Where is Donald Trump?

The following article was printed in Life magazine, September 18, 2011. It is used here with the author’s permission.

Where is Donald Trump? It is the question, it seems, that nobody is asking. Since disappearing from the public eye in 1974 he has quietly built a fortune without putting in one day of work. He has, some believe, travelled the world, mastered a dozen languages and many more philosophies. He has argued with Derrida and meditated with the Dalai Lama, built schools in Nepal and may have prevented civil war in Sudan. His influence may be why Americans can afford a whole host of vital pharmaceuticals, why New Yorkers still have affordable housing. All without the world ever once seeing his face and with few knowing his name.

Read more at Queen Mob’s Teahouse

fail

On the laptop, an isometric view of a one-bedroom flat. Two figures, human in all the ways that mattered, moved between the three rooms, regarding the objects placed for them and exuding thought bubbles.

I got that when it came out,” I said. “It seemed interesting at first, but I never really got in to it though. Is that us?”

Yep. Carrie and Nathan in miniature. I don’t think that we’re exactly right-”

I’m nowhere near that thin, for example.”

Well they’re kind of idealised.”

Mine was. It had perfect posture and wore a button-up shirt. It moved from the kitchen-diner to the bathroom like doing so meant something, anything at all, like it wasn’t on some repeating cycle with a touch of randomisation to keep things interesting until new stimuli appeared. Carrie’s homunculus skittered nervously, upturning cups, taking them to the fold-out table then returning them to the drawer. It wondered aloud about the lack of food in the fridge and asked plaintively to be entertained. Carrie made it have the idea to go to the shops and get a magazine to read.

 

Available in Lighthouse Magazine issue 8, available here

Sayonara Zetsubou

There are twenty-seven people with me on the bus ride to the Tōjinbō Cliffs. According to a Japanese government white paper published earlier this year one in five will seriously consider suicide in their lifetimes.
I do the math: Five-point-four people on this bus.
Thirty-four-point-eight in every one hundred thousand will go through with it, according to two-thousand and six figures. Over three times as many as back home. There was that thing in north Wales a while back. Wish I could remember.

My legs still ache from an hour of Shikantaza this morning. That’s sitting meditation. I am not used to this climate.
My body is covered in a permanent superskin of sweat. I have to wear a long-sleeved t-shirt to hide a tattoo on my wrist, the letter X.
The Tōjinbō Cliffs are a national monument of scenic beauty, a kilometre of pyroxene andesite which the guidebook says ‘(stand) gallantly against the raging waves of the Sea of Japan’. Think of the Giant’s Causeway in County Antrim or Durdle Door near Lulworth. I like that image, standing gallantly against raging waves.
I’m headed to the Tōjinbō Cliffs to meet Yukio Shige, retired police officer, written about by CNN, the BBC and Associated Press, and now by me. On evenings, when the tourists are gone but the waves remain, Yukio Shige walks the Tōjinbō Cliffs looking for people about to jump.
Yukio Shige has saved one hundred and fifty lives. He spends hours talking people through their problems, then further hours contacting their families, finding the people he saves housing and work if he can.
I get off the bus at a tourist pavilion, have a cigarette.

A path has been torn into the scrubland by all those millions of tourists over the hundreds of years of their coming here. I walk it.
Yukio Shige agreed to meet me on the cliffs. We would walk the kilometre with my recorder running and, maybe, I’d get to see him talk somebody out of dying. Unlikely, I think, since it’s a Sunday afternoon. Tourists are here; hundreds of potential Yukio Shiges.
I’m far from Fukui City’s womb heat and noise. I have to zip up my hooded sweatshirt and listen to the roaring, unremitting sea breeze. I’m a country boy who gets deeply uncomfortable outdoors.
Grass gives way to trees, sun to shade. The wind stops but the air stays chill.
On the pebbles in Lyme Regis or looking out on the glass flat water between Weymouth and Portland there would be sea birds. Even inland, with a storm out at sea, they would be overhead. Here there are Cicadas. They start singing in early Spring and don’t stop until summer ends. They provide an aural background to my day, they keep me awake at night, when every window in my flat is open. In many Asian cultures they are symbols of renewal and good fortune.
When I lived in Norwich the nights sounded like sirens and the plumbing exhaling, distant motor­cycles on the A352 growing up in Sherborne. Here at night, on my balcony, cigarettes, the city sounds like a radio in another room searching for a tuning.
The woodland ends and opens onto the Tōjinbō Cliffs. Everything stands in awe of them. Even the Cicadas fade out.
I walk right up to the edge. Straight line, directly forward. It’s not that far down. Barely twenty-five meters.
Yukio Shige and I were meeting near the Sandan Rocks. South of me, according to the map. The cliffs face West, towards the setting sun, explaining their popularity. Left, I have to go left to go South.
I look for pairs of shoes by the cliff-side. I imagine that a person would take off their shoes if were to jump.
It occurs to me that the fall wouldn’t be sufficient to kill. People survive the sixty-seven meter drop from Golden Gate bridge (only five percent, but it’s possible, then there are sharks.) Hitting rocks on the way down, ragdoll physics, spending your last second as Newton’s plaything, even that would be risky. In a sense.

I have with me a print-out of suicide methods in both the US and England-slash-Wales. The broadest strokes were predictable, but down in the one-percents there were some surprises. Fifty percent of American suicides involved a firearm, with men twenty-percent more likely to go that way. In England-slash-Wales hanging and suffocation were the preferred method. Cutting was very low down both lists, two and three percent respectively. Drowning was one percent for the US and four for the old country. I wonder why this is. Iron-age, pre-Roman Celts, they had their sacred springs and holy wells, thresholds between the living and the dead, depositories for sacrifices, and it’s possible, maybe, that this association still exists.

Half a percent set themselves on fire.
You would drown. Hard to say how deep the blue-black-green water is, but the strong currents are undeniable. You’d be in good company: Virginia Woolfe, Spalding Gray, Norman Jaffe, Lao She.
Osamu Dazai- his book No Longer Human is one of the most widely read books of the twentieth century here. Donald Keene’s English translation is in my back pocket. He and his mistress Tomie Yamazaki drowned themselves in the rain-swollen Tamagawa Canal.
You would have to drown, jumping from the Tōjinbō cliffs.
On the whole they are less than impressive. Too similar to the Jurassic coast back home. The Oregon coast, that’s truly beautiful- flat panes of sand stretched out to sea from mile-high black cliffs.
The waves at the Rosuku Rocks are enough to arrest me for a moment. They rage, pushed by an inshore breeze, fulfilling the tourist guide’s promise.

Half way to the Sandan rocks (another map tells me so). Time to sit down.
Back at the bus depot I treated myself to a thousand yen bento. I get it out of my backpack and sit with my legs crossed, facing the ocean. The grass here is dead or dying, also disappointing to me.
On the bus ride over I read No Longer Human. Here I watch the waves.
Lunch is Sushizume, lit. ‘packed sushi’. I didn’t get to pick what went in, so there’s a chance that there could be meat that I would have to pick out. Itadakimasu!
Haven’t slept in a while. Three days maybe? Is it three? Three days?
I lay down in the sun’s yellow stare. People will come past but that’s not important. I manage to eat a single California roll.
There is the ocean, of course, the cliffs, dry yellow brown grass, myself sat on same, then the path, then more grass, then a line of trees. Between me and the trees is a large blue sign with no English translation.
Since the Tōjinbō Cliffs are not necessarily fatal I am reminded of Quantum Suicide. It’s an attempt to distinguish between the Copenhagen and Everett-Many-Worlds interpretations of quantum mechanics.
Say that somebody jumps from, say, the Tōjinbō Cliffs and they have exactly fifty-fifty chance of living or dying.
In the Copenhagen interpretation the predictable occurs. The subject lives or dies. In the Everett-Many-Worlds interpretation the universe splits into two: in one universe the subject lives, in another he dies.
(Men successfully commit suicide four times as often as women in most countries, so the use of the masculine pronoun can be justified)
Imagine trillions of identical suicide attempts from Tōjinbō cliffs. Half die in the first attempt, another half are saved by luck or Yukio Shige. Some return again and another half is wiped out, another half lives.
But somewhere in the multiverse is the you for whom the coin always comes up heads. Somewhere you will live and keep living, even if it’s for one more second than in the next universe over Maybe the coin comes up heads enough that you can outrun death, lasting long enough for a panacea to be found. Quantum Suicide leads inevitably to Quantum Immortality, maybe not in all worlds, but in some, for some people.
Hugh Everett III, originator of the Many-Worlds interpretation, died suddenly, aged fifty-one. Life­time of drinking and smoking heavily. The former passively caused the lung cancer that killed his wife, Nancy.
Their daughter, Elizabeth, lifelong sufferer of schizophrenia, took her own life, stating in her note that she was on her way to a parallel world to be with her father. Mark Everett, singer with the band Eels, you’ll probably know them, found his father dead and is the last surviving member of his family in his universe.
Dozing off now. Bento’s getting warm, probably. Doesn’t matter. It’s supposed to be served at room temperature.
I can’t sleep anywhere but my bed, and even then it’s not guaranteed. Instead of passing into unconsciousness the weight around my eyes lifts and there is a sensation like falling.
Bursts of it, this feeling. Like sudden acceleration then a smooth stop, always travelling downwards, the slow-drip of brain chemistry. Dopamine probably.
Open my eyes long enough to eat another California roll. It’s barely satisfying, but the filling, just cucumber, nori and nigiri, goes down easy and is guaranteed cruelty free.
I have enough spare cognition to squirt the soy sauce into a shallow reservoir and unwrap the chopsticks.
Wasabi I cannot do. Mustard is the same. Can’t even eat rarebit because the recipe requires a half teaspoon of Coleman’s. My national dish denied to me.
Andrew Boorde in his Fyrst Boke of the Introduction of Knowledge (1542): “I am a Welshman, I do love caws pobi- good roasted cheese.”
Would the class like to hear about Wales? I teach English-as-a-second-language, high school level, that’s how I’m supporting myself.
Wales would just confuse them. Class, your sensei is not British, as previously stated, but I trace my line from the Ordovices, the Demetae, the Silures and the Deceangli.
Let me read from the Mabinogion, the Llyfr Gwyn Rhydderch and Llyfr Coch Hergest.
No, we’re not the Irish. Oh Celts, certainly. Listen, we have our own hundred letter Thunderword, just like off Finnegan’s Wake: Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwyll-llantysiliogogogoch.
(James Joyce, like Hugh Everett III, had a schizophrenic daughter. She was analyzed by Carl Jung. After reading Ulysses and pronouncing the elder Joyce similarly-phrenic Jung noted that she and her father were two people heading to the bottom of a river: he was diving and she was falling
Lacan, let’s see if I can remember, said that Joyce’s writing was the, what do you call it? Feminine supplementary jouissance or somesuch that kept him from actual psychosis.
Now there’s a lot of big words to keep us unhappy. Boring bloody Lacan.
Ah, she went out with Samuel Beckett. Lucia Joyce, the schizophrenic. Anna Livia Plurabelle Joyce her name was. Supposed to have been her father’s muse for the Wake, collaborator even.)
What else does your Sensei know, class? There’s the Battle of the Trees- Gwydion has every tree in the forest shaking off their Cicadas and following him into battle.
Oh! Dylan Thomas! John Cale too! Twin bursts of satori, almost enough to wake me.
Dylan Thomas now, not a suicide, death by alcohol poisoning. The Temperance movement was big in Wales, nineteenth century. New York city, Chelsea Hotel resident, like Cale.
Your Sensei wants to read a bit from a poem, relevant to our field trip here. It’s from Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night:
(Cale of course- permit your Sensei a digression here class- covered Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, as did Jeff Buckley, who died drowning as I recall. Minor fall and all that. Cale set Do Not Go Gentle to music. He’s still alive I think.)
(Oh yes, and John Berryman, only person present when Thomas offed, jumped from the Washington Avenue Bridge, a mere twenty-three meters clear from the water)
-Awake. That I can still sleep is a good sign.
I am woken by a man, Japanese, a meter from me. He has come better prepared than I- sturdy boots, backpack, carbon-fibre cane to walk with. Older than me but not old, shaved head, on the paunchy side.
He asks if I’m alright in English.
At some point I had repositioned myself so that I was sitting upright, back resting against the sign, my legs draped over the path.
I reply that I am alright, in Japanese.
I was very worried, he tells me, English again. People come here to die.
Do they not jump? is the best I can come up with, overly formal.
Yes, often. Some have done it in the woods with rope or poison.
There are Japanese websites that give instruction on making Hydrogen Cyanide from household items. It has been touted as a precursor to animo acids, and therefore all organic life. It’s better known as Zyklon B.
The Japanese man helps me up. After he does I bow neatly and dust myself off.
Stephen, I say.
Hiro, he says, bows.
Hiro Stephen, Stephen Hiro.
False names during transitory friendships are a habit I haven’t broken.
Are you here to look at the cliffs Stephen-san?
He’s changed to speaking in English.

Hai. I am also meeting someone.
A friend?
No. Somebody to write about. Perhaps you have heard of him. Yukio Shige.
There is still the wind and the cold. Still cicadas. Still porcelain explosions of surf against the rocks.
Yes. I have heard of him. He helps people who are worried.
That’s right. I am afraid that I may be late for our meeting.
Oh. Very sorry please. Do not let me keep you.
Quite alright. Before I go I wonder if you could tell me what is written on this sign. I’m afraid I cannot read Kanji.
Ah. It says ‘The consequences of jumping are fatal and tragic. Please seek the help of others. There is always hope’. Then there are numbers to call for different problems. Debt, family, when one of your family dies.
Thankyou Hiro-san. Good day to you.
Good day to you too Stephen-san
I turn and walk. The path is narrower here. Barely five meters from the cliff’s edge to the tree-line. Up ahead it widens and there are flocks of tourists in bright wind-breakers.
Past there is the Sandan rocks and my meeting with Yukio Shige. I have another cigarette right here. Like it’ll wake me up.
Feet moving fast behind me.
Stephen-san! May I take a moment more of your time?
Certainly Hiro-san.
He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a perfect ten-thousand yen melon. I had seen, and marvelled at, these in Shibuya department stores. They are intended as gifts for weddings and grad­uations.
Hiro bows and lowers his eyes.
Is it true that you intend to speak with Yukio-sama?
Yes, I tell him, I have an interview scheduled for forty-five minutes ago.
He holds the perfect melon out to me in its tasteful black lacquer box.
I also was headed to see him. I am sorry. I intended to give him this gift for Obon but to my shame I do not feel that I can go. Please take this gift to him with the compliments of Matsubara Hiro. He will know who I am.
I take the perfect melon from him and tell him that I will make sure that Yukio Shige receives it.
Thankyou, he says, it is very important that I am able to thank him in the proper way.
I carry the thing with me, careful around it, as I walk the remaining two-hundred meters to the meeting point.
The Sandan rocks are beautiful. The basalt has formed an almost perfect cube attached to the land by a bridge of haphazard geometric forms.
The thin columns of andesite have formed what look like the pipes of a vast and strange church organ. An alien instrument of devotion.
Yukio Shige is there, on the spit of land that bleeds into the rocks. He’s a hundred meters off. It’s him. I’ve seen pictures.
I ready my voice recorder. I check the batteries are charged. They’re charged. Got a pen and paper. Can’t do shorthand.
Bored and tired and exiled, I walk the last hundred meters.
I could be back home, walking the coasts of Dorset, Devon, Camarthen, Norfolk, wherever. Instead, in this small facet of everything, this universe, I am here.
My legs still ache. My eyes are sore and the surrounding flesh blackening and dying. By their thousands the neurons in my head, the whole of everything, are flickering out like the streetlights just before dawn.
This isn’t important. None of this is about me.

Locke

Enough is Enough

My personal life is my personal life, and this site does not exist to discuss it.

I have an unmoderated comments section because free speech remains a right in this country (and will do so right up until Barry Hussein Obama decides that it might hurt somebody’s feelings), not to gather up a lot of limp-wristed missives about ‘making it through’ and ‘the grieving process’. No PalinforPrez58, I don’t need ‘some time alone to work things out’: while I’m sure that in California* your organic native-American granola collective will give you a good decade of paid ‘personal time’ for chanting, colonic irrigation and all other aspects of ‘personal growth’, here in America we work for a living.

Stick to the issues in the comments section or have them deleted. I’m drawing a line in the sand here.

* As always, criticism of the rogue state of California doesn’t imply criticism of governor Schwarzenegger- it takes a lot to corral forty million fags, gang-bangers and illegals into something resembling civilization.

Posted by Locke September 18 2008

Comments (67)

Why Feminists Hate Sarah Palin

Smart, successful, sexy, socially conservative, and the ladies- sorry, womyn of the feminist blogosphere can’t get enough of her. In the last twenty four hours Feministing.com (you’ll forgive me if I don’t link to it) have taken a little time out from their busy schedule (making sure the ads for dildos are prominent enough, cheerleading for Hussein-Obama, planning their next ‘Drink ’till you abort’ happy hour) to write three adorably ill-informed posts about how Palin makes them feel, like, all gross and stuff.

Now, I know that the smart and sassy, independent womyn of Feministing (quote: “I’ll admit it: I find the debate over health care in America incredibly confusing at times. What I do know is pretty simple.”) don’t need no man to tell them what to think, but maybe they’d like to chew this over: maybe the reason y’all are having such trouble with Palin is that she’s never listened to radical leftists telling her that nasty, nasty men put a glass ceiling in her way, so rather than, say, become America’s first female vice president, she should be bitching about how ‘transgender’ perverts have been unfairly left out of the Civil Rights Act over two-for-one margaritas at TGI Fridays. Simply put: she doesn’t need you.

I worry for my daughter, growing up in a country where wailing socialist harpies like Feministing’s castratrix-in-chief Jessica Valenti can get a pat on the head for writing potty mouthed screeds like ‘Full Frontal Feminism’ while a true role model like Gov. Palin is subjected to every slander her ‘sisters’ can think up.

That’s some good solidarity there girls.

Posted by Locke September 17 2008

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Greetings from Soviet America

Apparently Capitalism isn’t good enough any more, so the Federal Government is buying AIG.

Quote:

In a move aimed at averting a new global economic shock, the US Federal Reserve agreed an unprecedented 85-billion-dollar rescue loan for American International Group. The deal, sealed late Tuesday, saved AIG from collapse and gave the US government a 79.9 percent stake in the insurance behemoth.

Say, since we’ve decided to abandon our principles because a few clans of immigrants can’t get credit on Beverley Hills super-mansions why not snap up that tasty looking healthcare system? It works in Europe, right Michael Moore? (Wrong)

It looks like Khrushchev was right: they’re burying us as we speak.

Posted by Locke September 17 2008

Comments (16)

David Foster Wallace

I don’t normally do requests, but something about RobertCQuin@missiongossip.com‘s e-mail struck me as a little odd:

Hi Locke – love the site, very witty! Just wondering if you’ve heard the news about the tragic death of David Foster Wallace- one of the most important American writers??? Whats your take on the author and his work???

Why have I not heard of ‘one of the most important American writers’? Having been an American for the last thirty-one years I would have surely come across a novelist and essayist whose suicide got every trendy Liberal website from Salon to Villagevoice to write something other than another two-thousand word reach-around to Hussein-Obama.

Conservapedia has this on him:

David Foster Wallace (February 21, 1962 – September 12, 2008) was a professor at Pomona College in Claremont, California, and a writer of both fiction and nonfiction. He is perhaps best known for his 1996 novel Infinite Jest, which was named by Time Magazine as one of the 100 best English-language novels from 1923 to 2005.

Born in Ithaca, New York, Wallace was a tennis player and majored in English and philosophy. Aside from writing novels, he wrote short stories in magazines such as Playboy, The Paris Review, The New Yorker and others. Wallace has written some nonfiction. He covered Senator John McCain‘s 2000 Presidential campaign and the September 11, 2001 attacks for Rolling Stone. liberal, he has been a critic of the United States and War on Terrorism. In the November 2007 issue of The Atlantic, he said “Have we become so selfish and scared that we don’t even want to consider whether some things trump safety?” (Emphasis mine)

Wallace committed suicide by hanging on Friday, September 12, 2008 at age 46 because of depression.

The Conservapedia article is barely a stub for a good reason: David Foster Wallace has nothing of any interest to say to anyone who doesn’t share his liberal extremist views. Even if he did I doubt anybody not stoned out of their minds in the Berkeley dorms would be able to understand it. When braving the Darwinist cesspoll Wikipedia for further details I found out not just what he writes (terrorist apologia) but how:

Wallace’s novels often meld writing in various modes or voices, and incorporate jargon and vocabulary (sometimes invented) from a wide variety of fields. He liked to use obscure words and had a self-proclaimed love affair with the Oxford English Dictionary. His prose style features many unusual stylistic devices, from self-generated abbreviations and acronyms to long sentences with many clauses.”

Sounds like garbage, reads like garbage, but don’t let that fool you, it really is garbage.

It wouldn’t be Christian of me to take any joy in one of God’s children taking his own life after years of depression, even if it does mean one less person hating America, but I will say this: Wallace’s life illustrates the dangers of liberalism. Hating the country you were born in, refusing to believe in the God who made you and burying your head in books are not elements of a happy or productive life. Liberalism is to educate whites what gang culture is to coloured communities, leading millions of otherwise happy and productive Americans into drugs and suicide.

The highlighted section above sums up the horrible irony of his life quite succinctly: “Have we become so selfish and scared that we don’t even want to consider whether some things trump safety?” If you turn the question around and ask it of Wallace then you have to answer that yes, he believed that something- his sadness and pain- trumped not only his own life but everything. Tellingly, Wallace didn’t have children. If he did then he would have known that nothing trumps safety.

In happier news, I’ve found a church for Danyelle’s Baptism. The good people of Athens United Methodist Church will be doing the honours. I’m pleased to announce that Alfred Erickson, a close friend from Yale whose support of the Republican party and America in general has been a constant inspiration to me, and his lovely wife Martha have agreed to be little Danyelle’s godparents.

Posted by Locke September 16 2008

Comments (45)

Clarification

After everything that’s happened I still maintain that we in the United States of America have the best healthcare system in the world. Bar none.

Posted by Locke September 12 2008

Comments (82)

Growing up under Hussein-Obama

I’m sorry that I haven’t wrote in a while. It’s inexcusable. We are at a vital point in our nation’s history, politically and economically, and there must be voices dissenting against the liberal consensus. There must.

Those of you have have been with this site a while know that I believe in plain speaking, so here it goes: I do not believe that McCain and Palin can win this election.

I believe that they deserve it, that they are the right choice for the nation and that they’ve run a decent, honest campaign. But this is not enough.

The idea of ‘The First Black President’ is too tempting for a nation used to grazing on Jon Stewart, NPR, the New York Times and a defeatist Hollywood. He’s that black friend that every latte-guzzler has, but can’t name. He’s a no effort, no maintenance, fast-food panacea for an invented disease: America’s ‘race problem’. This idea is so widespread, its propagandists so slick and persuasive, that we’ll put somebody with known ties to terrorism into the White House.

I’ll grit my teeth and bear it- I’ve already suffered through a ‘black president’ during the Clinton years. My daughter, on the other hand, is going to grow up in his schools, with his values in every media outlet (mark my words- the ‘Fairness Doctrine’ will come back with a vengeance). Sooner or later we’ll put his face on the dollar bill- somebody will mention that Washington owned slaves and that will be that. I’ll do my best to raise her with American, Christian and, yes, White values, always knowing that it won’t be enough.

Take a look at the abstinence movement, for example. There you have good people doing a good thing for the nation’s youth, with truth, scripture and the Federal government on their side. Yet it doesn’t make a difference- abstinence-only sex-ed doesn’t delay young people giving up their bodies for one second. How can it when Hollywood is pushing its activist agenda on every film screen and television set?

Now, with a Hussein-Obama victory almost certain, socialists the nation over will be coming out of the Humanities department and into positions of power. They’ll come with the conviction that history has proved them right when their new best buddy orders American troops to retreat from Iraq and the economy collapses around our ears. Don’t imagine for a second that they’re not interested in indoctrinating our children, that making them every bit as Godless, strung-out and hopeless as they are isn’t part of their plan. How long before they decide that certain people aren’t fit to raise a child in happy-rainbow America?

Not long.

Posted by Locke September 12 2008

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(untitled post)

I don’t owe you anything. This is a blog about POLITICS. You know nothing about me save what I write here. I don’t need your voyeurism disguised as ‘support’. I am sick of your need to know every. Damn. Detail. Worse than the rubber-neckers are the fucking simpering hippies who want- no need me to ‘grow’ and ‘change’ to validate their sissy worldview.

Why can’t I not need anything? Why is that not allowed? Why is pain not okay?

What happened to me HAPPENED TO ME – you can’t have it.

Posted by Locke August 28 2008

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(untitled post)

My wife is dead. The baby is a girl.

Posted by Locke August 20 2008

Comments (386)