An Uncovered Gem

On December 26th, 2008, my fiancée Lydia and I drove to Madison, Wisconsin, to spend the day with my mom and fake dad. Fake dad had been doing some winter cleaning and came across an old floppy disc of mine, God knows from where. He said it contained a word document titled "Psycho," that he had opened it and it looked like a story. I nearly shit a brick. I knew exactly what he was talking about, and was exceedingly excited as I had long thought the physical copy of the tale had been as long lost as the mental version in my muddled mind.

In 1996, I was attending college at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, and tending bar at both Benjamin Briggs Pub & Grill (no longer in existence) and the restaurant Pieces of Eight (hilariously no longer in existence; they remodeled, re-invested, and were kicked off their property by the city). Back then, the internet was in its infancy, and email was foreign to most people. Texting didn't exist and public phones were still prevalent, as cell phones were not. The Fox network was still considered a rebellious challenge to the big three networks, and computers used floppy discs to store mobile files (that my mom and fake dad have a system that still accepts floppies tells you how often they update their technology). While modernization has changed the way we look at email and phone use, some things remain the same; not only do I still use the same email address I did back then, but writing out the tale I used a young rising star named Jennifer Aniston as an example of a sex symbol. Twelve years later, I'd probably do the same thing, only now I'd have to add and asterisk to her name and footnote that being involved with John Mayer has given her the same untouchable status as a leper. Some people you want nothing to do with after they make such poor life choices.

(Another amusing note is that this all got started due to what is essentially known today as "Forwarding." Back then, it was amusing to receive a chain email letter. Today, not so much so)

To date, I have had two stalkers in my life, and both instances occurred around somewhere during this period of the nineties. One was an Asian exchange student, someone who had bumped into me while tending bar at a restaurant called Nancy's (thankfully no longer in existence), and the other was a woman from South Dakota. Someday I'll sit down and do my best to recall what happened involving the Asian sensation, but the story "Psycho" was a re-telling of the tale involving the midwestern woman. Back then, in the days before blogging, I would write several long letters a year about my life, then print up and mail them (at a decent expense) to friends around the country who may or may not have been interested in receiving such shit.

I re-post the tale of my second stalker here, written in 1996, with only her name changed. When I first wrote and mailed it out, I used her real name, but I don't think there's any reason to do such a thing today when posting for public consumption to the web.



It started innocently enough. Then again, I suppose it always does, doesn’t it? A friend of mine in Boston, Pete, has a mailing list on his computer. Not a standard mailing list of addresses, but one of those Internet e-mail deals you’ve probably heard so much about. I am on this list, so is she. “She,” is Julia, a thirty-year-old grad. student in South Dakota. This is our story.

Pete's list has a theme to it: humor. If you happen across something amusing, such as a joke or story, you electronically send it in and he zaps to the people on file. One day I decided to offer a story I had written about Pete and I and our contributions to the Sperm Bank of Boston. The story was quite well received; I got many compliments from strangers. Julia was one of the complimenters. Trying to be considerate, I sent “Thank Yous” to anyone who wrote. Julia replied to the thank you, and a dialog was started.

Common interest came by way of "The Tick," a Saturday morning cartoon show. Living in South Dakota, though, prevented her from watching the program as no Fox affiliate existed; South Dakota ranks somewhere behind most Third World countries in this case. I was taping the show on a regular basis and offered to send her a copy. She was ecstatic. I was amused. We began emailing one another daily, and my eyebrow raised itself in curiosity; could this be one of those “Internet Romances” popping up across the country the media was raving about? I sent the tape, and with that she got my physical address.

Two weeks later I received a female condom in the mail. An odd thank you, as our interactions had never been anything more than friendly. Though we got along easily, we never discussed any sort of sexual attraction, and had never even exchanged photos. Regardless, a note was attached to the condom, “Save this, I’m coming to visit.” In my imagination, I figured that should this woman happen to look like Jennifer Aniston, I would be in heaven. No dummy I, I did not believe fortune would smile upon me so and became cautious. I asked Pete if I should be afraid. The single word reply was, “Yes.”

Julia asked for a picture. Playing off Pete's chillingly brief warning, I sent a photo of me skydiving. My head was bowed and the helmet covered my face. It gave no indication of my looks and was half joke, half identity protection. Julie emailed me that she loved the picture and hung it in the middle of the living room she shared with four other roommates. They told her I was “something special,” which alarmed me more than Pete's warning. Not only had I no idea how I was being described to warrant such a compliment, but I hadn't really told anyone about her, because there was nothing to tell. Meanwhile, I was common knowledge to her friends? Creepy.

The condom was followed by a string of erotic messages left in my e-mail account, each more graphic than the previous. They began to detail what she wanted to do to me and how it was going to be “the best night of my life.” Though several weeks had passed since I sent my picture, the favor had not yet been returned, a definite cause for alarm.

The volume with which I responded to her mail decreased by half. Where to this point I had always dropped a decent reply to each message, I now began sending short notes to roughly every third one. A detailed account of actions she was going to perform on my body would receive, “Just got home from work, got your letter, am too tired to write” in response. She used my backing off to double her efforts, sending two or three letters a day. Some would be violently angry, decrying her life and position in it, then do the most bizarre switch into how I would rescue her from her mundane existence. "I hate my job! Everyone I work with is stupid! I need a vacation. Can you perform oral sex for hours on end?” is a direct quote.

I was told my picture was masturbation material and received a second package in my physical mailbox. Nothing sexual this time, thankfully, but instead several small, odd, gifts. According to the accompanying note, she thought of me when she saw each item and decided to buy and send them. One trinket was a bizarre looking plastic mug shaped like a cartoon vampire, another was a Frankenstein refrigerator magnet. As I didn't have a particular affection for old horror movies and had never hinted to her I might, why these reminded her of me I do not know.

I decided I needed to stop being a pussy and just get everything out on the table. Where was she going with all of this, what did she look like, and what did she think we had going on? Her reply was hesitatingly honest, and I felt somewhat ashamed. “I am a little self-conscious because I am surrounded by women who eat red meat all the time and never exercise," she wrote. "It wears off on me and makes me lazy." At the end of the note, she dropped a mini-bomb; "By the way, I'll be visiting friends in Wisconsin in two weeks, and on December 28th we're going to road-trip to Milwaukee to meet you. You better be home, or else..."

The "or else" was probably meant playfully, but my reaction was immediately opposite; I told her was going to be out of town. There was a photography exhibit at the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art I wanted to see--by Andres Serrano--and several friends and I had plans to spend several days visiting the windy city.

She was furious. “ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER BASTARD SHITBAG ASSHOLE MOTHERFUCKER” was left in my inbox the very next day. “I AM COMING TO MEET YOU WHETHER OR NOT YOU WANT ME TO, SO YOU BETTER FIND TIME FOR ME TO DO SO BEFORE SUNDAY!”

Her "How to Win Friends and Influence People" response sealed the near-contracted deal for me. I told her my schedule was full and that there was nothing I could do about it. I received another thrashing. I also received and oddly timed surprise. On the same day her second email of vitriol and spite found its way into my email inbox, my physical mailbox received an envelope from her, something obviously mailed before I told her I wouldn't be around for her arrival. Gathering up great courage, Julia had finally sent her picture, along with the note, “Just wanted to send something so you’d know who was knocking at your door when I come.”

The picture was simply her face, which was enough. As cruel as it sounds, it is a face that created the phrase, "only a mother could love." I probably gave Homer Simpson's fear bleat upon gazing upon it. As much as I knew I was dealing with an easily wounded ego, I was also concerned with the tone of her emails and entirely sure I didn't want to end up in a room alone with her.

Two weeks passed quickly, with Julia continuing to insist she was going to meet me no matter what. My plans to visit Chicago fell apart, and I couldn't think of a thing to do for the weekend. In the least, I figured I just wouldn't answer my door if at home on Thursday.

As if on cue, at one o’clock that very afternoon, I was home alone, sitting in my room reading when the door buzzer went off. Someone was in the lobby looking to get in. I closed the book and frowned; no one ever buzzed my apartment. The door buzzed again--I got up cautiously--the door buzzed. I decided against answering, and instead walked into the living room and sat down behind a plant next to the window. From this vantage point I could see the front porch; the apartment was on the first floor, and when the person left I would know who it was. If friend, I would knock on the window, bid them back and explain my childish behavior. If foe...

The door buzzed. Two minutes had passed since the first sounding. This person was persistent. I remained seated. Two more minutes passed filled with intermittent buzzing. I was now irritated. When phoning, how many rings do you wait before deciding someone isn’t home? Twenty? Fifty? This was absurd. What was running through this person's mind, “Maybe someone’s home, but in the shower. if I keep ringing, they’ll get out and come to the door?” I have no idea.

After six minutes the front door opened. My mystery woman from South Dakota stepped out, shook her head, and walked away. As cruel as it is to say, her description of being "lazy" told half the story; she was roughly 5'4" and topped 200 pounds easily. I could see where the self-esteem problem came from, but the aggression that went with it is what had me on edge. I went back to my room and resumed reading. Moments later the door buzzer went off and was held for ten seconds. While not a long time in most cases, when listening to a door buzzer it is an eternity. I closed the book and wondered; had she somehow seen me step away from the window? Three short bursts filled the air, followed by silence. I began reading again and eventually went to work undisturbed.

This action repeated itself several times a day over the next few days, all the way until December 31st. On that evening, I went to work as usual, and it being New Years Eve my first call of order was to get as much stock ready as possible. The reservation book was full, and we expected to go through liquor like mad. I was in back of the restaurant grabbing bottles when the word came; “Nate, there’s someone here to see you.” My mind went on red alert. Never before had words spoken so innocently filled me with dread. Had I ever told this woman where I worked? Sometime in the beginning of our correspondence? She often referred to my early mailings, so I suspected she saved them. This was not good.

“Who is it?” I asked.

The hostess didn’t know.

“I’m busy,” I said flatly and went back to stocking.

She shrugged. Five minutes later my partner bartender came back; “Nate, your sister stopped by and dropped off some things for you.” I thumped my head against the wall. I was now officially paranoid.

That night I worked, went out with co-workers, and finally returned home and got to bed around six am. At nine my alarm went off; I was driving to Oshkosh for the day to visit a friend. I got up from my nighttime “nap” and called him, checking to make sure he was awake and such. The door buzzer went off in the middle of our brief conversation. I excused myself from the phone and hung up. Something didn’t feel right.

I took my seat by the window and waited. The door buzzer sounded repeatedly over three minutes, then paused. Moments later, I heard my neighbor’s door open; the lobby security door soon followed suit. Two seconds later the other apartment door closed and a knock came upon mine. This was not a knock used to wake a person on New Years Morning, but a cautious one, almost too quiet to be effective. It was repeated several times over the minute it took me to gently tiptoe across my creaky living room floor to reach the door. Once there, I looked through the peephole.

As sunlight was pouring into the inner lobby behind the figure, all I could see was a dark silhouette. It was very large. I couldn’t be 100% positive, but who else could it be? I stood bent over, watching every move, listening to every knock resound a mere inch from my head. My breathing was light. The figure leaned over. It looked into the peephole from the outside. We were now watching each other separated only by two inches of wood. I had to fight back laughter over the absurdity of the situation.

Then the doorknob turned.

Slowly.

Methodically.

Quietly.


This wasn’t a person casually entering a room. Someone was testing waters here, putting their big toe in to check for warmth. The knob reached its crescent and paused. Gentle pressure was applied; the door creaked in my ear. Someone wanted in. The door moved a millimeter, was halted by the lock, held in place a moment, then relaxed. I returned to the peephole.

The figure stood with slumped shoulders; a defeated pose. Its head looked up and to the side, as if in thought. It retreated into the light. Julia looked out the lobby door, back at the apartment, and left. I got dressed in twenty seconds and left out the back, un-showered and unconcerned by that stinky fact.

At 10:32 pm I returned to my apartment; it had been a good day. At 10:35 the door buzzer fired. Fortunately, I do not light the entire apartment when entering. I had walked in, gone to my room, and flipped only that switch on. This cannot be seen from the front of the building, which meant there was no sign of life in the apartment. I stole to my window seat in the darkness. The buzzer rang again. A minute later, my now nemesis left; her waits were growing dramatically shorter. I sat wondering how many times she had repeated this action throughout the day.

The next morning I woke around eight and lay in bed until eight thirty. I heard the phone ring and my roommate Jack rushed for it in a panic as he always did. Something about a ringing phone made Jack trip over himself to answer it, as if one day he would receive the winning lottery call from a beautiful nymphomaniac waiting to give him great sex with his million dollars. Regardless, Jack answered the phone, and moments later, there was a knock at my bedroom door.

“Hey,” he said, a look of caution on his face. “The phone’s for you. Some woman I don’t recognize. Should I say you aren’t home?” Jack knew the situation. How could he not? My South Dakota stalker had been buzzing our door for five days now.

I thought it over. It was Tuesday. Julia had mentioned she needed to be back in South Dakota this very morning. She left so quickly last night it looked like a last ditch effort.

“Nah,” I replied. I had never sent my number anyway, and I wasn't listed. “I’ll see who it is.”

“You sure? I’ll run interference for you.”

I waved him off, which I'll call an early morning "not thinking yet" mistake.

I grabbed the phone.

“Hello,” I stated.

“Is this Nate?”

I didn’t recognize the voice, and therefore knew exactly who it belonged to. Was I fucking retarded for taking the call? Jesus.

“Yup.”

“Do you know who this is?”

There was giddiness in her tone.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.” I said flatly, suggesting this was not interesting to me.

“Ok, well, I’m coming over now.”

“Don’t bother.”

“I’m right around the corner on a pay phone, so don’t even try to get away. I’ll only stay for a minute, there’s something I want to give you.”

I paused. This would be difficult to get out of. Even if I hung up, she knew I was home. I decided she was NOT getting into my apartment. I’d meet her in the lobby.

“Whatever.”

“Ok, great, see you in a minute.”

She hung up. I shook my head. This would all be over soon.

Why hadn’t I let Jack tell the person I wasn't home?

The apartment door soon emitted a knock; the lobby must have been unlocked.

Great.

I walked into the next room and answered it.

There she stood, Julia in all her glory.

She was smiling. I frowned and gave a squint of irritation in greeting.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!!” She shouted, raising her hand in alarm. “DON’T SAY ANYTHING!! I don't want to ruin the moment!”


Ruin the moment?

She put forth her hand, in it was a small Tick figurine.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING! Just take it... NO! DON’T SAY ANYTHING! Don’t ruin the moment... just stand there with my gift. My gift to you...”

I held out my hand, confused more than irritated, accepted the action figure, and watched as she clasped her hands together as if showing the joy of a child.

“DON’T SAY ANYTHING!"

This seemed to be all she could get out.

“I’m going now... I just wanted to meet you and give you that.”

She waved and moved away from the door.

I stood silently, unable to say anything even had I wanted to.

She left.

I closed the door.

What the hell had just happened?

That’s where it ends. Julia never emailed me again, and I had had enough of the anger and erotic pushing from her to reach out to her in either friendship or otherwise. I asked Pete about her once, and he had little to say, so I let it go. The only thing that remained to be explained was her phone call, which Jack had a theory about. I cannot prove or disprove it, and I can’t say that I disagree with his thoughts. Jack said she called two minutes after he walked in the front door that morning. This is the amount of time it would take a person to get to the pay phone around the corner if standing in front of our building. Was she watching? Standing in the cold or sitting in her car, waiting for someone to enter the apartment? Jack was roughly my height and we both had dark hair, so from a distance…

Either way, the phone was in Jack’s name. She must have looked him up after not finding my lovely moniker in the white pages and grabbing his off the mailbox in the lobby. Not much Sherlock Holmes action needed to figure that one out.

So, as Vonnegut wrote, it goes...

the death of charity within me

it's taken me a long time to understand that questioning something and chastising it are often perceived as the same action.

lyds donated money to both the obama campaign and npr this year, and each time i wondered aloud why she did so. not that i didn't feel the causes worthy, it's just that for some time, giving has been something i rarely do. until recently, i never sat down to examine why. i cannot say i am either proud or ashamed of this mindset, it simply is what it is.

my initial flirtation with offering aid began in college. one day, without reason, i got a bug in my butt to volunteer at a soup kitchen. i made a few phone calls--this was back in the dark ages, before a google search could net you 10,000 hits in .23 seconds--and found a location in a church several miles from my apartment, one in a seedy milwaukee neighborhood. the shelter gave meals daily, so i simply showed up unannounced one evening. the hall was like any old-school rectory basement; spacious, and able to fit several rows of school-style picnic tables at a length of about ten deep. overall, a couple hundred people could eat simultaneously with enough elbowroom to be comfortable.

i wandered around looking for someone in charge and was brushed off several times by disinterested people, until i finally came upon a cluster of people with a bit of authority. i asked what i could do to help, and was met with an odd mix of suspicion and hostility. i was thrown, but after a few moments spent assuring everyone i was simply there to do what i was told, i was given the glorious honor of wiping down tables after people finished eating, that the next wave of needy could fill their tummies.

a line would begin to form about an hour before service, and i was warned not to hang out outside, as stabbings, muggings and other fun activities took place beyond god's walls. when the doors opened, an interesting influx of arrivals would enter, and even on my first night i could tell who was who. those new to the game had down turned heads and slumping body posture in embarrassment of their need. those who had surpassed this stage walked in with simple acceptance; they were hungry, this is what they had to do, and there was no shame in it. the final ingredient in the blend the actors. usually young men, they walked in with a swagger and sunglasses, dressed like they didn't need the food and making a show of their favor to the church in eating it. the ethnic mix was divided down easy lines; most volunteers were white, most recipients were black. my first couple weeks in, i wondered if this played into the attitudes and slight if not outright contempt many workers had for the diners.

wiping tables was by no means interesting, rewarding or fun, but i began a weekly pattern of riding my bike into the ghetto and doing what i could for those in need of human assistance. i didn't do it for bragging rights, karma or acknowledgement, i only volunteered because it seemed like the thing to do. i had the time, charity doesn't happen by accident and it seemed more productive than playing tetris, my common pastime. over the course of a year, my attitude did begin a shift into negative territory. while i never looked forward to going in, neither did i ever resent it. but toward the end, i did start to feel a hesitation.

when you spend time in any one area of life, you become aware of little nuances that make up the whole of a setting. cracks begin to shine through the foundation you once saw as solid. everything you witnessed but didn't notice initially stands out, and this takes place in jobs, relationships or friendships. after a year, instead of seeing simple need, i saw waste. people would go down the food line taking heaps of everything offered, then sit, eat the dessert and throw all else away. this action was far from rare, it was widely practiced. i began to get irritated by it; the idea people couldn't simply say "not interested" to whatever they weren't going to eat anyway offended me, especially when i noticed the families acting with complete disregard for instilling a sense of value in their children. to not clean your own plate is one thing, but to raise a child under the banner that waste, let alone waste of auspice, is acceptable? i began to understand why my fellow volunteers were embittered. before i could reach their level of apathy or anger, i bowed out. one week i didn't feel like volunteering, so i didn't go. and then i never went back again.

i still had the sense to act in a positive manner in me, though, and gestated a bit over my next move. such meditation eventually ended in deciding to adopt a third-world child in need. i researched a few outfits, centered on one and contacted away. forms were filed, choices were made and before long i was writing to (and sending checks for) a young boy in latin america. thanks to the simpsons, my friends and i diminished my kindness by referring to him as "pepe." but i was still happy to be doing my small part to combat the problems of a destitute nation. i wrote my little "dear ndugu" notes well ahead of the reference just made, and though i tried to be simple and straightforward in my letters--"i hope you are well, i hope your family is well"--i'm sure they were as foreign to my ward as those written by nicholson. i received pictures and crayola drawings in return, hung a few on the old fridge and filed others away in a folder i bought for correspondence.

the particular organization i went through had a graduation age for adoptees, and when it was reached i'd receive a packet of choices for my next child. in my years as a member, i believe i helped three children on three continents--south america, africa and asia--reach maturity, but as with the food pantry, i began becoming irritated by patterns i had dismissed early on. every new packet i received came with the same basic description, "(name) is the youngest of six/eight/ten children, living in abject poverty and in desperate need..." and i would read and wince. six children? eight children. ten fucking children? if these people are living in abject poverty, why the fuck are they continually squirting out more mouths they can't feed? because they need farm hands? because so few will eventually survive? sorry, that's shit logic and works against basic intuition regardless of education or economic standing. yes, once again, my ego got in the way of compassion and i had to opt out of adopting a fourth child before becoming even more of a fuck of a human being than i already felt like.

it was now the late 1990's and i was performing stand up comedy, so several of us decided to throw shows for charity. we would set everything up, practice our craft, and pass the door's take to a different foundation every time. many organizations were kind and giving, both putting out the word to supporters of their cause and appreciative of the money we gave. but an odd, or maybe understandable parallel between the size of the institution and their kindness (or lack of it) soon became apparent. when local groups were promoted, they were the most open and appreciative to our help. the larger the system, naturally, the more the red tape and less support there was.

my first (and worst) experience came at the hands of the make a wish foundation. a local dj heard of our shows, and having an interest in both comedy and the causes we supported, invited me to appear on air to promote the event. sadly, he wasn't aware of my ever-present ignorance when it comes to inappropriate behavior. simply put, i find very few subjects to be taboo in life, and things that somehow make others wince make me giggle. maybe i'm wired wrong, but when i got on the radio this was the exchange heard throughout the metropolis of milwaukee:

bryan erwin, dj: "i've got local comedian nathan timmel in the studio with me, he's part of a group of comics running "comedy for charity" down at stooges comedy club. every week they throw a show and donate the money to a worthy cause. nathan, why don't you tell us about this week's show and charity?"

me, idiot: "thanks bryan. this week we're donating to the very popular make a wish foundation. if you're not familiar, this is a great organization that allows terminally ill children the chance to do something they've always wanted to but never had the chance to, such as visit disneyworld, swim with the dolphins, or have their first homosexual experience."

bryan cut my mic and immediately went to commercial. he didn't exactly chastise me, but did explain that there was a difference between pushing the envelope and going too far, and for radio, that was definitely going too far.

and he was right.

the next morning my phone rang and the anything but lovely head of either the wisconsin (or milwaukee, i'm not quite sure which) branch of the foundation started shouting at me before i could barely say hello.

"how could you say that? did you think that was funny? how could you suggest that we could do such a thing for a child, or that a child would ever..."

what? be a homosexual?

i rarely show restraint in life when confronted with ignorance, but bryan had shown me great kindness and instead of blasting the woman, i apologized. the foundation had recently undergone a massive public relations disaster for supporting the dying wish of a child wanting to hunt and kill a bear (because i suppose sometimes when you're at your end you don't become enlightened to the idea of life being precious and simply want to take it from other creatures because as it was unfair to you, hey, fuck everyone and everything) and was widely rumored to have purchased prostitutes for children who wanted to lose their virginity. i absolutely wanted to hammer back at this ignorant cunt who was angry with me for suggesting a child would actually be--*gasp*--gay, but i tried, and failed, to keep bryan out of the mess i caused. bryan was eventually fired and i received legal notice to never promote anything even remotely involving the make a wish fucks ever again. as if i would want to.

oddly enough, bryan and i became close friends, and a big, blowout charity show was planned. bryan came from the world of bands and music, had connections, and a theater show was to be our grand farewell from the world of comedy and charity. after slight deliberations, the so-we-thought excellent habitat for humanity organization was green lit for fund reception. putting the cart before the horse, we printed posters, placards and got everything in place... and then contacted habitat for humanity. while kind, they claimed that their modus operandi was to remain inconspicuous. they didn't want to "get in anyone's face" with what they did. they appreciated the money, but weren't interested in either setting up a display at the event, or even sending anyone down to collect the money. they couldn't wait to get the check in the mail, but i don't remember being thanked by anyone i talked to. though feeling slighted, with everything already printed we had no choice but to go ahead with the plan and created what eventually turned out to be a standing room only crowd for an organization who wanted nothing to do with us. i will grant that it was our fault for not checking in with them before deciding to support their cause, but it still felt like a slight.

after that i pretty much ended my kind ways. i still donate food to pantries, but even that has become the occasional afterthought, like grabbing a canned item to place in a bin seen when entering the grocery store. lyds reminded me that this year i bought mosquito netting to combat malaria in africa, but that gesture was defeated by my complaining when lyds attempted to donate to npr a second time; "but i gave to the tribesmen this year..." as if giving was something to mark off a to do list but once.

charity should be like an apology; you don't give an apology to hear one in return, you offer supplication for reasons within you. when it comes to my period of giving, though i never did it for karma, thanks or even recognition, over a decade's time, desire to aid was removed from me. i could espouse bullshit about how governments could end all suffering if they would focus on it, but that doesn't forgive me my complacency or my questioning of lyds when she acts in a manner much more compassionately than i do.

today i find it hard supporting much of anything outside of systems involved with helping animals. maybe lyds can wring the old me back out of my current shell, or maybe i'll just donate more to the humane society and groups that focus on furry creatures.

how mother theresa managed to live among people perpetuating their own problem is beyond me.

sainthood truly is for the christ-like among us, and i have never claimed to be a decent human being.