FLOCK (Another Collaboration Story with LaMusica)

O:

I feel as if I were a stranger walking across a foreign land. The roads no longer provide me with any comfort. They, like the many people I once knew, have disappeared into the abyss of this battle. I cannot perceive how much has passed between me, and you. All I know is that it’s a lot. Almost too much to be known.

F:

The road we trekked with such optimism, only ending up taking different turns. These different turns all slowly showed us the true reality of things, that our optimism was fool hardy, and that we can’t be everything we want to be. The war has boiled down into battles, small battles we have as individuals. Individuals searching for more, or yearning for the past, or in reckless abandon embrace the future. We’ve all been lost into the pool of humanity in front of us, but it’s good to know that we can still recognize the faces of our brethren.

O:

Indeed, brother. I’ve recognized some along the way, but somehow, they remain in the same torment. The same struggles that we had gone through merely ages ago. I dared not to approach them for fear of losing my own path, yet they simply scratched their heads and stared at the ground with which they walked upon. They, and their arms at the ready, still in the combative dispute of centuries past. We trekked far, brother, and perhaps, we’ve trekked too far ahead. Too far, for we were skilled back in the day. Now, look, we sit in wonder as they slowly climb this hill, make their way through trekked grass, as we sit here, tired, making our own paths. I do hope others may follow us, yet our path is thinly woven, and the fabric of this world tears easily. Maybe that is why we stand on separate grounds, lost in the illusion of a million paths before us, yet, beyond the illusion lies the flat grass. Never trekked, or over-trekked, and I’m sure we do not know.

F:

You speak like a wise man but are you truly sure, that the path you took is the one for all? Do we not stand still, not making progress, observing their every weary step, never lifting a finger to give them the path we have set? If we truly move forward then our distance would span the equator, and in the end we are actually closer than ever before?  We speak from experience, from our travels through the high grass and the valleys, but our kin must find their own way for it is destiny for the seed to be scattered. Our path is not the smoothest, none truly are, but at the end of every road is something better or something worse. The coup d’grace of our travels, what we have been looking for, the end is not near. We have sinews on our bones, muscles on our limbs, breath in our lungs, and sense in our minds, we will keep moving forward in the hopes that someone will recognize our footsteps. I wouldn’t know if there is any hope left in my battle. In a dark featureless mangrove with breadth I do not know, I walk. You, my friend, where do you walk?

O:

The grass around me is all but different from the grasses that I’ve trekked before. I do not know how, or in what way or why, I no longer know this grass. It’s similar, by the looks and by the texture, and the feel upon my boot. The clouds are gray here, upon this plain, and the rain will soon pour down upon here. There is no shade, and I carry no device, or means as to avert the water’s cool strike. I’ve but not an option to walk, and scour the grass, as high as my boot. Although the city, I can carve a path to, I still cannot go there. It’s too dark. The distance is short, but it’s too dark. Bleak, and lightless. Not even the streetlights have sprung energy into their bulbs. I fear this city is the future, a fruitless, and blatant mesh. I see people, walk along the road I dare not take for fear of what lay at the end. Thousands of them, following each other. Ants, though unproductive. I see some of our own regiment walk along the path. It has an attractive allure, the wealth that comes with the concrete. Yet, I dare not fall victim to the venom I believe it holds. I have but one wish; to join you, once more, that our burden may be shared. The distance is hard, though it binds us close, the poetry in our acts. I cannot help but recall the first time we’d seen the poet in one another. I, the scattered soldier, lost with a friendly fire. Do you not recall?

F:

I recall, I recall it in vivid memory, but brother, that was so long ago in a war that was long forgotten. That stalemate where nothing further could be done but move forward as companions in travel is of the past, it’s only been a year since we parted at the junction and yet we’ve diverged so far. It is my dream too that we may reunite, it is also my dream that our venom stricken family may join us in the plains that it may be beautiful rather than fleeting. We’re at the mercy of the stars; they guide us to what destiny has in store. We wander but we know the way.

O:

I wonder where the compass may take me with the direction of the stars. I wonder how long it will be before we can see each other again. United by our past, strengthened by our present, and with the hope of a future to behold. The days grow weary, and our muscles lose strength. The night batters us as we rest, and yet we continue. Our quest may lead us to foreign lands, to lands unforeseen. Though it’s a lovely thought to keep in my head, that we have our letters in between. I wonder how the postman sends this, so accurately, so precise. While we are lost amongst our paths, in the wilderness of life. Till’ we meet, or greet again, brother, I give you this parting note. I hope that one day we’ll be the same in our home. Still serving under our flag, under our God-sworn oath.

* This was a collaboration story with my close friend LaMusica

** Can you guess who is me, and who is LaMusica ?

*** Half the credit goes to this guy, as well as half the Copyright.

**** Please read and enjoy!

(c) Anachronic Works & LaMusica Works 2011

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Dear (A Letter)

Credits to Anachrony

Dear,

I can’t say that this world, and this letter, would mean something, something more than love, but inevitably, my mind had conjured up such disturbed thoughts I think I need to share with you, and only you. I’d felt heartbreak, my dear, for quite some time; many times. Each time was different, although it was inevitably the same. As I wandered through my playlist, knowing that the words of my everyday music could not soothe me the same way, I looked up some of my favourite piano instrumentals. You knew the type. The one’s that I had indeed professed my heart to. I had no soul, was the term, quite apropos to the thought, more of memory. Befitting… I had none I believed, but I was sure I had a heart, kept somewhere within the depths of my mind’s perception. Of course those beats that plunged my chest into the physical realm are not what I had meant. I intended for something ineffably more. It was somewhere in my mind, and I knew my brain had something to do with these, these, pieces of shit that couldn’t have brought about more trouble than a generation of criminals. I’d changed my playlist, anyway, since then, and listening once more to those songs. It brings me back to the visage of elysian fields. It just brought about the trouble that is this letter. Fuck, my dear. Just, fuck.

My brain did its job and so rose the heart; emerging from the depths of my mind, like a snake to an Indian flute. It popped up, peeking. Peering if there was anything that sought to cause it harm, and when someone played my flute, it would always respond in the same way. The same fearless and trusting way, as if only the true piper could play that song. I knew how to play it, of course; I own the snake, the flute, the basket, and the tune, heck even the field that was my body. I still do. I could play it well, and bring about my heart to slither into my fingers, releasing the venom in the form of ink. Every time however, when another person played, my snake would be hacked at, not by the pied piper, but by the onlooker who saw my snake as a worldwide liability. The venom was the source of the illness, and most never understood that the venom itself was also the cure. Fucking idiots… It wasn’t that hard anyway, to think of. It wasn’t hard to imagine. That was, of course, in theory, but my statement was what I’d only wanted to believe. Every time, of course, it was not… No. It was never the onlooker but it was the piper who sliced. The piper did slice away at my venomous love snake, and each time, the piper was told to do so by an outward force. It was as if god himself, if ever he even existed, had commanded this horde of flute-players to my mental basket, and each time, the order was to trick it out and hack away. It was a demeaning thought, but as I’d said, my dear, I’d felt this heartbreak a million times, and a million times I shall feel it over, until that one piper defies god and takes pity on my battered snake. I can’t say god damn, I can only say, damn god.

Going back to the music, dear, those fragile pieces and tid-bits of music so inspiring and difficult, yet so lightly played by those who had composed it. Fucking esoteric bastards, they were. I recall those times, happier times, when such songs I could treat as water, simply changing figure with each new container. Each new instrument held the music as if water in a glass so translucent. It was guaranteed that it was trouble, but, again, a common misconception. It was not the music that was troubled, it was the listener. It was the listener, so affected by the sound, that it rallied emotions to its apparent worthy cause, thereby giving the physical body a little more than enough to work with. The body indefinitely gave consent. How couldn’t it? IT WAS the brain, after all, who assumed the transparency of the fluid from that translucent glass. I just couldn’t see that yet, dear. I was content with the joy I found in portraying the music in the way that pleased me. Words… Never-the-fucking-less, it was a happier time during the course of my life. It was all too pleasing, and shit, I’ll be damned if you, of all people, do not understand this. Meh. Those composers knew not what they were capable of, or they simply didn’t show they knew. Either way, their actions could have been summed up in one word; apathy. Selfish in their ways, they compose to their heart’s delight. They had venom, too, and they used it to their advantage. Only theirs, and theirs to own; those audible drugs were medicine for their souls. Those drugs were just street drugs to others, pleasingly poisonous. The paradox that is their venom existed for themselves, but shared with others wore a different effect. Would they care about those who heard the music? Would they care about the bums in the street? Would they care about the rich, living splendidly in lavish homes? Would they care about you? Me? US?!

That’s the point, isn’t it; us? You, me, and nothing else, my dear, would have mattered if not for the music. Oh, and forgive my streetwise grammar. I’m a dumb fuck who writes to you from a vacant space, lost without thought of time or purpose. Remember that time when we had gone to the docks and you dared me to jump into the waters because I described it so poetically? I fell into the waters not for you, but for me. Like a snake, and any other godforsaken animal on this planet, I need to feed. Forgive me for my latent confession, but I had fed off you. I’d fed off your life, being, purpose, soul (if you, or even all of us, had one), your eyes, lips, tongue, body, your joys, sorrows, horrors, and basically, your existence. It had given me my venom, protecting me from my own snakebite, embedded as a scar on my scales. I’m no zoologist, so whatever. I’m no swimmer, either, so you had to drag me out to shore. Me being the strong one, and you being, you, should have switched places, and like a comical movie from the 1930’s, we never switched places. I was mad, for a while, but how could I bite the hand that fed me? You played for me as I lay on your couch that night, wrapped in one of your towels. Your fingers, ever so wonderful, depressed themselves on the air holes, changing the note with such fervour, echoing your voice with each breath. It was the music. Nothing else would have fucking mattered if not for the damned music.

You played your song, and it called more than one snake. He came to the charm, like a spell-induced, drug abused, animal. Ravenous, poisoned, bewitched, he was slender yet firm. He had the fresh venom, but he was a python, more common worldwide, and I was, like those fucking composers, a bullshit king cobra. He was taller when he rose, but I could have easily outreached him if you had learned the right notes to my song. Almost undoubtedly the same with mine, your song was wonderful, and I’d rose, knowing that there was something familiar about the song, but it was not exact. It was not precise enough to bring about my whole. It was just that there was nothing perfect, especially if there was no god. If there was, your song would be his, resonating within each snake you meet, moreover with one as young and naive as he who had responded to your song’s call of duty. Just more commonly uncommon, though. Motherfucking-fuck, these-these, goddamned oxymorons. I’m intensely sorry, my dear. The music precedes my sense of decency and I didn’t intend to force you to turn an eye awry (though I can be sure you didn’t knowing you’d spent many a night with me like this).

Well, that’s what this damned letter is about, no? I’m sorry. My dear, I truly am. I’m just a snake, and well, there’s nothing else I can do about it. You did do something, however. You changed me more than you really do know, and I’m sorry that it was hard. I’m sorry that I took so long to contact you. I’m sorry that it took all these years. I’m sorry it felt like an eternity, waiting for something like the music, to force me to let you know that I am still alive. I’m sorry I made you suffer through the agony of the wait. I read the newspaper of our old place every day. I had a copy sent over to where I now stay, that I may read about the weddings, obituaries, and whatever information I could find on you. I called our shared friend every month, still do, actually. Tells me you’ve stopped playing the flute, and I ponder on asking why, hoping for a reply that might never come, even if I’d wanted it to. I won’t say who the friend is, because I know that with just a tiny piece of information, you will know my whereabouts (and that you might kill him/her in the process of finding out). I’m actually writing this from the view of my desolate hotel room somewhere in Asia. I figured it was a perfect place, time, setting, and song for me to write to you. And I’ll be damned, because this is too fucking coincidental to discredit some supernatural force out there. You’ll never know where I really live, or at least I won’t let you. To the best of my ability, I won’t. I wish you the best in life and in love. I wish that you’d play the flute again, at least for some special people in your life, be they your children, parents, husband, or whatnot. With much pain, sorrow, emptiness, and a world of regret, I’m sorry. Take good care, now, you hear, my dear? Take care of those two; Jane and James. I know you named one after me. Thanks for that, but they’ll probably never know where you got the name anyway. I know you won’t say. They deserve that song of yours, though. They deserve it more than I do. I just have one more thing to say, though, before I leave. Forgive me, but it goes a little like this:

He came knocking at your door that night, and who was I to know what you’d done, much less, why?

 

I will always have you in my heart,

Sarah-Jane Nothdruft

BASTARDS (A Collaboration Story with LaMusica)

Credits to LaMusica

O:

The glass in my hand was the same one as yesterday. The same sharp points that lined the surface from the imperfections of human handling. Light reflected itself upon the translucent cold that crept up the mug. It was cold… snowing, actually. Nevertheless, I consumed the ice. It was handed to me by a warm friend. I’d seen her. She was there all the time; always there at the bar. I couldn’t very well, place a guess on why she kept on doing what she did… although the others did. They always spoke with her. Mundane, yet the conversation led them to countless worlds of wonder.  I wondered, in the dim light of the bar, who could wander the world without wonder’.

F:

There was never a cold night out on the streets like tonight. I’ve been kicked out of my own home again, drifting for a place to hunker down till the snow stops. I don’t know what drew me to this lonely street, with the flickering lamp posts and its cracked sidewalks. It might have been because of the daze of getting kicked out, or the snow storms relentless fall blinding my view. Either way, there was a warm neon sign that said ‘Bar’, and it lead down to the basement of an apartment building. Thinking back I would never have gone into that bar, but I would have walked so many more blocks before getting to a decent place to stay. Walking in all I could think of was that the place was old. Not the glorious old or the senile old. It was the used and abused old, the old that was barely taken care of if not at all. There was barely anyone but a man sitting alone in a booth, and a waitress sitting down with three rowdy men in the middle of the room. There was a bar stool that looked like it was fairly lit up; I sat down and ordered a beer with what little money I had in my wallet. It was decent, enough that I could forget my problems.

O:

He walked in, silent as the dead, yet moved with the luxury of life. Comparing him to the only customers who would join the waitress each and every night, he was the youngest. She’d watched him as he entered, we all did, yet his eyes never met another living thing’s gaze. Not even the cowering fly waiting to be devoured from the web. He spoke softly, as any person would, on a night like this. He was a man of malt. I liked that. Not many here were of that calibre. Malt. The strength to endure such was a rare quality, in the men of new. He was uneasy, ‘Why, who wouldn’t be?’ I asked the half empty glass I held. Nobody hears the corner man, and we were, corner men. The light above him reflected his face upon the glass; as pale as this ghastly weather.

F:

I was born into a poor family. I mean poor family, that we didn’t bond together like a family should. We had money that was sure, but we didn’t really have that family tie that makes us cry during funerals. First mother passed away, we got by and didn’t talk about it. Then dad went, without a word, without any drama. They left me when I was already independent, when it was about time to send them support money and make grandchildren for them to baby. A few years before dad passed away I met Jane. We were only slightly attracted to each other. We knew that after years of trying to get the best partner we could find that we would never be able to get him or her. So we married out of stalemate, we just settled. I don’t know where it went downhill, we both weren’t really enjoying it but we coped. Then she got angry at night, and then she started pushing me out of the house. I wasn’t impotent, but she just didn’t like me anymore I guess. So I’m in the bar, with my jacket over my pyjamas and staring into the wall of liquor like a damn jarhead. Sipping on my fifth beer, not even caring if the snow stopped pouring anymore. I was relaxed.

O:

Time was a strange thing in that bar. It never seemed to clock down correctly. This could have been due to the lack of windows, yet, even if it did have any, what light was there to let in? I presumed, none. Thoughts came and went and after thousands of reconstructed images of the past, and the other thousands of projected future, no one ever talked about the present. The glass seemed to wear thin, for a mug, and my senses were dull. Perfect for thought, since nothing disturbed the mind. I noticed the man had more than the usual two or four beers that everyone always had. A thoughtful man. This bar only knew a few thinkers, and most had already become drunken suicides, or merely drunken road kill. The exasperated sighs this man let out brought about theories. Theories that I dare not prove. To prove would mean to speak. To communicate, and, with a stranger, too. The use of language endangers us all. For when a thought is expressed, erroneous becomes the thought in the other person’s head. How silly it was, that those three with the waitress always spoke louder than actions.

F:

I was finishing my fifth beer, when one of the three men started throwing insults. They were directed at me because there was no one else to shout to in my direction. I finished my beer, ask for one last one. His insults were getting worse, and his voice was getting louder. I was almost dizzy from my beers, more confidence than usual. He insulted me again, I faced him from my bar stool giving an unimpressed look.

O:

They lost themselves, the three, amongst the stars in their heads. Destructive and violent, they thought of conquest. Dominion of the stars surrounding the largest; the source of heat on this cold night. Upon my star I sat and observed. They had placed their flag on unholy grounds. The newcomer turned to face their insults. ‘Why, fellow men, have you succumbed to such insane lengths of torture?’ My glass reflected me a reply which I could not fully understand. The cold no longer blurred and the clarity of the glass revealed the unusual answer. The answer was with the man, was my first thought. Yet a little lower, the three men had more than their fair share of malt. The fly was wrapped in a web, head out. It remained un-devoured.

F:

As if to prove his dominance the man sat up from his chair, standing with his fat beer belly sticking out as if it were to say, I’m bigger than you so you better back off and leave this bar. We glared at each other while I grabbed one more sip from my beer. I didn’t mind the insults; this was just some stupid guy who’s had too much to drink. This though was something I’ve always wanted to do, to get into a bar fight and pummel a man’s face off. I gulped down all my beer but left the heavy glass mug in my hand. He approached me still, not noticing my new weapon. He spat in my face. At this point he was about a foot away from me. I smashed the heavy end of the beer mug into his skull.

O:

One of the three grew bolder with his words, and was struck down, decisively by the newcomer. The two stood up. The waitress scurried behind the bar. The newcomer’s glass was broken. Blood was on the floor. Father time had forgotten this world, leaving us with this. I dared not intervene, though I knew the waitress all too well. I knew the men all too well. The first of the two grabbed the newcomer’s arm with his hand. I pondered on the thought of the newcomer knowing that he’d just struck down a police officer, and that he was now being held by his partner, and that the last one of the men, was a lumberjack. Such abuse of worthless authority…

F:

They were stupid. They came for me when they could have helped their friend who I had just bashed in the head. They shoved my face into the bar and one of them was hand cuffing me. I caught a glimpse of the man in the booth, still sitting there, still cradling his drink. They brought me out into the cold again, one holding on to my hand cuffed arms while the other shovelled with his hands the snow that was covering the police cruiser. I hope the waitress and bartender knew what they were doing, or at least called for an ambulance.

O:

They took him out of the bar, while the waitress cowered in the corner. I knew I should have helped her, she was, of course, the man’s girlfriend, and somehow, a friend of mine, too. Though, I had more important matters to deal with. I walked up just as they lowered the newcomer’s head into the cruiser. I recalled the spider, and I wondered if it had eaten its meal yet. The snow fell coldly and the wind howled in sorrow as I pulled out the flask of brandy I always kept in my jacket. Taking one last glance at the eternity before us, there was a difference that buried itself within my chest. He’d felt it too, I knew. I crossed the street, wondering how much time that police officer had left. A sip from the flask, and a cigarette in hand, I took the long way home that night.

* This was a collaboration story with my close friend LaMusica

** Can you guess who is me, and who is LaMusica ?

*** Half the credit goes to this guy, as well as half the Copyright.

**** Please read and enjoy!

(c) Anachronic Works & LaMusica Works 2011

Three Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Abuse Corny Love Quotations

Let me tell you of a little pet peeve of mine. Here in the Philippines, it is very much commonplace for the locals (myself included) to fall into romantic fits of rage, or to post corny love quotations (Referred to as RFR from here on end). Now, when this happens, it is also commonplace, (again myself included, although only to an extent) for people to broadcast what they feel through the internet. I know it’s in our nature to fall in love and such; it’s in everyone’s, but there is just too much hype over this emotion. I myself believe that love is the “greatest feeling ever”, but I don’t prance around my magical imaginary garden on my unicorn telling everyone about it.

Unicorns? How sweet! I must share this with everyone!

Unicorns? How sweet! I must share this with everyone!

Now, I wouldn’t mind some lyrics, or some well thought out and history tested quotations, but come on! This is ridiculous!

“Sweet words are easy to say;

Sweet things are easy to buy;

but sweet people are difficult to find.

Life ends when you stop dreaming.

hope ends when you stop believing.

love ends when you stop crying.

Friendship ends when you stop sharing.

So share this with whoever you consider special.

To love without condition

To talk without intention.

To give without reason.

And to care without expectation.”

(source)

“Der is a difference between goodbye and letting go…”

(source)

I wonder what issue of “UTTERLY OVERUSED BULLSHIT MAGAZINE” they found this on. Seeing that the first quotation states the obvious, I assume they got it from that magazine, although I could be wrong, it could have just been from Cosmopolitan Kids. By the way, the magazine with this post needs to hire a new proof-reader, and hopefully, they’ll get a grade school graduate this time.

Granted that there are cases where these may be of proper use to actually get the girl you love/like to smile, but please, DO NOT PUT MORE SHIT LIKE THIS ON THE NET. I did my research, and over 10,000 sites appeared, thanks to Google. I see this shit every single day, from looking at 9Gag to other websites. They’ve even found their way into pictures, and not to mention the countless videos on YouTube. If you think about it, when you’re the type to visit the internet for hours on end, you’ll see an endless barrage of advertisements regarding this particular retardation, which I instinctively call “RFR’s”. Status messages all over Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and other sites are loaded to the brim with RFR’s. I doubt there are more movies than these quotations that have lost their meaning throughout the lifetime of the internet.  Now, I’ll tell you three reasons why this shit is not going to work.

Reason 1:

I have a girlfriend and I get lovey-dovey with her too, however, I’d very much prefer to send her things I wrote myself, and it’s not that hard to say how you feel. For most people, they would resort to the internet, giving the inevitably unbeatable reason;

“I’m not as creative as you, and I find it hard to say how I feel, especially to my special someone. So I’ll just copy and paste from the internet and feel the same way everyone else does.”

Either that, or they just go for the less verbose way of saying this:

“I got that bitch a quote! Bitches love quotes!”

The point of the person being a “special someone” is that you find him/her more attractive and “special” compared to others. Don’t you think that they would feel even more special if you wrote something yourself, even if it’s just saying how you feel? Write whatever’s on your mind. Take some time out of the day to make it meaningful. Throw in a stuffed toy for all we care.  You don’t even need metaphors.

Self made metaphors? Fuck that shit!

Self made metaphors? Fuck that shit!

I can totally feel the sincerity. No, really.

RFR’s are easier to make.

Reason 2:

There is the reason of integrity.

With the ever-growing population using the internet, it’s not surprising that people would much rather scour the depths of Google, copy-paste, and press send. This is invariably true for most homework cases, and research projects. I myself am one of those people, except, I maintain a little dignity and paraphrase the whole damn text before I send it over. Of course, that would mean effort, and if you’re as lazy as any other bloke up and about on the internet, then you would probably think:

“Less effort; same grade. Why not, right?”

This is also true when it comes to the love quotes one can find on the internet. Copying and pasting is very much easier to do, and you’ll get relatively the same reaction from your “special someone”, so why work harder? This “special someone” is so special, that I have to copy and paste and share this shit because I’m too fucking lazy to compose three sentences. It’s just too much. Too much!

Son/Daughter, the school called. You got an F in Romance 101...

Son/Daughter, the school called. You got an F in Romance 101...

Again, I can totally feel this shit. There’s just so much meaning in the simplicity of these words.

Reason 3:

With the endless barrage of these RFR’s, it’s not that hard to spot several hundreds of your friends (if you have that many) posting these “heartfelt” quotations that get people “kilig” (as they say in Filipino) or charmed to the point of tension. There’s even the smiley for such a feeling.

Kilig Smiley

Kilig Smiley

Granted that one feels empathy or even sympathy for such cases, it is still rather irrelevant to you. Eventually, though, since you know that you want to feel that way too, you, like the person who first posted the RFR you saw, re-post the message and hope that people will like your status and copy the message for themselves, thus giving you the illusion of not being alone with the wonderful feeling. It spreads like a virus, numbing the minds of everyone who emulates the emotions. Then, we, the brain-dead users of the internet, will also spread this in the hopes of garnering our rightfully due 5 minutes of fame biting that tiny bit of your brain off. We then become the general population wherein each member says the same thing to each of our “special someone/s” making the term as bland as an average grunt.

Hopefully, those of us who still believe in heartfelt messages will survive this apocalyptic nightmare.

Pictured: The Side Effects of Love Quotations

Pictured: The Side Effects of Love Quotations

Summation:

When one writes a personal and heartfelt love letter to their “special someone”, it gives meaning to the said term “special”. Copying and pasting RFR’s are good; however, the innate abuse of such would lead to irritation among friends (which is why I wrote this) as well as the loved ones. Abusing quotations is very much comparable to copy-paste with regards to homework, which would definitely give you a failing mark on the field of relationships.

Using RFR’s may also lead to brain-dead love apocalypse. And when that happens…

Grandma, where’s my magnum?

Grandma, where’s my magnum?

* Photos are courtesy of Google Image Search. All are copyright to their respective owners.

** Quotations are courtesy of their source links. All copyright goes to their respective owners.

*** All comments here are opinionated and for “the lols”. This is not intended to offend anyone.

**** The magazines mentioned are nonexistent.

***** Enjoy!

(c) Anachronic Works 2011