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ts looking for sex in Saint-coal A woman was at her hairdresser's getting her hair styled for a trip to Rome with her husband.. She mentioned the trip to the hairdresser, who responded: " Rome? Why would anyone want to go there? It's crowded and dirty. You're crazy to go to Rome. So, how are you getting there?" "We're taking Continental," was the reply. "We got a great rate!" "Continental?" exclaimed the hairdresser. " That's a terrible airline. Their planes are old, their flight attendants are ugly, and they're always late. So, where are you staying in Rome ?" "We'll be at this exclusive little place over on Rome 's Tiber River ed Teste." "don't go any further. I know that place. Everybody thinks its gonna be something special and exclusive, but it's really a dump." "We're going to go to the Vatican and maybe get to the Pope." "That's," laughed the hairdresser. You and a million other people trying to him. He'll look the size of an ant. Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You're going to need it." A month later, the woman again came in for a hairdo. The hairdresser asked her about her trip to Rome. "It was wonderful," explained the woman, "not only were we on time in one of Continental's brand new planes, but it was overbooked, and they bumped us up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful, and I had a handsome 28-year-old steward who waited on me hand and foot . And the hotel was great! They'd just finished a $5 million remodeling job, and now it's a, the finest hotel in the city. They, too, were overbooked, so they apologized and gave us their owner's suite at no extra charge!" "Well," muttered the hairdresser, "that's all well and good, but I know you didn't get to the Pope." "Actually, we were quite lucky, because as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder, and explained that the Pope likes to meet some of the visitors, and if I'd be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me. Sure enough, minutes later, the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down and he spoke a few words to me.." "Oh, really! What'd he say ?" He said: "Who fucked up your hair?" i need a nsa blow job
hey caped crusader, i am saddened by your news. i haven't ever been on here before, but i can't sleep lately b/c of my own beast and wander onto things. i agree, "fuck cancer." my sis has mbc with bone metastases i've c-rc with the same. last week, she'd a new spot on her lungs and her clinical trial chemo isn't working. she's brave enough to do napalm. i won't. i'm 6 months past my expiration date. i guess what i'm trying to get at is what i told my sis when she found out about her recurrence: we're statistical anomalies, she i, probably you too. we could've been dead from tons of other factors in our lives. now, based on one variable (cancer)vs. all other variables that make each of us unique, doctors date stamp our asses and scare the shit out of us. the truth is, we are less likely to fit this longevity probability doctors give us than so others that actual fit our uniqueness-except when we add fear, anxiety, stress, etc. to the one variable, which we of course do when we get the damn label. please, rock out your statistiy significant self. i am trying to. i have my sister is. i hate cancer. i hate my pain. it scares the shit out of me. i hate that my sister is experiencing it just steps behind me. but we're strong women. i have cancer, but cancer is not who i am. if i hadn't stumbled upon this forum your post or whatever these are ed, i would've gone to bed tonight feeling my bone pain more intensely b/c i'm today. thanks for sharing where you are. it gives me more strength to do the same b/c i don't talk about my cancer; seeing how bravely you shared with a group of women who obviously care about you, your post got me to respond and to that i need to share with my people. thanks for the reminder. you're right. bone cancer isn't good-in terms of doctors' diagnoses/ prognoses. but it's just cancer. and it's your body. i'm 6 mos past my exp. date which was 18 mos w/o napalm. yes, i've pain, but i am positive about things: i actually can work a full-time job, i've a network of kick-ass people, i take care of my dog, i wipe my own ass i don't have sponge baths. not bad for someone who should be marinating in the ground. it is not good, as you say, but it's not bad either. i have no idea what my "stage" is according to an. i'm working on "happy". safe travels. thanks for being a light swinger ladies Olahca
Drives me to utter anger and dismay. The system that we pay into for a better life for ourselves and society Abandons us when we need it. Where has it gone wrong? Just when did the the middle class tax paying citizen lose their social safety net? to you to stand strong and weather the storm that came against you. granny flirt masters only pleaseObituaries are histories. They memorialize our dead and bring them back to life. I had forgotten Firestone over the years. But reading Faludi’s tribute to her reminded me of what that time was like, the fervid nature of early Second-Wave feminism and how it changed my own life and the lives of so women around me. Re-reading Owen’s poetry reminds me of how much we lose without concomitant histories; Faludi interviewed dozens of people who had known Firestone. But Owen’s family destroyed every detail of his life that wasn’t a poem. And so we never know, for sure. Just like we never know for sure about Sakia Gunn. Because she was only 15, because she was black, because she was a lesbian, because she was just starting to live her real life, heading to the queer hangouts in Greenwich Village, feeling her strong butch self, details were scant about her. Unlike Shepard, her father wasn’t a diplomat, her mother wasn’t an activist. Keeping her legacy alive has been left to those of us who consider her female, of color life of equal importance. Sakia Gunn’s murder told me a lot about her life. It tells me she fought. It tells me she made her voice heard. It tells me she wasn’t about pretense. It tells me she was brave. It tells me she died telling the truth about her life. These lives–and sadly violent deaths–remind us of why we need to take note of our dead, pay tribute to their lives, leave a lasting memorial. In respects, obituaries are our only histories. In small-town newspaper where we read of someone survived by their longtime companion, this is the only notation of a queer life and death. For centuries that was the only thin marker of our queer lives. adult usa
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