Received: from nobody by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with local (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cHCzl-0002zj-Ka for lojban-newreal@lojban.org; Wed, 14 Dec 2016 09:05:33 -0800 Received: from [162.144.138.229] (port=50220 helo=moreluckever.com) by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with esmtp (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cHCzh-0002yw-5k for lojban@lojban.org; Wed, 14 Dec 2016 09:05:33 -0800 Date: Wed, 14 Dec 2016 10:26:49 -0700 Mime-Version: 1 Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Subject: These are this weeks winning-lotto-numbers 3691951 From: "Lawrence Nash" Message-ID: <77120280425yp36919515_20280425.lojban@lojban.orggmd108> To: X-Spam-Score: -0.4 (/) X-Spam_score: -0.4 X-Spam_score_int: -3 X-Spam_bar: / none read report

Christmas Report

read more















The last straw came a few days later, when my family decided it was time to sell Grandpa Portmans house. Before prospective buyers could be allowed inside, though, the place had to be cleaned out. On the advice of Dr. Golan, who thought it would be good for me to confront the scene of my trauma, I was enlisted to help my dad and Aunt Susie sort through the detritus. For a while after we got to the house my dad kept taking me aside to make sure I was okay. Surprisingly, I seemed to be, despite the scraps of police tape clinging to the shrubs and the torn screen on the lanai flapping in the breeze; these thingslike the rented Dumpster that stood on the curb, waiting to swallow what remained of my grandfathers lifemade me sad, not scared. Once it became clear I wasnt about to suffer a mouthfrothing freakout, we got down to business. Armed with garbage bags we proceeded grimly through the house, emptying shelves and cabinets and crawl spaces, discovering geometries of dust beneath objects unmoved for years. We built pyramids of things that could be saved or salvaged and pyramids of things destined for the Dumpster. My aunt and father were not sentimental people, and the Dumpster pile was always the largest. I lobbied hard to keep certain things, like the eightfoot stack of waterdamaged National Geographic magazines teetering in a corner of the garagehow many afternoons had I spent poring over them, imagining myself among the mud men of New Guinea or discovering a clifftop castle in the kingdom of Bhutanbut I was always overruled. Neither was I allowed to keep my grandfathers collection of vintage bowling shirts (Theyre embarrassing, my dad claimed), his big band and swing 78s (Someone will pay good money for those), or the contents of his massive, stilllocked weapons cabinet (Youre kidding, right I hope youre kidding). I told my dad he was being heartless. My aunt fled the scene, leaving us alone in the study, where wed been sorting through a mountain of old financial records. Im just being practical. This is what happens when people die, Jacob. Yeah How about when you die Should I burn all your old manuscripts He flushed. I shouldnt have said it; mentioning his halffinished book projects was definitely below the belt. Instead of yelling at me, though, he was quiet. I brought you along today because I thought you were mature enough to handle it. I guess I was wrong. You are wrong. You think getting rid of all Grandpas stuff will make me forget him. But it wont. He threw up his hands. You know what Im sick of fighting about it. Keep whatever you want. He tossed a sheaf of yellowed papers at my feet. Heres an itemized schedule of deductions from the year Kennedy was assassinated. Go have it framed! I kicked away the papers and walked out, slamming the door behind me, and then waited in the living room for him to come out and apologize. When I heard the shredder roar to life I knew he wasnt going to, so I stomped across the house and locked myself in the bedroom. It smelled of stale air and shoe leather and my grandfathers slightly sour cologne. I leaned against the wall, my eyes following a trail worn into the carpet between the door and the bed, where a rectangle of muted sun caught the edge of a box that poked out from beneath the bedspread. I went over and knelt down and pulled it out. It was the old cigar box, enveloped in dustas if hed left it there just for me to find. Inside were the photos I knew so well: the invisible , the levitating , the boulder lifter, the man with a face painted on the back of his head. They were brittle and peelingsmaller than I remembered, tooand looking at them now, as an almost adult, it struck me how blatant the fakery was. A little burning and dodging was probably all it took to make the invisible s head disappear. The giant rock being hoisted by that suspiciously scrawny kid could have easily been made out of plaster or foam. But these observations were too subtle for a sixyearold, especially one who wanted to believe. Beneath those photos were five more that Grandpa Portman had never shown me. I wondered why, until I looked closer. Three were so obviously manipulated that even a kid wouldve seen through them: one was a laughable double exposure of a trapped in a bottle; another showed a levitating child, suspended by something hidden in the dark doorway behind her; the third was a dog with a s face pasted crudely onto it. As if these werent bizarre enough, the last two were like something out of David Lynchs nightmares: one was an unhappy young contortionist doing a frightening backbend; in the other a pair of freakish twins were dressed in the weirdest costumes Id ever seen. Even my grandfather, whod filled my head with stories of tentacletongued monsters, had realized images like these would give any kid bad dreams.

Its important your happy and not bothered so please reqiest removal from these if you wish to not get further
Adrianna Nieland | 3091 Indian Ridge Pl Lakeland Fl 33810-0361

Kneeling there on my grandfathers dusty floor with those photos in my hands, I remembered how betrayed Id felt the day I realized his stories werent true. Now the truth seemed obvious: his last words had been just another sleight of hand, and his last act was to infect me with nightmares and paranoid delusions that would take years of therapy and metabolismwrecking medications to rout out. I closed the box and brought it into the living room, where my dad and Aunt Susie were emptying a drawer full of coupons, clipped but never used, into a tengallon trash bag. I offered up the box. They didnt ask what was inside. * * * So thats it Dr. Golan said. His death was meaningless Id been lying on the couch watching a fish tank in the corner, its one golden prisoner swimming in lazy circles. Unless youve got a better idea, I said. Some big theory about what it all means that youve havent told me. Otherwise What Otherwise, this is just a waste of time. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as if trying to dispel a headache. What your grandfathers last words meant isnt my conclusion to draw, he said. Its what you think that matters. That is such psychobabble bullshit, I spat. Its not what I think that matters; its whats true! But I guess well never know, so who cares Just dope me up and collect the bill. I wanted him to get madto argue, to insist I was wrongbut instead he sat poker faced, drumming the arm of his chair with his pen. It sounds like youre giving up, he said after a moment. Im disappointed. You dont strike me as a quitter. Then you dont know me very well, I replied. * * * I could not have been less in the mood for a party. Id known I was in for one the moment my parents began dropping unsubtle hints about how boring and uneventful the upcoming weekend was sure to be, when we all knew perfectly well I was turning sixteen. Id begged them to skip the party this year because, among other reasons, I couldnt think of a single person I wanted to invite, but they worried that I spent too much time alone, clinging to the notion that socializing was theutic. So was electroshock, I reminded them. But my mother was loath to pass up even the flimsiest excuse for a celebrationshe once invited friends over for our cockatiels birthdayin part because she loved to show off our house. Wine in hand, shed herd guests from room to overfurnished room, extolling the genius of the architect and telling war stories about the construction (It took months to get these sconces from Italy). Wed just come home from my disastrous session with Dr. Golan. I was following my dad into our suspiciously dark living room as he muttered things like What a shame we didnt plan anything for your birthday and Oh well, theres always next year, when all the lights flooded on to reveal streamers, balloons, and a motley assortment of aunts, uncles, cousins I rarely spoke toanyone my mother could cajole into attendingand Ricky, whom I was surprised to see lingering near the punch bowl, looking comically out of place in a studded leather jacket. Once everyone had finished cheering and Id finished pretending to be surprised, my mom slipped her arm around me and whispered, Is this okay I was upset and tired and just wanted to play Warspire III: The Summoning before going to bed with the TV on. But what were we going to do, send everyone home I said it was fine, and she smiled as if to thank me. Who wants to see the new addition she sang out, pouring herself some chardonnay before marching a troupe of relatives up the stairs. Ricky and I nodded to each other across the room, wordlessly agreeing to tolerate the others presence for an hour or two. We hadnt spoken since the day he nearly shoved me off the roof, but we both understood the importance of maintaining the illusion of having friends. I was about to go talk to him when my Uncle Bobby grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me into a corner. Bobby was a big barrelchested guy who drove a big car and lived in a big house and would eventually succumb to a big heart attack from all the foie gras and Monster Thickburgers hed packed into his colon over the years, leaving everything to my pothead cousins and his tiny quiet wife. He and my uncle Les were copresidents of Smart Aid, and they were always doing thispulling people into corners for conspiratorial chats, as if plotting a mob hit rather than complimenting the hostess on her guacamole.