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So I was feeling all nice and sick this morning, but unfortunately I had two midterms today, which meant that I couldn’t stay home and watch crappy talk shows. So I drove to school (I drive on Thursdays instead of taking the el) and took my two tests, both of which we’re going to say I did “satisfactory” on. I still felt really sick, but I had a class at 5:00 that I had to go to due to the fact that the professor is currently very pissed at me. So I nestled down in the BSB computer lab for a nice three-hour wait until my class started.

I threw up in the computer lab.


At least I made it to a garbage can and it gave me a valid excuse to just drive home and be done with this until spring break is over. I’ve also been feeling very shitty and scared about the fact that my college career will be ending soon and I have no clue what I’m going to do with my life. So I sat in traffic on the Kennedy, still feeling crappy and hoping that I didn’t throw up in the car (which isn’t technically my car) and listening to Rage Against the Machine, which has been my current driving to school music as of late.

For some reason I brought with me this morning The Instigator, the first solo album by Rhett Miller, the lead singer of the Old 97’s. I haven’t listened to this album in almost four months. You see, when I first bought it I was involved in a wacky little relationship with a girl, and this CD sort of became my unofficial driving to her house music. Thoughts of her and the songs on this album became inextricably linked in my mind, so after we broke up I pretty much stopped listening to it.

So there I am, sitting in completely halted traffic, all pukey, worried and edgy, when I just suddenly eject Rage and pop in Rhett. As the opening chords of the first track faded in, an overwhelming thought pushed everything else out of my head:

You must sing this song as loud as you can. Now.

Richard Wagner's letters to his lover Mathilde were a mess
He should have quit before he had written the address
They made love on the mezzanine
her husband was his friend
Vienna in a fugue-state working on a thing
That when he finished it took almost seven hours to sing
He still found time to write to her
his heart-exploding words

Our love surpassed our love so fast
Our love's all wrong our love goes on and on
Our love became our love by name
when I wrote it to you in a song
Our love goes on and on
Our love, our love

Kafka in his letters to his lover Milena was alive
But he was waiting for a love that never would arrive
Their rendezvous was singular
her husband was his friend
She is a living fire she is a reason to live
She is killing me burning only for him
I'll spend my whole life loving her
my heart exploding words

Our love surpassed our love so fast
Our love's all wrong, our love goes on and on
Our love became our love by name
when I wrote it to you in a song
Our love goes on and on
Our love our love our love our love

I knew all the words. Exactly.

As I sat there in the so-called express lanes, the traffic parted and the haze around me lifted. This song is pop treacle, but it’s damn powerful stuff. I did not feel sick anymore. I could see the sun setting in front of me. I felt the unseasonably warm March air. I saw a whole week stretching out in front of me, filled with possibilities and chances to get my shit in order. I felt a will to find someone else this album can be associated with. Someone I could sing “Four-eyed Girl” to and mean it (there are a couple of ladies in the running).

Saturday night I’m going to the Flogging Molly-Mighty Mighty Bosstones show with one of my four-eyed girls and it will be the starting point for an excellent week.

Next Tuesday, Rhett is going to be in town playing at a tiny pub by my house.

I’m going to have to go and thank him.

My poor health continues. For the past few weeks I've been eating a diet of liquids (Ensure) and soft foods (scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes, and such). This isn't working - I missed all of last week's classes due to pain and nausea, and this week I've been shot down with a new round of the same problems. These soft foods are getting lodged in my intestinal strictures, so it's time to drop down on the food scale. It's time to go all liquid.

So here I go. Ensure for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Ensure for snacks. Lots of water to drink, maybe a little cranberry juice. For some flavor, there's popsicles. A special treat would be caffeine-free Pepsi.

Not eating is one of the most difficult things I've had to deal with in this illness. Everyone else seems to always be eating when I am not. Food commercials mock me. There are days on liquid diets where I'd take a bite out of my own arm if I knew I wouldn't need it later.

It'll just be for a few weeks, maybe a month or two. Then this whole surgery mess will be over and I can go back to eating my normal diet, plus I might even get back my ability to eat wheat and meat. Now that'll be a treat!

I just logged for for the first time in about 23 hours. I was greeted by a loss of 9 experience, and 19 messages. Four were in agreement with what I said, the rest called me a whiner.

It's an honest mistake, to believe what I wrote was a cry for help. In actuality, I wrote it because I thought the daylogs were untouched nodes that weren't voted on, guess my 30/-44 rating proves that theory wrong.

Did some people honestly believe I was frustrated because I don't think I receive enough upvotes? What exactly does this voting system give me? Intrinsic value? Just because you don't agree with me doesn't necessarily mean I was writing for my own self-interest.

I thought it was a sort of public scratchpad for expression and release. Wrong about that as well.

Some non-"E2 bashing":
(note: E2 bashing is what my node was commonly referred to in some of those messages I received.) Does anyone here watch sports? Perhaps I can ask you for help on this issue. I used to be a casual sport watcher, during high school summer vacations I'd watch the same 30 minute Sportscenter from 11am to 1pm. I've recently gotten to the point where I can't stand the sight of athletes on television anymore. It's come to my attention that sports are the same thing year after year. With only a change of winning team at the end, and even that isn't always the fact. Where exactly is all this deep-seeded passion for athletics that so many have? What drives their desire to see mostly uneducated men have fun playing a game, while we sit and watch? Aren't sports meant to be played? Why are we wasting our time with such nonsense?

I realize now why I used to watch (and I still keep some tabs on) sports. It's because there's absolutely nothing else for a group of guys to talk about. I watched to simply be part of a conversation, otherwise we'd all be relegated to remarking on "the weather." The weather being the least interesting topic in the world, as we all experience it in the same way. At least with sports there can be some disparity, and we may believe different things. With weather it's either hot, cold, or crappy.

Finally, what is the reason for idolization of all local sports teams? Simply because of the arbitrary fact that you've been raised in one area, requires you to cheer for that team? It makes no sense to me. I admire teams made of players I find interesting. Sports are a business now, and players are traded like any other commodity. Take for example the Red Sox. They're a group of individuals with no team cohesiveness whatsoever. The front office has been an absolute joke for years, with only a recent change in personnel. Yet friends of mine live and die by this team, and hate the Yankees. Both are owned by dispicable individuals, both teams are made up of players that are difficult to view as true role models, and both have exorbitantly high payrolls. So what aspect pits these two teams on opposite ends? Red Sox fans pray for death to be stricken down upon many Yankee players, but juggle this idea for a moment. Theoretically, imagine every player on the Red Sox was traded for each player on the Yankees. Who would you cheer for then? Would your interests still lie with the "home team"?


I am leaving for Spring Break early Saturday morning. I will be around e2 almost NONE until the following Saturday night (mar 22). If you really need me for anything at all, contact me at AIM-wuukiee81 or email-heidemad@purdue.edu

Wish me luck with not being found out, disowned, or other parental unpleasentries. I've been under a LOT of stress lately for personal reasons (mostly relating to being more or less abandoned by certain friends) and am not doing well.

Being with my folks always stresses me out. It's not like I hate them, we just agree on nothing. Ever. I don't think mom's ever forgiven me for not being the kind of girl she could put in pink frilly dresses and little bows in my pigtails. As is evident by my presence on e2, I'm not that kind of girl. It's just been downhill from there.

At the best of times we fuss and sometimes yell. At the worst of times, it's nearly more than I can stand. Any time they percieve me as "broken" either due to actions they disagree with, me asserting some form of independance, or me showing outward signs of depression, they try to "fix" me. Without fail, this does more harm than good. Packing me off to shrinks they choose. Punishing me for what they percieve to be "infractions". Whatever they can really think of. This isn't all the time, of course, just when they're displeased.

I chose to go home for break because I was too stressed about aforementioned alluded-to friend problems to stay here and mope for a week. I had no money to go elsewhere (L.A. with mcc's aunt and uncle was my first choice, or Boston to be with highschool friends.) I've no idea if going home was a good choice or not. It doesn't much feel like home before. I've flown the coop in the most major way, and going back I get poked by sticks and twigs in a nest too small to stretch my wings. (Wow. I am sure I will somehow pay for that mixed metaphore.)

If you've got a moment, keep me in your thoughts, I'll need all the strength and sanity I can get. Thanks.

Notes To Self:

Wow. I wrought a mixed drink out of my own very random cabinet that didn't suck and barely tastes of alcohol at all. This is somewhat of an accomplishment. Many of my drinks are strong, but not fabulously tasty. Here's for future reference for myself. I have to node my recipes on e2 or I forget them ^_^ It's got a fairly fruity, punchlike taste with a tart aftertaste. (Because I used too much lime juice.)

1/2 oz Rose Lime Juice
1/2 oz Rose Grenadine
1 oz Peachtree Schnapps
1 oz Midori Melon
2 oz Malibu coconut rum (3 for a stronger drink)
top off with pineapple juice to taste. (about 4-6 oz is good)

I'm going to go have several more of these now and ignore the impending weekend for a few hours.

Additional, Later Notes:

I now fear for the world. It may be that Sam-the-Kitty is smart enough to take it over, even sans opposable thumbs. If he ever figures out how to open the front door, chaos will ensue.

Apparently his litterbox wasn't as clean as he'd have liked because I've been a dysfunctional slacker lately, and he's amazingly patient with me about things like that.

Anyways, it was not to his liking, so while I was in the bathroom earlier, he sauntered in, gave me this LOOK, hopped straight into the bathtub and urinated straight down the drain. Didn't even try to bury his waste, as he seeme to realize it was gone. Just sniffed to make sure the smell dispersed, gave me another look, hopped out, and sauntered away.

I knew he was a clever kitty--he knows I control the "Mystic red dot" of the laser pointer (he'll grab the pointer and bring it to me, then spring to the middle of the floor with a "play!" pose--but I think this is the smartest thing I've ever seen a cat do in my life.

Has my country gone nuts?

With the recent debacle over freedom fries and French toast and citizens pouring perfectly good French wine down the sewer, one might think so. But this being America, someone had to up the ante.

It seems that there is a bill being introduced before Congress that would allow the families of veterans who died and were buried in France during World War I and World War II to have their remains disinterred and shipped back “home” to the good ol’ USA. Of course the government would pick up the nut for any expenses occurred as a result of the procedure. All of this because France, along with some other member countries of the United Nations, disagree about the prospect of going to war with Iraq

To quote one Ginny Brown, a freshman Republican from Florida who introduced the bill.

"I, along with many other Americans, do not feel that the French government appreciates the sacrifices men and women in uniform have made to defend the freedom that the French enjoy today."

Over the years some 74,000 Americans have been buried in either France or Belgium. Can you imagine the cost and logistics associated with such a maneuver? I can only imagine. I am willing to put forth that the millions of dollars spent on such an effort could be better put to use elsewhere.

Personal Note

Having spent four years in Uncle Sams Misguided Children, I can only say that had I been killed in battle, I would have preferred to be buried next to my comrades who had fallen beside me. Maybe that’s the so-called Semper Fidelis attitude that is instilled in the Marines. I dunno, to me it would just seem right.

A Modest Proposal?

I’ve got a better idea. If we really wanna show our displeasure with the French, why don’t we just dismantle the Statue of Liberty, box it up and crate it back to them? After all, it was a gift.

Funny, I don’t see anybody introducing THAT before Congress.

Sorry for the rant!

PS. I've e-mailed these sentiments to my Congressman, Senator and the White House. - much to my chagrin I haven't heard anything back yet but if I do you can be sure I'll let you know!

Today when I was walking to an industrial gig one of my best friends was slapped in the face by a random 14-year-old walking past. Slapped is an understatement. A punch would be a better world. A punch causing a bleeding nose for the next hour. From a guy against a girl. The ultimate sin committed by someone too young to know the basic rules of the world.

The reaction of this made this more interesting than the act.

Everyone felt anger and hatred, whether controllable or not towards the person who hit her. Much swearing was directed at the person who committed this fowl and inconsiderate act. A party sprinted after the perpetrators of this deed. The repercussions and the thought’s that occurred due to this act were far more interesting and important the act itself.

I wished that I was struck instead. Me being a girly guy. Me being someone who has sworn many times never to hit anyone back EVER. Yet I wished it were me who was struck because I was a guy. I could handle a broken nose. I could handle pain. Why? Because I am male.

Why does this makes a difference? .Despite all the gender equity I felt guilty that I was not hit. I wished that the other girly boi who was with us were hit. I was glad the masculine guy who came with us was not hit, for he would cause more trouble than the incident deserved. I wondered why no one could accept that 14 year olds cause problems that do not necessarily deserve to be solved with return violence.

We went to the police as nice polite people do who ask for no trouble. Here we asked for help, only to hear that many young groups matching the description were picked up only to find there were no evidence let alone no law to charge them.

After diverting ourselves to the bathroom we arrived to giggling and hilarity form our friend inside the interviewing room. Apparently not only are meeting's with the police fun (when you are not the one with being interrogated) you can also meet all sorts of interesting people outside the station. Finally, we had finished and it was time to go to our destination where I was looking forward to telling our stories of woe on the way to gain sympathy (and hopefully free drinks) only to be told that everyone involved wished to keep it quiet.

Such was my Friday night.

I woke up this morning to find an Italian communist sleeping on my couch.
I didn't know they made those anymore.
Every day of my life, god throws me a curve.

p.s. - It's actually my roommate's girlfriend's Italian communist roommate. Just so you know.

The experiment is working quite well.

On Friday night I contemplate again the fact that I had spent far too much time doing really unconstructive stuff. That means the catbox. So I decided to what I usually do when I detect a compulsion in myself. If I could stay off E2 entirely for a week I would believe that I was in control again. But when to do this? There is a nodermeet next Saturday, and I'd need to check in to the site to find out where it is. I don't consider meeting people face to face on a Saturday afternoon unconstructive – I'm on my own enough of the time as it is. So why not start right away? I was last online at work, say 5:30pm Friday. I could log on again the same time next week, and that would be that.

As I say, it's been good. I've been coding like a demon at work, and have also written a few new writeups (this included) I'll post them on the weekend.

Other (non-)news is I am doing lots of gym, have a new flatmate who is a French PHD student, and went to a great concert at the Barbican – "Tabla Beat science" – a group including Bill Laswell on Bass, Karsh Kale on Drums, percussionist Zakir Hussain on Tabla, Ustad Sultan Khan (sarangi and vocals) Ejigayehu "Gigi" Shibabaw (vocals) and DJ Disk (turntables) jamming tablatronic style.

I'm nearly ready with another mix CD, to be called "Rapid urbanisation", mostly hard and heavy music. It's a fair trawl through what I'm listening to, except for the merzbow – that noise is just completely unlistenable.

Everything 2 and Kazaa continue to expand and define my musical tastes. This time it's a light and pretty American hard-space-rock band called 30 seconds to Mars. I read the writeup on E2, listened to the tracks on Kazaa, and now I have the CD via Amazon. They don't have a wide range of sounds or melodies, but their clean-wall-of-silver-processed-guitar-melody is rather good. We can hope that their next disk will be even better.

Even less newsworthy is the site http://www.yournotme.com/ which says that there 136 are of me. That is, there are 136 people with the same first and last name as myself on the UK electoral roll as of 2000. I knew of 2 or 3 of me worldwide from google searches, but this is a new level of non-uniqueness.

Finally some good news in my life! Today I took a job as a tutor at the college I attend. I am, like most college students, in need of income to support the cost of living. Not only will this job help me to acquire some extra money, but will give me valuable material for a resume. Even better yet, is that I am able to tutor for subjects in my major, which is Technology Education. I am looking forward to not only gaining valuable knowledge, but also helping others to better understand material I know well. I will soon receive times and names of those who are in need of a little extra help so I can begin.

Today was the Lenten liturgy. Attending a Catholic school, certain customs of mass celebration must be observed. During the season the hope is that weekly times of reflection will better serve to focus our minds and souls on the coming ascension of Christ. The reality is that the students couldn't care less.

The high school was built with its priorities somewhat off-kilter. Science, academic, and religious concerns got the jib in favor of lavish sports facilities. We have no resident priest to hold our masses. We have no pews but the bleechers. All preparation is taken care of by a class of motivated students called the Peer Ministry. They try to give every mass a contemporary flavor with tastefully arranged holiday lights, student drawn worship pamphlets, and a theme that should be relevant to the student body as a whole. Their efforts are rather token. The music over the speakers was Contemporary Christian, trying almost too hard to mirror its mainstream pop counterparts, but with the Lord Jesus instead of heartbreak. Two jocks made ironic jokes after the song repeated for the fourth time. I joined in.

Finally, everyone was ready and the students quieted down. Our priest de jour was a young man, just out of Seminary. You'd think he might go into convulsions from enthusiasm at any moment. He changed around the recitations, trying to transform them from incantations into living, breathing prayers. With his sermon he sought desperately for our eyes and ears. Anecdotes, abstractions, wink-wink-nudge-nudge acknowledgements of reality, and offers of salvation. Few realized he was even speaking.

I think the difficulty is that this is not a mystical experience for us. Religion is not only a framework for approaching and understanding life, it also satisfies a basic human need for the mysterious. To recognize patterns, that only you can see, to have rituals and traditions with their sacred workings unknown, this appeals to anyone. We seek it in music, in stories, in television and in games because it is no longer being provided by the traditional sources. Without the somewhat superficial occult elements, it is easy to lose patience.

During communion, things became almost absurd. Instead of reverant silence, there was the low buzz of chatter. The speakers distractingly began to pick up radio waves, and little the sound crew could do would stop the awkward tittering of hearing an advertisement for used cars at 20% mark down while the priest was trying to make a benediction. I spend most of my time during these ceremonies off in my own world, but even I noticed the uncomfortable disrespect that filled the air.

The peer ministry kids always make a final few comments before the mass ends, usually motivational and rather vapid stuff. It feels insincere to hear such noble words from people you know are nothing like the image they present at the podium in the school's halls. One senior stepped up to give the final comment. He paused, then apologized that he was about to deviate from his planned speech. The theme of this mass was change, change for the better. And he felt a change was necessary, right here, right now. In a ten minute speech, he made it clear that muttering and murmuring during the most sacred portion of the mass was disgraceful. It showed disrespect to the priest who volunteered his time for our community, disrespect for the peer ministers who worked hard to make the mass a success, and disrespect for one's peers who might, surprisingly enough, want to use the time for prayer as it was meant to be used. "Some of you are even talking right now, completely ignoring me!" He challenged us to show some maturity.

His speech came across as arrogant and self-righteous. It also came across as incredibly brave. The teenage tendancy of rendering absolutely everything superficial is relentless and unforgiving. Building irony upon irony upon mocking irony isn't just irritating as fuck to anyone trying to find some deeper meaning to their experiences, it grows tiresome from the other end too. I'm a seventeen year-old, and though I may wish that I present myself maturely, I have just as much the habit of retreating into a self-protective cocoon of irreverent mocking as anyone else my age. We're fragile. It's better to break than to be broken. This fellow teen was actually willing to shatter the taboo. No one will heed him, but the commitment to actually saying something, anything of importance is extraordinary. I hadn't said a word through the course of the mass, but I still felt humbled. That was something I would never have the courage to do.

One Month!

Easter. Easter is when the kitty comes. One month is when I get my very own very small kitten. I am hoping that our current cat, Pixel (a plump, grouchy orange tabby), won't hate my kitten. She gets along with the dog all right, but the last time we brought a second cat home they fought almost every moment of the day (whenever the new cat wasn't hiding behind the washing machine).
But I'm hoping that I can introduce Pixel to this poor little kitten slowly, get them each to smell stuff the other's been sleeping on. I'm hoping that will work. I hate it when kitties fight.

I think I'm going to name her Tabitha, after the cat in the Beatrix Potter books. I don't know why I thought of that at first, but it seems to have stuck in my mind somehow, so I'll stick with it.
Of course, if she doesn't look like a Tabitha when I see her, then I'll call her something else. But for now all I can think of is kittykittykittykittykittykitty... so on and so forth.

On another note.. went to Durham College today for an orientation thing, and although I'm a bit nervous because there are so many people applying for Multimedia Design, I'm almost praying to get in. There's so much to do...

Oh, hello Pixel. Hungry, are you? No, please don't sit on the mouse. No, please don't sit on the keyboard,n mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Dumb cat.

It seems I have important matters to tend to -- if you ask Pixel, that is.

I made a wrong judgement the other day. I jumped into something before I thought about it and I shouldn’t have done, I suppose I was just upset. Maybe I should have trusted him not to want to upset me but at the time I was scared and upset.

And, after he read my last diary entry he started talking to me. That meant a lot. It made me realise that I need to trust people to much more.. I know that at the moment I trust very little people and I wish that was different but it isn’t.

I know that when I talked to you I was stressed out and a little mad with you. I really didn’t know what to say to you about it. I think you must have known that and you didn’t say much, you let me talk. I never really handle stuff like this very well, I generally get upset and not really talk much sense.

So, I sorted stuff out and I’m coping with stuff better. People who I don’t care about don’t matter. They can say whatever they want because I don’t care, they aren’t worth it. I would be upset if someone I cared about insulted me, but they haven’t and it is all good.

I just want to say sorry. I was out of line.

I paced down the short hallway only to turn around again. I saw the lights change until they read 5:00 pm. I nervously palmed the hard white plastic of the cordless phone. I knew my nervousness would end soon. I paced down the hallway again. I did not expect a negative response, but the question loomed over my head like a piano tied to a thin cord. I was running out of time. They would be here soon. On the next turning I decided I would do it. I stepped to the fridge and pulled open the door. Sticking my hand into the chilling air, I grabbed the bottle. "Must relax, must be calm," I repeated to myself as I popped the cap off of the beer. I thought a brief conversation with Sam Adams might help me settle my mind. It did no such thing.

When the beer was empty I was still as nervous as before, but I had to get this done. I walked over to where I had set the phone down on the kitchen counter, and pulled out my cell phone. I searched through the memory of the phone until I found the number I wanted. While punching in the numbers, I sighed. "Here goes nothing," I thought to myself.


Just when I thought no one was going to answer, and I would have to call again, someone picked up. "Hello?" It was a woman's voice, his wife, in a few years, my mother-in-law.

"Is Mr. H there?" I asked, my voice dripping with the nervousness of a freshman in highschool asking a senior out for a date.

"No, he's still at work."

Damn. I knew I should have waited. I needed to get this done before they arrived though. The window of opportunity shrank with every second. I needed to move quickly, to strike and fade like I was never there. "Is there a number I could reach him at?"

"Yes," she replied, "Would you like his cell phone number?

Chi-ching! Jackpot baby. "Please."

I wrote down the number in a scrawl that would make chickens blush. Again, I dialed, only this time with the new number, the one that would lead me to my goal.

brrit brrit
brrit brrit


It was the brilliant quiet drawl of the aged midwesterner whom I had been seeking. It was him. It was time to hop up on stage and perform. I started to pace again.

"Hi Mr. H, It's me, Davidian. As you know, I've been dating your daughter for almost two years now, and I really love her a lot. I was, I would ... If it's ok with you, I would like to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage."

I don't remember exactly what I had said to him, this writing being a week later than the actual event, I guess it worked though. He said yes, it's ok, and that he and his wife had been talking about it. Hearing him talk made me feel good, lessened my nervousness. However, our conversation reminded me of ones I'd had with my first "girlfriend," if you could even call her that. I didn't know what to say most of the time, there were long periods of silence. That didn't matter though, as I had done what I wanted. Only one thing remained.

They arrived at my house at 7:30pm, shortly before I showed up with the pizza we decided to get. We ate, drank, and made merry that night. My girl and I retired early as we had certain things to attend to that we hadn't in a long time. I curled up beside the woman I loved for the first time in 6 weeks that night.

I woke up in the morning and stared into her peaceful, beautiful face, as I usually did when I woke up before she did. The early morning sun softly peeked in through the curtains, and I knew it was time. I reached underneath the bed and grabbed the small maroon box. I pulled the top off and picked up the smaller, felt box inside. Flipping that open I gazed upon the shine of the glimmering ring. It seemed brighter to me that morning. I palmed the ring and turned back to her. She still slept. Gently, but still trying to be as quick as possible, I reached for her left hand. With the ring in my right, I slid it onto her finger. I let out the breath I did not know I was holding.

With my work done, and being totally unaware of the time, I did the only thing I could think of. I hopped out of bed, slipped into my pajama pants, tossed on a shirt, and made coffee. I was sitting down on the couch with a cup in hand, Sportscenter glowing on the television when I heard the door open. I looked down the darkened hallway to see the brightness of a woman who's dreams had just come true. She bounded down the hallway with exceptional grace for 6:30 in the morning.

We kissed a kiss that would make lovers blush. She slid over the top of the couch and into my lap, without ever breaking our connection. I wrapped my arms around her as she looked into my eyes. "Is this real?" she asked me.

I nodded. She then pulled off the ring I had given her 15 months earlier. The ring I bought from Pacific Sunwear four years ago now. I told her to keep it until I got her something better, back when we spent our first summer apart. It was a mere week into our relationship. It feels kind of weird having it back on my finger. By the end of our week together we were both used to our new rings though. Ne'er have I seen a woman so happy.


I almost forgot, much love and thanks goes out to all of you noders who've sent their congrats. If e2 ain't I dunno what is.

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