, but the final outcome is the same.

Conversation is light as I’m reading a textbook.

Dad’s smiling, “What are yah reading, Lynn?”

Mom’s voice is stern. “Casey,—— that’s junior.”

I look up at my future: genetics are the reality. “It’s okay mom.” Dad’s confusion is troubling him and I comfort him, “Everything’s fine, just preparing for class tomorrow.”

My father’s smiling again. “How’s school going?”

“It’s going real good.”

He nods, less confused, “That’s good. A man is nothing without an education.”

And I see the man across from me, my father, a truly great man; and I smile back: "I couldn't agree more."

I drink a cocktail of moonlight when the slivery glow is full. The savage intoxication of lust that grips my soul anew: Craving the heart, the beating life, the call that demands repast. Control is lost at the scent of blood; the drug a life that clings: the incur, no choice, resist I can’t, under the rays of my god.— The circular monolith and curse from times past — when I lost my way on that lonely road. The savagery untold, death was gone, the bite of truly evil. And now the girl, trembling of fear, I howl, the call is wild. Her red cloak shimmies under the soft night shine, a hint of taste delight. A feast on granny, then desert, the climax, oh shit! Here comes that woodsman. 

they save me

everyday

from the

horrors

and

sadness

from this world

movies

television

books

youtubers

they save me

everyday

from

our

world

and

you can't

tell

me that

they

are just fictional

or a waste of time

they

are

important

to many

people

so

don't

tell

me

that

books

TV series

movies

YouTube

are a

waste

of time

        Properly, Shakti novelly and navelly shocked his majesty, Shi, furiously forcing an utter apostrophe on Lakshmi out of sheer spontaneity. Chi mastery. Quite the achievement. After all, the season of pure being gets plain and boring; needs some seasoning. The reasoning theistic: Don't go ballistic on me yet as Indra's Net's net output's equivalent to the past, present, and future tense. You are tense because this succinctly said sequence seemingly means that previous divine glory wasn't so vehement and relevant as initially read in that story. But fear oblivion to psychic dyslexia as it may swiftly lead to hungry-ghost -level anorexia. Take a breath of fresh jiva and please remember yours truly,

        Shiva.

My mind was lost in an everlasting sea of darkness. My body was damaged, due to those who were thoughtless to my insecurities. I thought that I was in a place of which there was no return, I was in hell. Then it came. A journal my uncle bought for me; he told me it would be a good way for me to freely express myself, that it would be my  "therapy". I didn't pay much attention to his words that day, but now I realize how right he was. I wrote in that journal three times a week for fifty-two weeks and in six years, my life would change. You see, I was able to published my journal and it went on to be a New York Times best seller. My words reached the hearts of thousands of children. I still carry the pain, but now my mind is surrounded by a canyon of good thoughts and happiness. My body scared but healed thanks to the thoughtfulness of the many children who come up to me with the brightest smile to light up an entire room and words that made me cry. I say to all of you reading this. 

                Thank You.

Three guys they took their camping gear

And piled it in the jeep one day

The jobs, the kids, the special 'dear'

Oh God they had to get away

Mike he brought some cigarettes

The back was full of beer

Tom and James brought fishing nets

They'd camp out near the pier

Away from everything they knew

How nature feels so right

Eating luscious Mulligan Stew

Beneath the pale moonlight

The campfires flames were slowing down

The guys still sat around

Unaware that very ground

Was a Chippawa sacred burial mound

Now they'd disturbed the resting souls

No match for beer and fishing poles

The sounds of hell the winds so whirled

They ran to tents like screaming girls

Mike, Tom and James they say

They caught a lot of fish that day

Privately the men concur

About how fucking scared they were!