the sky keeps opening up
the unicorn, whose real name i keep forgetting, was sitting in the library typing an english202 paper about weed. and i was struggling with ebay, and paypal, and accidentally buying too many cameras, and cursing everything that is complicated commerce. she mutters to herself, i need to save this and instantly! the lights flicker off and on again and all the computers blink blackly and make a collective click click click. her eyes get very wide and panicky at the screen and i cover my mouth with my hand and try not to laugh because its not funny. saying, oh my gosh, that is so awful dude...trailing off. she just looks terrified. she says she has failed english 202 three times. three whole times? i gape. well, not really...
but its okay. the file saved. its nice when that happens. a lifeboat moment. but oh! and then---this is the important part---she then explains to me How to Hitchhike on Boats, which i find terribly exciting, so exciting i barely stand it. hitchhiking on boats! why, i want to hitchhike on boats! the very idea! gives me the crazies inside.
hey team: i'm going to hitchhike on boats and don't think i am not serious.
its brazil outside. the water's burbling up from the grates. its a weather system. an experiment for electrical things.
and i'm trapped in the library. i'm a cat today, and not in the mood. stay dry in the house, at the edges, under the things.
yours, amanda L. at 4:56:00 PM [+]
how we crept along the
there is this moment yesterday. i have been really down, and say so when asked. how are you doin oh i do not say, well, but oh! give the Thumbs Down at everyone. and then i take some pictures of the kids holding plates in the park, and then i take some time away, i flee the city and every place and go for an adventure, which is riding in the grey grey grey grey grey air to the bookstore for made-up story plots and spinning into the future, which i wish were standing outside of the trompe le monde in paris and checking the posters to see what bands are coming, and having a little apartment there and a meaningless job at the airport which i'd get to every afternoon on the RER and then perhaps either sit at a desk---but this is tricky because my french is gone these days--- or more realistically pull on heavy yellow jackets and throw bags around or! refuel the airplanes! wouldn't that be excellent?
i change the future around in my head until it is perfect.
i consider moving to france and starting a bicycle tour business. that would be fun, because i'd get to take people on bike rides for a living. but i still don't really know the bicycle part of bicycles. i only know the fun part of bicycles. and i'd have to get ahold of the bicycles. i'd need luke s. for this plan to work, and i think his plans are aligned in the opposite direction from europe these days. i'd need joey r. from-out-of-the-past for this plan to work (and singing holland 1945 real loud in any puiblic space). i'd need nathan l. for this to work. i'd need, i'd need...
i compile a stuttering list in my head of the people who are:
1. well versed in the bicycle part of bicycles
2. easily convinced to embark on hairbrained schemes
i give up the plan for a few minutes.
at the bookstore, i thieve a fat book on bicycle maintanance. and oh, i ungive up on the plan!
and in the parking lot, it is quiet and grey grey grey. no one is looking for me, no one knows where i am. circles and curves and the wet ground making a slick hiss. i have no realistic plans anymore. ryan m. returns from hidden spaces and calls. no, i call. i say, ohh, lets drink a big old bottle of wine and talk and talk. i am near you. in the west end? i'll come for a visit. tell me the street names.
ryan has plans, and news of all my other lost friends, all with plans, everyone planning, plans of assorted scope and size. i want to put my head on the table and blush from laziness. instead i lean against the icebox and say, i have really fucked up this year. the set-myself-back-several-steps kind of fucking up.
you gotta leave richmond, i do, i do. richmond hurts my back. richmond breaks my heart. richmond sits me down on the carpet and turns the television on, and places chocolates on my tongue and salt on my tailfeathers. and oh
i have no realistic plans. and occasionally the future gives me the creeps. in the large house in the fancy part of the city, we play pente until i can almost play again. jason laferrera says stupid and reckless things and i eventually cry and cry and explain how miserably i hate muna h. and cry some more. everything is wrong. now: with my head on the table like i envisioned it, ryan holds my hand and i squinch my eyes shut and choke on myself
in the morning its better.
i see ben and suggest we collaborate: monsters fighting drawings + girly dresses. bloody monstery vistas across fluffy skirts. this is a simple salve. in secret i am counting up dollars and watching the flightlists, and searching for a nice mediumsized backpack, and collecting boxes from the ground outside.
give me your address.
yours, amanda L. at 12:51:00 PM [+]
shawn thornton says this man is lecturing here on the 29th, but i can't find out anything about it
yours, amanda L. at 5:43:00 PM [+]
i have all my skirts and sewing projects packed into sacks and wrapped around myself like a nomad. and i'm careening downtown, gripping the brake that doesn't ever stop the bike so much as slow it down kinda, hoping for nothing surprising, staring back at the businesspeople who stare. i wobble at the lights. i'm not balanced right. i'm clutching ahold of everything as tightly as possible and downtown in richmond is really downhill and i'm trying, and i'm sleepy, and i'm desperate for water
last night i sat on the floor and slowly painted thick black outlines around every single thing. in the studio we put on elton john and luke is laying on the couch dying from the fattening drinks he's taking in an attempt to fatten himself up. he looks awful, and you know the book the chrysalids? by john wyndham? where the kids speak in thought-pictures but the little one is so good at it that when she is a baby and lost in a field her thought-picture are so loud and crying and loud that all her cousins clutch their headaches from miles away; luke is laying on the studio couch and filling up the entire room with blackness and toxicity and i begin to panic in a fretful don't-be-so-sick way and can only suggest he move to the storefront window and watch the traffic go by. because that always helps. and i just sat and painted my lines, and he read an entire book (--what can i do? --you can lay in the window and read that whole book) and i played cds, and did not talk, and felt increasingly serene, and disconnected, disconnected, disconnected myself.
yours, amanda L. at 10:55:00 AM [+]
down the street up the street
down the street up the street
very very fast and then lazy swirls with handclaps and twitches
these kids yelled from their porch where there was a birthday party, i stopped and they said, there's a package for you here and i said what is the word for when you are miserable but full of energy?
i sat on the steps and ate vegan cake.
later, in a different place, curtis and i talked until the center of the night, some embarassing and revealing and gruesomely personal conversation, the sort that only occurs when one is drunk, and when one is being forcibly questioned.
i admit to things.
and then today.
oh, the bicycle races lost their magics. some sea change in the living room. and i don't want to go back. the television makes me sad. the sitting and watching makes me sad, the bicycles make me sad, everything fucking gets to me the wrong way.
i want to sit crosslegged on the floor of the studio and cut and paste things, humming, listening to franz ferdinand. we watched chris terry last night at betsy's, and some other acoustic kid, and then and there i decided that there's nothing in the whole universe i want more than to lie on a wooden floor paging through picture books about antarctica while someone sits next to me playing aimlessly on a guitar and occasionally breaks into songs. thats my top daydream.
my top daydreams
1. to lie on a wooden floor paging through picture books about antarctica while someone sits next to me playing aimlessly on a guitar and occasionally breaks into songs.
2. a bed that is high up off the ground with layers and layers of clean linens and pillows.
3. a house made from pieces of scrap metal and wood and painted bright teals and reds and oranges, with a garden and clothesline and a sauna and several cats; placed near a local trainstop somewhere in southern poland or maybe a baltic country, and i would wear thick woolen socks, let my hair grow long, become pregnant and play old records loudly while laying outside on the grass watching the sky for airplanes.
4. a house at the edge of the city with everyone living in it, and dinners together.
yours, amanda L. at 12:19:00 PM [+]
a game several may play;
a treasure map
1. my profile.
2. lowercase letters
3. ooh, there's just two of us! and both named amanda!
4. salsa and cilantro
5. "oh, lookit, a previous post titled my favorites."
6. because i wrote a post called my favorites too, back in the early spring. and it was a big deal; it was a dramatic, pre cry-cry-cry experiment in sympathetic magic, or a voodoo spell, that worked and did not work at the same time. as is the case with most things.
see, a perfect copy. word for word. gasp! so delicious, sneaky, weird and ego-brightening most of all.
yours, amanda L. at 5:47:00 PM [+]
its earlier than is believed possible on a sunday morning; some hour than no one's ever seen before firsthand, and when i open the door to the studio a large brown rat is running across the room and disappearing into the piles of cut-apart clothes, mix tapes and bits of papery love letters that i've got surrounding my Area.
this sends me into a helpless panic. i pull aside a curtain of fabric from a shelf and find a plastic jar of peanut butter thats been unscrewed and opened by the rats. which is horrible. andthen the cops are inside the studio without permission but i don't even think of this right away
cop: i drove by and i haven't seen that door open in five years.
me: the rats OPENED MY PEANUT BUTTER!
me: i mean, this is an art studio. we have permission to be here. do you see this jar?
cop: well alright. sorry about your rat problem.
me: i have the rats of nimh in here!!!!
they leave and i run around and can do nothing about it.
lee calls and we go to take family portraits.
talk to you later, reader.
yours, amanda L. at 9:57:00 AM [+]
Now it is well known that when there are many of these flowers together their odor is so powerful that anyone who breathes it falls asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried away from the scent of the flowers, he sleeps on and on forever. But Dorothy did not know this, nor could she get away from the bright red flowers that were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy and she felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep.
1. the smallest particle of a substance that retains the chemical and physical properties of the substance and is composed of two or more atoms; a group of like or different atoms held together by chemical forces.
2. a small particle; a tiny bit.
a pile of young adult lit from the barnes and noble.
- the great gilly hopkins
- big mouth and ugly girl
- born blue
it is daytime. jason comes to the door and bangs it with his fist and i leap into the air shrieking and do not know where i am. oh. the fan noises and the hot powdery air, my dreams break apart, i like to be woken up. on how his car was burgled and the ignition has been destroyed and so he starts the car with a tool jammed into the steering column where the turn signal usually goes. this eliminates the turn signal and somehow makes the windshield wipers take a lazy turn every now and then. we drive around anyways, catching the other up
* * *
on rubbing my eyes and blinking a few times, and staring at the sea and wondering what has occurred
i sat in fourth street and yawned at katie who i'd just met. she yawned back at me. we discussed napping all day and what it does to one's disposition. jane looked deranged and asked do i look deranged? and we said yes. and wes and i wrote livestrong with sharpies on our yellow mars bar wristlets and choked ourselves laughing over this. katie yawned some more and i tried to eat a grilled cheese with drunken arms and eventually stood up and left the night uneasily,
like a girl who's let her ship drift too far away from the shore.
i fall into long sleeps.
one hundred years of solitude and the part where everyone loses their memories and then they make labels for everything to remember what things are and what their purpose is, or the wizard of oz and its poppy fields or alice in wonderland and the forest where nothing has names
Alice with her arms clasped lovingly round the soft neck of the Fawn, till they came out into another open field, and here the Fawn gave a sudden bound into the air, and shook itself free from Alice's arms. "I'm a Fawn!" it cried out in a voice of delight. "And, dear me, you're a human child!" A sudden look of alarm came into its beautiful brown eyes and in another moment it had darted away at full speed.
i disappear into my friends and come out the other side.
now: we race down the hill as fast as possible, go dancing, drink vodkas, i'm slow to realize i haven't really seen anyone in two weeks and suddenly feel like an amnesiac.
everyone: where have you been?
me: i don't know?
* * *
i'm not sure what i'm trying to say to you, listeners.
yours, amanda L. at 1:47:00 PM [+]
The Wolf and the Lamb
The Bat and the Weasels
The Ass and the Grasshopper
The Lion and the Mouse
i wake up and try the television. its broken and staticky and i stare at it, slack-jawed, and i look briefly at the cords puddling down around it, frowning, and then i close my eyes and consider the insides of my eyelids for a few moments, and lay back down, reeling with an assortment of localized headaches. it doesn't matter and ohh, sleep. more. yes. i have adopted this couch. its softer than all other couches. when i wake up there are people around, and no toxic arty smells. and no crushing weight of unfinished sewing, unfinished everything.
there is, instead, bicycle racing, every single morning, and its keeping me going.
* * *
in which joey is awake and solving the problem of coffee. the television fixes itself. and oh friends, saturday is a tidy equation. we make chili. we go to the thrift store. we buy books and sit together reading them; we shift places around the couches and drink limeade from its pitcher and read pet jokes from the pet joke book and listen to rachmaninoff records. and i went to an afternoon party where there was an eight-pointed star-shaped piņata that alicia broke apart with a golf club; it was filled with little plastic animals, tootsie rolls and marbles. i filled my pockets with marbles and told the story of finding buried treasure in the front yard at age five, and then i counted them up (50 plus a shooter) and dumped them unceremoniously into my beer, raising its level like the crow and the water jar.
* * *
453. THE CROW AND THE WATER JAR
A thirsty crow noticed a huge jar and saw that at the very bottom there was a little bit of water. For a long time the crow tried to spill the water out so that it would run over the ground and allow her to satisfy her tremendous thirst. After exerting herself for some time in vain, the crow grew frustrated and applied all her cunning with unexpected ingenuity: as she tossed little stones into the jar, the water rose of its own accord until she was able to take a drink.
* * *
luke wears the piņata on his head and we bicycle through the fan and everyone who lays eyes upon him lets out some call or whooping acknowledgement. we have been drunk for two or three days; something about it reminds me of when you feel deja vu and try to see how long you can make it last, even though you haven't any idea how one makes a deja vu feeling go on and on. nobody has any idea, and so we are drunk, and its been days, and we are in motion, and building plans upon plans upon plans, like an
* * *
an idea club bender
we discuss making our bicycles into enormous cardboard cars and fake shrubbery and then racing them around. and starting a piņata business. we miss lee's show and feel delinquent; outside the house kids are sitting on the curb convincing each other to go swimming and inside there are beautiful paintings allover the walls and a girl and a boy are practicing handstands in the living room. i mend clothes that are disentegrating, listen to the yeahs yeah yeahs and drink every last drink in the studio. i'm a locust. i'm eating richmond up. we go swimming. in every direction there are children leaping from the trestles, climbing wobbly ladders, swinging out and letting go, over and over, and i fall and bruise myself a little, and stumble up the rocks to pull on my clothes which stick to my skin and river water runs into my eyes and summer bends and folds in every direction. at the party i find a bench at its edges and build a nest. haziness. loyd in a striped shirt, asking about brent cody, adam mclean ready to finish a fight i started
* * *
a man leans in close and calls me baby, and i say in a savage voice CALL ME BABY AGAIN AND I WILL SLIT YOUR FUCKING THROAT
* * *
kostin grabs at my hands and talks in indecipherable puzzles; delicious cigarettes, the nintendo habits of our mothers, i destroy my telephone by dropping it in the toilet, the world turns into a movie and back again. and its outstanding how much beer i've seen us pour into our bodies. at laurel street i can only sit on the ground and cackle and look at my friends and beam. i want to catch ahold over everyone's wrists and squeeze, saying this is exactly what i want to be doing, here in the night! and i'm not afraid of anything! but i keep grabbing andy harris in the face and feeling that elation is collapse in sheep's clothing, its collapsing hour, i ride to the collapsing park and lay my head on my paper airplane and watch the leaves for a long time. its perfect. its perfect and i won't let anyone break the spell, and i am missing living with andrew and our fall-asleep talks and waking-up talks, and suddenly wish badly that 1308 cary street was my for-real house so i'd have roommates and i think then i'd go home right now and listen to records with them. and this is such a nice idea and i am so drunk and later from my couch i can hear mark outside going on and on, oh going on and on and on, and bicycles coming in through the door and piling higher and higher, and people creeping around running into walls, and i squeeze my eyes shut and will not let anything break the spell. i'm happy and clinging to it.
* * *
in the morning it is this morning.
i wake up and look at the fan, which is still, and say to myself, i can't go on living like this with exclaimation points. the girl coming down the stairs knocks over the tools and looks like a deer at me. i say hi and she doesn't say anything and then i say do you want to watch the tour de france with me and she shakes her head and so i shrug and fall back asleep, with one ear to the television. my eyes are dry and my dreams are weaving in and out of waking life with a certain laziness and i'm so messed-up, and utterly content.
who can fucking tell. the phone is destroyed so you'll not be able to find me, reader. i'm going to read confederacy of dunces all day and then embroider that aesop's fable into the fabric of a skirt.
* * *
yours, amanda L. at 1:16:00 PM [+]
we sang along with jimmy eat world in the car and i don't care if its dumb. i rewound the tape and played the song again. i don't care, i don't care, i sing sing sing and ask jason to write music for me to sing to and we will have a band then. we listened to the comas. i get my INFORMATION from a tube/you ask me for DEMENSIONS i've got two/ i'm living at the STATION without you/ I AM A HOLOGRAAAAAAMMMMMM i am on my period and need to sing along with songs and cry and drink coffees until my heart feels like bee trapped in a jar and thumps against the glass desperately. we decide to do this thing, then that thing, i say take me here no take me there. we decide to just go to jason's house and download music. he will play video games and i will look for tour de france stage four video. the sky is medium blue and ominous. every song is good, even the bad ones. hot hot heat. SOME OF US WOULDN'T BE LYING IF WE SAID WE WEREN'T TRYING---
brent was in front of the tv. i think the intro music for zelda 2 sounds like a mensa select song. they are searching the internet for cheat codes. we are summer break schools out core. we are parents basement core. i am so emotional i frighten myself. i stare at old photographs and fall in love with the bicyclists from 1982, 1985, 1986. and
nobody warned me
oh christ. jase and i went looking online for yesterdays tour de france to download and watch (J: you can probably find clips on the news websites. A: NO! i want to watch THE WHOLE THING. ALL TWO HOURS.) and instead he gives up and returns to zelda 2 and i do a couple google image searches and, in a flash flood sort of way, discover the bicycle websites. all of them. and get caught up in them real hard. and get excited in a little kid way. and realize this and am agast. when did this happen? i force myself to remember karen in the bar, saying the guy in the turquoise shirt was battling the guy in the light blue shirt--- and i start laughing all over again. the moment in the bar with karen and karen was undoing the spell of the technical.
"its dangerous to go alone! take this."
i feel exactly this way.
yours, amanda L. at 3:16:00 PM [+]
on what actually happens
nathans car breaks and he quits. i borrow a car. we add andy to our project. at the moment, at this very moment, lafff is sitting next to me playing zelda 2 and geting killeded by the creature with the boomerangs. but we drive lafffs battle-weary car, alot. we drive so much. and we are a team and at one point when the four of us, when we are still four, reading and napping and smoking and playing tapes and it is seamless, and we're a team.
but everyone splits apart, and things begin to unravel.
but i fail at the medical screening, and walk around with clenched fists and flashing eyes and there are only nondescript buildings in every direction and so i fall asleep in the backseat with murderous thoughts edging the corners. i think to myself, if luke stevens comes out from that screening and utters the word "bummer" when i say that i failed at it, i will, i promise, punch him in the face. but he doesn't, and has no idea how close he's come to being beaten senseless and left abandoned by the roadside. we win at lottery, i loathe new jersey, i don't even see asbury park, but instead see cars moving in lines and curves. blood work. i am bombarded with memories and grow nervous for myself because they well up like tears and i cant keep from talking about them, a constant stream of stories and associations and fragments, and have a story for every song and bite my lips to shut up
seventh grade field trip and falling asleep slumberparty all girl cabin and jennifer dugan says Mandy you have so many stories you're always telling stories i think you are making them up; and i wanted to disappear, and if you always feel time breaking down and the layers of experience then you ought to find me because i need the people that tell stories too. the liars, even.
, i suddenly clutch the steering wheel and develop a compulsion to do all the driving, i suddenly can stay awake at the wheel; my period starts in the night and that makes more sense. i want to say see? thats why the past is closing in on me, thats why singing along feels so great, now may i continue describing the filmstrips shoving for space in my head? but i don't, i don't, i just try to close my mouth
the more you talk the more unsafe you make youself and i make myself so unsafe and open at all times
and karen is pretty and yells in the bar. importrant things, the sort you have to yell, because they are important and must be heard clearly. i get a small dose of her, and later when she runs down the street in the rain and in black she looks like a maya deren movie and i want to run too. west philly, ice creams, kids running around enacting little dramas. all i want to do is sit and drink a slurpie. i want to trust my friends but richmond has put a crack straight through me.
i want a stable, solid home. feeling like some orphan kid archetype from early eighties disney historical-drama movies, with seventies hair and dirty elbows and i just want all my friends to gather together at the edges of the city to make a home. without television and petty melodrama and shitty makeout sessions but a kitchen and dinners and projects and care for one another
yours, amanda L. at 11:44:00 AM [+]
the medical study NJ caravan is go
i miss karen. there's a new karen.
i mean, i'm going there. to phila. and, as ALWAYS, i'm no car no transportation and so bringing some boy. the archetype of always going to philadephia with boy. infact, a whole litter of them, a cross-section of my favorites, a easter egg basketful. i feel like i'm bringing her puppies. the last visit---with pretty matt---went over well, with sparks and video games. and she liked lafff and he was her favorite.
i never get to visit karen sans boy(s).
but-but-but---! they're my friends and not my lovers, which makes a difference.
not that i haven't tried, mind you. oh awfulness.
(heavens above. remember nicholas and stephen brooding in the living room? and ryan? and when you did not drink? and hated everyone i bought to visit you?)
oh now. its 2004. and karen and i are worldly adult ladies.
abandoned carnival in NJ. convincing the medical peoples that we are healthy specimens. rapping along to radio rap (i mean, it is nathan whos driving us.) etc.
today i accidentally tripled my bicycle knowledge. (0 times 0 times 0? one times one times one? whats the unit of measurement here? calories, like we measure fun with? i suppose it ought to be miles/kilometers. or rotations of some sort. except i don't know what sort. because i am still only one times one times one. hah!) and enjoyed commercials, like the sort of girl i ought to know better than to be. ah, fuck. ah, bicycles. bicycles, schmycles.
oh. thats a goddamn lie
yours, amanda L. at 8:45:00 PM [+]
the most perfect moment in richmond
in which we are informed of Fireworks, and climb back atop the bike to find the source. pedal slowly down robinson street, awatch. they're at the end of the street, large and bright and full and loud. everyone out on their saturday walks crisscross the street bar to bar bleach blond has stopped dead where they stand. looking. its so quiet and so loud, and we pass couple after couple, still and staring; the air fills with smoke, there are fire engines in the distance: two, four, eight, sixteen from every direction.
there's a fire in the alleyway and the street is full of people and the air is full of traffic lights and fireworks and cars still race by according to the signals because cars don't ever know whats up. people are holding hands and falling to their knees all over the science museum front lawn and people are jogging into the alleyway calling out to one another and firetrucks are rounding the corners and its All! Made! of Lights!
and water runs in snakey rivers to the street. a boy is turning circles on an electric scooter. richmond's turning around and into the doorways of the sushi place and is unfrozen, like time was stopped and now its not, and chatter and drunk talk and over it. and back to usual. and i ran back here to tell you----
yours, amanda L. at 10:35:00 PM [+]
i don't know how other families have their family reunions. but i didn't even see mine coming. and there is no planning and no teeshirts with the date on them and a tree icon and there is just chaos. did i tell you about how my family is chaos? here's how you make a family reunion: you just call everyone ever and say come to craigsville, bring a dish.
and my aunties are creeping around the outside of the house, peering around corners with pink and lime green water pistols, and my mama is stamping her foot and saying not in the house!! and its my granny's birthday; they dump a pitcher of water over her head. my mom carries the cake in her arms outside yelling MAMA? where are you? and the wind blows all the candles out and she hollers, loud so whereever my granny is she'll hear, i hope you made a wish! and my uncle stevie the cop hits a pinata shaped like a rainbow with a baseball bat, over and over. everyone is chasing each other and giggling hysterically and everyone has a watergun which escalates inevitably to the garden hoses. and i lay down on a sheet i've pulled from my own closet to take a nap in the shade and with closed eyes and listening to my family Play Outside, wasn't i wondering if i'd ever feel like a grown-up ever? just look at these lunatics that borne me.
yours, amanda L. at 3:15:00 PM [+]
at the farmers' market there was a goose walking around opening and closing its mouth and gulping air in gulps; a lady walked behind it yelling DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY and a little girl walked behind her with a green ribbon stuck to the bottom of her shoe and soggy clothes and all around old people fed each other spring rolls dripping with peanut sauces. last night we swam until it thunderstormed, and today i snuck into hibbs and stole dinner and rode the bike that makes crazy noises and stephanie is going to feed us even more dinner whereupon we'll all watch pete's dragon together and i will sing along with the songs despite being utterly unable to remember any of the lyrics. its all part of a larger business plan, i promise. dear richmond, i'll do better tomorrow.
oh, friends. come to the studio 7-9pm friday, tomorrow, first friday and i'll kiss you on the nose and hand you a cupful of beverage and dress you in fine linens even, maybe, maybe. come with bright looks and questionable schemes and shining. plus dramatic erratic unchainable talk.
because i want to take a look at you, and listen to you go on and on
yours, amanda L. at 6:19:00 PM [+]
anda gail lewis 2005. stop crying every day.