Bus Stop 47

As the tide rose and fell from the shore, off the beach, the road was empty. The rainy season always brought the public farther. The small Parthenon of a bus stop stood above the background in a small but shimmering light. Lightning always made it look scary to the children who would wait there just to get home. The small light that made it visible to the bus drivers always flickered, casting disturbing shadows against the vulgar images that lined the plastic advertisement walls that never lit up. The seats were made of cold metal, the dotted kind, and were almost icy in the late September rain. There was a storm looming off the coast, the local newspaper read, as it lay on the moist seat, absorbing the liquid. Across the street, small buildings lined the blocks, revealing endless shadows of people across the distance. Further back were the city’s larger buildings, a district of vice, a system of lights, and a cement land that stretched far across the eye, yet made a simple dot upon the map. New York at it’s finest.

Picking up the pace, a mother and son walked towards the stop. She was holding up an umbrella, trying in vain to secure her unruly son. The boy was nearing his teen’s and yet, he acted as if he were a little child, pulling away at times, dodging raindrops to the tune of his heart’s desire.  Taking time off to rest, the mother sat her son down on the bench, handing him an iPad to play with. This was her usual ritual, ever since her husband had left her for another woman. Work, pick up the boy, and commute home. The mess of life was what it was then and now she was determined to find courage and push through it.

A man stood across from her, as she closed the umbrella, shaking it to lessen the amount of water that had accumulated on the nylon surface. He smiled at her as he lit his pipe. It was strange for her to see such a well dressed man at this hour, checking her wristwatch to be sure it was 9pm. He was wearing a hat, to match his black coat that was moist from the rain. His black and white leather shoes were covered with mud or sand from the nearby beach-like area, and it seemed as if he had just taken a walk. He doffed his hat and spoke,

“How sad, the children of today, lost in a world of screens and sharp tunes. Always on the phone, they will never know the joy of a simple walk in the park.”

She hesitated, wondering  if he had simply spoken to himself. He turned to face her son, and watched with a smile and a light chuckle at the boy’s distracted state. She steadied herself, ready to fend off the man with her umbrella should he try to take the iPad. She had saved up a whole 3 months worth of salary for it and she wasn’t about to lose it. He glared at her sweetly with his green eyes, his face partly covered in stubble. He smiled. For a man who seemed to be in his late thirties, he was quite handsome.

“Don’t worry, I won’t take it. I have no use for such an uninteresting device.”

Summing up some courage to speak, although she knew she was at least ten years younger than he was. Aggravated by the man’s judgement of her use of 3 month’s work-pay, she opened her lips,

“What do you mean uninteresting? I’d bet that device is capable of doing much more than you, sir.”

“Still, a human mind is more capable of coming up with more suitable ideologies for this world.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?”

“Yes. What do you mean?”

“I mean, that, with such a seemingly smart boy, there, he would be more capable of at least entertaining himself without the use of the device.”

“Well, he isn’t. Can’t you see, he has a problem with his mind?! You don’t have to judge him!” She raised her voice, gesturing towards the boy who was still undisturbed by the awkward conversation.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to offend.” The man said, taking a puff from his pipe. The small flames drew the sides of the pipe clearer, right before fading away again into the black pit.

“Alright, but don’t you go judging people just cause.”

“Indeed, I am not one to judge. I merely implied that such a device would be a waste for a blossoming child’s brain. However, in any case, I had caused you offense, I sincerely apologize.”

“Hey, you’re the one in the corporate world here. We’re all working stiffs, trying to pay bills and living off our mundane jobs.  Judging by that suit, you look like you’ve worked in a bank or in some law office somewhere. I’m a single mom, and this boy here’s all I’ve got, now you just shut up about him!”

“He who speaks without modesty will find it difficult to make his words good. Confucius. You, my dear, had just judged me after you claimed it wasn’t proper to judge.”

“Well…”

“When anger rises, think of the consequences. Again, Confucius.”

“Alright. I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven. However, would you indulge me, please, in some light conversation?”

“Well… Alright, but as soon as the bus gets here, we’re out, okay?”

“Agreed.”

“Good. Now, what do you wanna talk about, anyway?”

“Well, you’ve opened up the world of business in our conversation, let’s start there.” He said with a sweet smile. The pipe was still smoking as he opened again.

“All things truly wicked start from innocence. Hemingway.”

“Yeah, and so?” She replied, with a slight pout as she lined her umbrella to her legs.

“Business.”

“What about it?”

“That quote summed the entirety of business up.” He looked at the sky.

“What do you mean?” She followed his gaze for a while, then returned her eyes to study his demeanor.

“Well, think about it, it started out as trade, for the benefit of both parties. Dating back thousands of years. It was quite innocent, but nevertheless it has grown into a corrupt monstrosity, ravaging everyone’s daily lives. You see, we are driven by our need to survive, and trade, as it has, simply paved its way across the quarry that is human life.” He said, leaning on the plastic advertisement wall, raising his right knee up to balance.

“Uhh… What?”

“Let’s see if this will help you understand. Our world is built on finance and business. Without it, we are destined to fall short of any of our expectations and die. Right?”

“Uhh… Yeah.”

“Good. Now think about this, what is the innate goal of a business.”

“Trade?”

“Yes, partially. That was what it was before. Now it is simply outwitting the person who trusts you to give something equally important in return, yes?” He looked at her, his eyes intent on driving his point.

“I guess.” She said, taking a quick glance at the boy who was twisting the iPad around in his hands.

“Advertisements. They promise, and yet, they never fail to fall short on their bargain.” He puffed from the pipe.

“Okay.”

“That’s why we have money. It was created to lessen the outwitting, but it, in time, has also failed to do it’s job and has also fallen into the hands of corruption.” He returned his gaze to the starless sky.

“Uh huh.” She nodded, slowly, attempting to understand the discourse.

“What is money worth?” He asked, pointing the tube of his pipe at her.

“Uh… Everything?” She said, raising her shoulders.

“Not necessarily. Ponder on it, and you will see, that money is simply a number, placed on a piece of highly overrated paper. It’s worth is built on the foundation that is gold.”

“You mean, the Federal Reserve Bank?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. The Bank. All our money’s worth is in gold, in that bank. Now, take it back to the old days of trade. What is the sole purpose of gold?”

“Jewelry, duh. Unless you use it’s conducting power.” She said, with a knowledgeable smirk.

“Yes, but it is merely a rare substance. As we can plainly see, copper is the most common of the best conductors of electricity.” He gestured with his pipe towards the wires that loomed above them.

“Okay.”

“Vanity. Our entire empire of a world is built on the sole thing, that is vanity.”

“So, what are you saying; that money is worthless? That everything that we work for is merely a fool’s quest for greed or power?”

“In a way, but who are the fools?”

“Us, right?” She giggled.

“Indeed.” He said, puffing some more smoke, losing the smile. She was irritated, knowing that he thought that everything she had just worked for was worthless, that all she did, that all everyone did was not worth a single thing on this green earth. She soon realized that this man was merely as dark as the weather and that he would not ever last long before falling into poverty and despair. So much for the man’s educated ideas.

“So we are all basically worthless, right? You have the courage to tell people, that everything they’re doing is worthless, juts because you’re rich.” She started laughing, covering up her hurt, to which the boy followed, and as soon as she slowed down the laughter, when the silence returned, the man opened his mouth and said,

“I wouldn’t saythat.” He returned his smile.

“So what are you saying?” She questioned in frustration, her hands in the air.

“All of it is true, yes. But man is not made for defeat. A man can be destroyed but not defeated. You tell me who said that.” He said with a smile, noticing the bus pull up against the curb.

“So, wait. What is it all worth?” She looked at him, eyes bewildered, her face formed in questioning manner.

“Look at the child, and then find the courage to tell me what it is all worth.” He said. She nevertheless pulled the boy up and along, and he struggled before following and taking a seat in the bus. Taking in his statement, she took the words into thought and sat next to the boy. The boy began shaking, and he mumbled almost unintelligibly,

“Mommy, I’m cold.”

“Oh, I’m sorry honey, I forgot your jacket.” She said with a saddened tone. She cursed herself under her breath for forgetting the boy’s jacket. It was a long trip home, and she would have to stop by the pharmacy for either vitamins or medicine, should the boy have gotten a cold. To her surprise the man now loomed over her in the still bus, with a smile, his pipe gone. The bus driver waited, holding a 5 dollar bill that the man had presumably given him, to stop the bus this long.

“Courage, is grace under pressure.” He said, handing her his coat. He smiled that friendly smile once more and doffed his hat as well.

“Hey, Mack, your five minutes is up man! Next stop folks, stop number 48, Oak street.” The bus driver said with his slang tone.

He stepped out of the bus and re-lit his pipe. Standing there in the bus stop he waved a gloved hand at them, and stepped into a car that was parked nearby. She felt the pockets of the coat as she wrapped it around the boy. A solid feeling came up, and as she pulled it out, she realized that it was a money clip. It had the name Hemingway on it. She turned back to see if he was still there but he had already disappeared into the night. She counted the money. It was worth her 3 months salary. She tucked it in her pocket with a swift and giddy motion.

“What is it all worth?” She mumbled, as she rested her head with a smile, the boy still playing on the iPad. She embraced the child, and joined him in the game, smiling.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

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Cradle’s Story

With a lingering pain in his chest, Cradle walked down the moist sidewalk, next to the bus stop, scarcely trying to recall what his life had been like, long ago. A cigarette in his mouth, he knew he was to die, however he never quite expected that it would be like such. The streets were dark and void of anything, or anyone. It wasn’t quite the same as it was when he was alive, however, his only contentment was that in this life, death was not to come again, and that whatever he did here didn’t deteriorate his body. If he’d shot himself, he wouldn’t misplace his life, it’d be right there where he left it, in his body. At least that’s what he could expect, after attempting to poison himself futilely.

“Son of a bitch.” He said with a slight musical atonement that would relate words to actions unintended. He dropped the cigarette from his mouth as he flung the creature off his shoulder. It was a centipede, a small one, red and brown, and it left a lingering double-dotted bite mark on his neck. To think that God or whoever was the creator of this damned place would think of a less nuisance infested world. Checking his pocket, for the hard cardboard pack of his endeared vice, he found no refuge in the embers of burning tobacco.

“Motherfucker.” He said, rubbing the sore wound that would never fester into a malicious disease, recalling how his antiquated body was like, long ago. Immersed in the thought, he recalled his dying mother, ill to the bone with a barrage of incurable diseases thanks to her line of work. He recalled his father, who had died on his 19’th birthday, quite some years ago. He recalled his two sisters, who had moved on with life, slowly decaying as time passed by; as they lived their lives without him. His wife was pregnant, and such was the case during his past life. Averting his trail of thought from the dismembered memories of what once was, he returned to his current, and yet similarly distorted life.

“Asshole.” He mentioned to the creator, who was clearly nowhere near him, or so he thought. If there ever was a creator, and they’d met, he would probably have attempted a homicide. The next pack of cigarettes would be at the convenience store uphill, and it would be a ten minute walk over. Checking his watch, he noticed that he still had 15 minutes before the store closed. Undisclosed to his line of sight, there was an old man, around mid 80’s, with a long gray beard that draped over his chest, wrung tightly against the man’s suit. A large gut hung from the man’s centre, which made the man’s breathing more incandescent as it moved, shifting shadow and mass. The man had quite the formal look with a tie bulging from beneath the dark double-breasted coat he wore. It was fairly unnoticeable until:

“One want?” Said the man, startling Cradle. Cradle winced over in shock.

“Want what?” Cradle replied, tossing the empty pack towards the filthy sidewalk, encompassed with litter.

“A cigarette.” The man said, offering an open soft pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. Thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning cackled its worst. The man was sitting on a dilapidated bench in the bus stop, a paper bag next to him with what surely contained a bottle of some oddly branded liquor. The cigarette pack claimed that it was detrimental to one’s health, and a physically dangerous substance. The irony of tobacco, its enemies, and its users. It never ceased to let a smile drip from Cradle’s face, and this time was no exception.

“Sure.” He said taking one from the pack. Why wait when he could satisfy his cravings now?

“Thanks. I needed one.” He added, lighting the stick.

“Sit, sonny. Listen.” The man offered. Seeing as he wasn’t going to do anything quite productive, although that didn’t perturb him, for the rest of his miserable second chance at life, he sat down. Luckily he died with just over 3 billion dollars in his hand, and it remained with him through the afterlife, if this was the afterlife.

“Alright.” He said, sitting down, next to the old man. The old man took a swig from the bottle in the paper bag, and released a self satisfying sigh that seemed to echo down the streets. Haunting in a way, although he knew that nobody was hurt here, a chill rose against his spine, the tingling sensation reminding him of his former life. Quite close, however, nothing here was ever quite the same. Everything was extensively bland, to the point of being hackneyed, but at least there was some little taste left.

“What’s a nice night like you doing on a guy like this?” The old man drunkenly asked, turning to Cradle with such familiar green eyes.

“Well, I don’t know about the night, but I’m pretty sure I was walking home when you offered me this.” He replied, holding out the cigarette.

“Heh. Well, nobody doing knows what they’re here anymore. Even I don’t… Anyway, the name’s Earl. A meeting you pleasure.”

“An equal pleasure to meet you. Are you drunk, or do you just have some grammar issues?”

“Well, since ever I blew my head from the brain, I’ve funny been talkin’ like this.”

“I see. Tough, huh?”

“Yep… That’s why hires nobody me. I’ve tried. I’m it sick of.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, here’s life been good pretty, actually. I donation get others from. Day it through gets help.”

“Sucks, huh?”

“Yep.”

“So, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Oh, nothing that. It’s lonely just lately I’ve been, and I share to something you with wanted.”

“Mhmm, and what would that be?” Cradle said, taking another puff from the cigarette.

“Well, foggy seeing as its how, or vision my blurry is, I talk to wanted you. See you, its doing difficult this, nobody because talks with to want me… I be used to a speaker public. One day, decided I enough I’ve had. Went on shot I myself and. See I how react people to me. Understand do me they, but hard it’s them for. So talking I do don’t much, nowadays.”

“I can see how that would trouble you. Misery loves company, and I guess I’m here to revel in your story, huh?” Cradle said.

“Wanted no, I just say to something someone die before I.”

“You’re gonna die? Now?”

“No.”

“Oh, okay. Well, you can’t get much dead-er than this.”

“Yep. You how bout’? Story a have me for?”

“You know, I gave up my entire life for my dream. Chased it, and I was forced to do something I guess I could say I’m proud of, even though that would classify me as somewhat troubled mentally. I took chances, did everything the books and people told me to. I sat when they said so, jumped when they told me, and still, all my dreams were flushed down the toilet. I made a company, and my partners turned on me as soon as the recession came about. I was forced to steal from them. Hell, I stole almost everything. It was good, at least, when the cops finally found me, I caused a big shootout, killing some bystanders, and a few cops as well. That’s when it turned to shit; some punk-ass SWAT sniper took me out from across the street. Worst feeling ever, being shot. Anyway, I didn’t die then. I was still alive, although my arm was nearly blown off by that son of a bitch. I realized I didn’t want an eternity in prison, so I just ended up shooting myself with my own gun, right in the heart.”

“Head at shoot least didn’t you your.”

“Yeah. Those sons of bitches. My mother was dying, my father was dead, and I was also pretty much an undead asshole, walking with a beat, not knowing what was going on with the rest of my only family, my two sisters. Heh, I guess you win some, you lose some, life’s a joke, and I’ll be damned if anyone can prove that otherwise.”

“Yep. Strike the name’s. Are you?”

“Cradle. That’s what they called me. I always cradled almost every possession I had when I was a kid and the name kinda stuck. What’s with strike?”

“Bowling.”

“Ahh… I see. Nice to know, Strike.”

“Advice piece one I’ve you for got. Again it don’t do, sure for that’s. Life’s here better, so waste don’t chances your. You’re have that money lucky to. It do good with. Worth it’s not do to again that. Trust me. Worth this its time it.”

“See, anyway, around you.” Strike added as he stood up and began walking away. Cradle checked his watch; it was 20 minutes too late for buying another pack. Fractious about the scenario, he cursed again under his breath. Strike disappeared, and Cradle noticed a stick left on the bench. Picking it up, and contemplating on whether or not the creator was actually half bad, he read a small penned inscription on the stick. It read:

‘Good luck, Cradle. Be better.’

“Yeah, right, Strike.” He whispered under his breath, lighting it up. Walking in the opposite direction now, he headed over to the other convenience store that was open 24 hours. Although it was farther, his need wasn’t quite fusty just yet. Cradling the lighter in his hands, he continued walking down the road, pondering on whether or not his gun which was back at his apartment was still loaded.

(c) Anachronic Works 2012

3 Reasons Why Budoy Is A Counterproductive Television Show (Philippine Audience)

It has come to my attention that the TV show called “Budoy” on a local channel here in the Philippines called ABS-CBN (no correlation to CBN whatsoever, as of my knowledge), has garnered a great deal of popularity. From regular conversations, to watching the show every night it is available, to even vandalizing the tables of my University’s (University of the Philippines Los Baños) classrooms (I didn’t take the photo yet) with the astoundingly simple-yet-pleasing logo of the show (as seen in the opening photo for this article). Most talk that floats around where I study and in my circles of friends regarding this, are commonly reduced to mimicking the lead character, by the name of Budoy, when it comes to his linguistic wordplay. Now, I believe that there is a fine line between comedy or satire, and the actual thing that the satiric role suggests to criticize. The way I see it, people have been dancing around this as if it were a ballet performance. (Think Giselle, or any other ballet play, where they jump across the floorboards, tiptoeing as if it were actually beneficial to them to subject their toes to such harsh conditions.) This is why I have summed up 3 reasons as to why the show is rather counterproductive, in terms of the sarcastic scenario stated above. You can see the ABS-CBN Website’s page for Budoy, here.

Now before you go on telling me to watch it first, I already have (two or three times), and I still think that my reasons are legitimate. Take a read!

Reason 1: Television is a Medium for Knowledge

I personally don’t watch the show as often as I should, and almost despise the innate lack of grammar with the words he speaks. (No offense to the mentally challenged) It’s just that these things become infectious, and they are generally highly attractive to most commonplace people, thus allowing their minds to be manipulated in such a way that their grammar, instead of getting better through a very useful medium of communication, gets worse.

Herp Derp

“You may not know it, yet, but that’s a mind control device on his head.”

Television is a medium, and what do mediums do; they give off information, that’s what. If you knew how much horseshit mass media is feeding us, I doubt you’d want to shit your pants for a week. Maybe even ever again. Trying to find a needle in a haystack, substituted for truth in the lies respectively doesn’t do it justice. Trying to find that needle, in a mountain of shit; that sounds more apropos.

Horse Manure

“If you dig long enough, you can find the truth in there!”

If the television shows provided more educationally correct shows, then we would have less of a problem with our country’s innate lack of education for the children (which will hopefully solve our “corruption problem”). Since the children “are the future”, why not give them something to work with, rather than just grabbing the money and running, resulting in the catastrophe Peter Parker achieved in Spider Man 1?

Pfft...

“Dem robbers killz my uncle, but I haz powrz and cn pwnz yuz.”

Of course with the exception of the masses “pwning” the TV stations. Unless those bastards have hooked up DOTA to their database. That would be a totally different story.

Reason 2: Media Rules The World

It is the Age of Information, and more or less, everyone’s buying in on it. Ironically, this gave birth to one of the most idiotic generations humanity has ever seen, wherein people can’t even go outside to do a little exercise coz they’re reaching a new level on Skyrim. Either that or they’re waiting for their favourite TV soap opera to arrive. Or maybe some are just furiously masturbating to Next Top Model with Tyra Banks.

Skyrim

"WAAARGH!!! My burning hand and mythological creature educates you!!!"

Next Top Model

“Man, they’re so hot; I don’t even need to leave the house to exercise. I’ll just use my hand!” *fap fap fap*

The least those TV companies could do, would be to provide something educational. If they’re worried about ratings, then have all the channels carry the same intellectual background so that there will be no choice as to what stupidity the masses would prefer. They’d be forced to learn something new every time. Just think of it as Discovery Channel on every channel in your 100 station cable/satellite subscription; except with the option as to what you will learn.

Monkeys

“A new version of Humanity (2012.1.1) is available. Would you like to download it now?”

It’s almost a monopoly, anyway, so why not have the TV stations come to a decision that will help the future generations learn how to speak and communicate properly so that they may not have to go through the chaos that was The Tower of Babel in the Bible. (Just a reference, I am not religious, however I do enjoy reading the scriptures of various religions.) I’m just saying we need to grow the heck up as a race, stop thinking about ourselves, and save the generation that you claim are “the future” or the “brighter tomorrow”.

Reason 3: People Are Gullible

Going back to Budoy, it is said to be a wonderfully inspirational story. Although that may be true, people should be aware that this show is not meant to be re-enacted in everyday life. They should differentiate comedy or art altogether from reality. If they cannot find a way to let the viewers know this, then it is better off that they cancel the show altogether.

Nicolas Cage

“My boss just told me that I needed to work double shift on Christmas. I told him; ‘Fuck you!’”

If you want people to behave properly, then put proper TV shows on for everyone. Define what makes it artistic and what makes it comical, from the cold hard reality of life. People can hope and aspire to achieve a better life, but that doesn’t mean they have to do those bullshit things that happen in the movies/TV soap operas. That’s the whole reason why those poor folks keep living the way they do. They expect some “Prince Charming” or some “Wonderfully Placed Stroke of Sheer Luck” to arrive. What happens to them when it doesn’t? Nothing, and the TV stations make away with all that money.

I know it’s going to be very difficult to proceed with the aforementioned plan, but I mean, come on, at least Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men provided us with a sane interpretation of what would really happen to someone as odd as Budoy, or in the case of the book; Lenny, in the real world. (For those of you who don’t know, Lenny is shot in the head by his best friend as a form of mercy killing, since half the fucking town was out to kill the poor bastard.) If Steinbeck could do it, so can a big group of media-makers and talented people. Heck, even Forrest Gump contributed to a little bite of that reality sandwich.

Forrest Gump

“It’s not a sandwich, but it’ll do. I just hope nobody shoots me in the head.”

Although in spite of all of this, Budoy seems to be a heart-warming show, that, even though it causes such effects on children and the future generations, one can still appreciate the art involved with the simplistic love felt by the mentally challenged. Good day!

* This post shares only my thoughts and opinions on the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
** This post is meant for satiric purposes and not for offense to the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
*** This does not portray/represent the thoughts of all other critics on the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
**** This does not intend to badmouth the propagators and/or viewers of the shows mentioned.

***** Images are courtesy of Google Image Search.

****** This is just for fun, so just enjoy. Thanks!

(c) Anachronic Works 2011

Don’t Hurt Her Bro, She Loves You

Imagine her, the girl of your dreams, your future bride, your Virgil to your Dante, your Anabel to your Poe.
She’d just left you after seeing you for 2 and a half months, saying she didn’t want a relationship.
She didn’t even mention that she wanted to be friends.
She merely said it, “We can still be best friends.” without so much as a hint of sincerity.
You loved her, so you believe her, in the slight hope that friendship may once again bring back the relationship.
Bring back the love.
Bring back the days you’d spent laughing with her.
The ineffable kisses you both shared.
The misanthropy you provided for yourself in exchange for her attention.
It was all you required.
She was your self knitted hat.
She was your gasoline and drive.
She was the guitar you learned to play until you had calloused fingers.
So you let it be.
A few weeks later, you do not speak.
A few months later, you see her and smile, but she loses all trace of you in the back of her mind.
There’s another man, who now catches her eye.
A new flavor of wine that she’d love to try.
A new drug to help ease the sickness of life.
A new path on the map of life.
He is there, holding her hand.
He is there, playing as she cheers from the bleachers.
He is there, reading her to sleep.
It was the novel you wrote for her, it was hers to keep.
All trace of you has been erased.
A formatted hard drive, and it’s an emotionless face.
Then you see her again, and this time she cries.
You talk to her, and comfort her this time.
You walk and talk for a stretch of miles; visiting the past, remembering the smiles.
She feels better, and gives you a hug.
That’s all you’re gonna get, so you leave with a shrug.
You see them together, again, as if they’d never fought.
All the pain dashed away, as if it were a passing thought.
And again, you see her in the middle of the night.
Tears in her eyes, as she struggles to fight.
There he is, walking away, and she’s kneeling on the sidewalk, meters away.
He needs help, and so does she.
So you approach the guy, and you’ll help them see.
You sum up the courage to talk him through.
With a single line, you know what you have to do.
You love her too much to let it go too.
“Don’t hurt her, bro. She loves you.”

* This was written for the Facebook Page “Don’t Hurt Her Bro, She Loves You.”

** Why I wrote this for a Facebook Page was because I was BORED. BORED. So I decided to pour out a little bit of my heart into the page.

*** Here’s the link: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dont-hurt-her-bro-She-loves-you/155903644455335

**** You can find this post on the Discussion Board. As of the time I post this, nobody has deigned to reply to me yet.

(c) Anachronic Works 2011