Writtenpurpose451’s Weblog

I’ve joined the ranks of blogspot.

I’ve recharged my blogging batteries and am starting anew to document my travels as a newly wed and an army wife.



FEUDALISM: You have two cows. Your lord takes some of the milk.

PURE SOCIALISM: You have two cows. The government takes them and puts them in a barn with everyone else’s cows. You have to take care of all of the cows. The government gives you as much milk as you need.

BUREAUCRATIC SOCIALISM: You have two cows. The government takes them and put them in a barn with everyone else’s cows. They are cared for by ex-chicken farmers. You have to take care of the chickens the government took from the chicken farmers. The government gives you as much milk and eggs as the regulations say you need.

FASCISM: You have two cows. The government takes both, hires you to take care of them and sells you the milk.

PURE COMMUNISM: You have two cows. Your neighbors help you take care of them, and you all share the milk.

RUSSIAN COMMUNISM: You have two cows. You have to take care of them, but the government takes all the milk.

CAMBODIAN COMMUNISM: You have two cows. The government takes both of them and shoots you.

DICTATORSHIP: You have two cows. The government takes both and drafts you.

PURE DEMOCRACY: You have two cows. Your neighbors decide who gets the milk.

REPRESENTATIVE DEMOCRACY: You have two cows. Your neighbors pick someone to tell you who gets the milk.

BUREAUCRACY: You have two cows. At first the government regulates what you can feed them and when you can milk them. Then it pays you not to milk them. Then it takes both, shoots one, milks the other and pours the milk down the drain. Then it requires you to fill out forms accounting for the missing cows. P

URE ANARCHY: You have two cows. Either you sell the milk at a fair price or your neighbors try to take the cows and kill you.

LIBERTARIAN/ANARCHO-CAPITALISM: You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull. S

URREALISM: You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.

(Original source unknown . . . this version expanded and Illuminated by SJ.)

I read this in the paper and thought I’d share it. It was wonderful. Enjoy!

The other day, someone at a store in our town read that a Methamphetamine lab had been found in an old farmhouse in the adjoining county and he asked me a rhetorical question, “Why didn’t we have a drug problem when you and I were growing up?”

I replied, I had a drug problem when I was young: I was drug to church on Sunday morning. I was drug to church for weddings and funerals. I was drug to family reunions and community socials no matter the weather.
I was drug by my ears when I was disrespectful to adult. I was also drug to the woodshed when I disobeyed my parents, told a lie, brought home a bad report card, did not speak with respect, spoke ill of the teacher or the preacher, or if I didn’t put forth my best effort in everything that was asked of me.

I was drug to the kitchen sink to have my mouth washed out with soap if I uttered a profanity. I was drug out to pull weeds in mom’s garden and flower beds and cockleburs out of dad’s fields. I was drug to the homes of family, friends, and neighbors to help out some poor soul who had no one to mow the yard, repair the clothesline, or chop some firewood, and, if my mother had ever known that I took a single dime as a tip for this kindness she would have drug me back to the woodshed.

Those drugs are still in my veins and they affect my behavior in everything I do, say or think. They are stronger than cocaine, crack, or heroin; and, if today’s children had this kind of drug problem, America would be a better place. God bless the parents who drugged us.

I think maybe in this day and age, that’d be a little extreme, but the principal is still the same. If my parents had been harder on me, given me tougher, but rewarding love, I sort of wonder where I’d be. Not saying they didn’t do a good job, something must have gone right, because I feel pretty good about where my life is headed…But to instill morals and a firm understanding of repect into my children is a personal goal of mine.

We’d finished class, out before noon.
I’d already asked this sweet boy to lunch, and scared him with my indecisiveness.
And still, there I was, on his couch. We were watching 21, I movie that will forever remain special and dear to me. I remember I kept thinking how this was the guy from Across the Universe and how odd it was that he didn’t have his thick gummy, English accent.
I was a long, long movie, and throughout its duration the boy and I were in constant motion. Scooting closer, then further…rearranging our bums and  tucking our legs. We’d touch occasionally, and that was like fire. I’d been difficult the last few days, but now I was certain of what I wanted. Him, and only him. He was perfect.
21 finally came to an end, which promptly started a strategically places pillow fight by me. The only time a girl ever starts a pillow fight with a boy is because she wants to kiss him. You know it’s true. And so fight we did, and as if directed by the magic of our desires, he pinned me. But before either of us could take a breath, I shot up, and our lips met. Holding myself up by my then frequently used ab muscles, we kissed so gently, so perfectly. I was in love.

The last year has been filled to the rim with moments like this that just work perfectly. The first year is significant to me because this person is no longer a stranger. We’ve spent 365 days, day and day out learning and loving,  and if it’s any sort of preview as to what the next 80 years will be like, count me in.

Happy Anniversary, Mister.

I saw this article on Rupert Murdoc’s Twitter and it really moved me, in an angry, somewhat frustrated direction:

A day before New York Rep. Peter King called Michael Jackson a “pervert” unworthy of nonstop media coverage, the aunt of a U.S. soldier killed in Afghanistan on the same day Jackson died asked why her nephew’s death went virtually unnoticed while the King of Pop got memorial shrines across the country.

“Mr. Jackson received days of wall-to-wall coverage in the media,” Martha Gillis wrote to the Washington Post. “Where was the coverage of my nephew or the other soldiers who died that week?”

Click here for video on troops getting ready to deploy.

Gillis’ nephew, Lt. Brian Bradshaw, 24, died in Kheyl, Afganistan, of wounds suffered when an improvised explosive device detonated near his vehicle. Bradshaw, of Steilacoom, Wash., was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, 4th Airborne Brigade Combat Team, 25th Infantry Division in Fort Richardson, Alaska. He was one of at least 13 U.S. soldiers to die in Afghanistan since Jackson’s death on June 25.

Bradshaw’s mother, Mary, said she agreed with Gillis, saying the nonstop coverage of Jackson’s death has become “totally ridiculous” and laughable.

“I can watch the news many nights and there’s no mention of what’s going on in Afghanistan or Iraq and there’s boys dying over there,” Bradshaw told FOXNews.com. “Oh God, I can’t talk.”

Gillis, of Springfield, Va., could not be reached for comment. In her letter to the Washington Post, she described Bradshaw as a “thoroughly decent person with a wry sense of humor” who loved history, particularly the Civil War.

“He had old-fashioned values and believed that military service was patriotic and that actions counted more than talk,” Gillis wrote. “He wasn’t much for talking, although he could communicate volumes with a raised eyebrow.”

Bradshaw, who graduated from Pacific Lutheran University, was the product of a military family. His father, Paul, is a retired National Guard helicopter pilot, and his mother is a retired Army nurse. Bradshaw was buried Monday following a service at St. John’s Bosco Church in Lakewood, Wash.

“He was a search-and-rescue volunteer, an altar boy, a camp counselor,” Gillis’ letter continued. “He carried the hopes and dreams of his parents willingly on his shoulders. What more than that did Michael Jackson do or represent that earned him memorial ‘shrines,’ while this soldier’s death goes unheralded?”

Gillis said the only media outlets that covered Bradshaw’s death were in his hometown of Steilacoom, Wash., and those where he was stationed before his deployment in March.

Gillis’ sentiment echoes that of King, the Long Island, N.Y., congressman who called on society to stop “glorifying” Jackson in a YouTube video posted on Monday.

King said Jackson had been excessively praised in the days after his death while society ignored the efforts of teachers, police officers and veterans. In the two-minute video, King called the “day in and day out” coverage of Jackson’s death “too politically correct.”

“Let’s knock out the psychobabble,” he said in the video, which was taped outside an American Legion Hall in his district. “He was a pervert, a child molester; he was a pedophile. And to be giving this much coverage to him, day in and day out, what does it say about us as a country? I just think we’re too politically correct.”

King, who is among the possible Republican contenders to run against Democratic Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand, acknowledged that Jackson “may have been a good singer” and “did some dancing,” but he blasted the King of Pop as someone who could not be trusted around children.

“There’s nothing good to say about this guy,” King continued. “But the bottom line is, would you let your child or grandchild be in the same room as Michael Jackson?”

The deaths of seven U.S. soldiers killed in Afghanistan on Monday received just 1/20th of the network television news coverage devoted to Jackson, according to an analysis by the Media Research Center, a Virginia-based news analysis organization.

The seven deaths garnered less than one minute of coverage on ABC, CBS and NBC evening newscasts combined, including just 13 seconds on CBS, compared to more than 13 minutes of Jackson-related news. That’s a 60-to-1 disparity, the analysis found.

“This is a prime example of why network television news audiences are disappearing before our eyes,” Media Research Center President Brent Bozell said. “There is no justification for determining that the death of a celebrity over a week ago merits 20 times more news coverage than the tragic deaths of American soldiers in Afghanistan.”

So. I posted a note about this on facebook. Here are my words exactly:

“I just wanted to say R.I.P. to the 13 American soldiers who were killed in Afghanistan since Michael JacksonNs death. I find it disgusting that these deaths were overlooked and ignored by a child molester’s memorial. Sure, he could dance and he could sing, but our boys are still dying regardless of how many millions of copies of his music are sold. I read an article on this and a media analysis said that after doing the math Michael Jackson’s death recieved far more media coverage than our boys. A 60 to 1 ratio to be exact. Whuddafuxup with that? I’m embarassed.”

I was called out on that. Wrongfully, I think, but still. The initial reaction to any mention of the conflicts in the Middle East is to either say something and roll your eyes, or just change the subject. And according to the article, we’re apparently more than willing to take one celebritiy’s death and blow it up, turn up the volume until it drowns out everything else that is too hard to think about. When Michael Jackson died, there was no more war in the Middle East, and there was no more recession. Everything was just so doggone good until that poor man had to die. He had a hard family life, you know.
What. Ever. There are still far more pressing matters that need to be known, to be thought about…and I don’t care what anyone says. The lives of American Soldiers, yeah the ones dying and fighting for me, for all of us are just a little more important than one Singer’s passing.



So, Wednesday morning I woke up excited for the day to come. As soon as I was dressed, I would be running over to my boyfriend’s house and then to the Illinois State Beach. I. Could. Not. Wait.
Nick and I went with his mom and as soon as we got there I knew I’d have mixed feelings about the day. Though I was wearing flip flops. the sand still managed to get beneath my feet and rawr its ugly rawr. It was HOT!! Poor nick didn’t bring anything, so he had a hell of a time dancing across the white, uneven land to where the sanctuary of our towels lie.
Then came the swim. Thoughtfully bringing my flippy floppies to cross the terrible trench of rocks and whatnot, I waded into the FREEZING water. Sandy dunked first, followed by myself, and then, bringing up the rear in his adorable fashion was Nick.
All seemed well. We swam, we talked, we floated and treaded and laughed. The we sunned. We lay out and discussed the crazy drama of one couple near us. The guy threw sand in the girls face and threated to choke her…We were all interested to see how that played out, hopefully for the best. Then we swam again, and the wading was once again a hilarious feat for all of us. The water was sooo cold!
Soon after we sunned. Again. And here is where the fateful mistake was made. Sandy realized she needed to run to the store to buy some things. She offered to take us with, and in retrospect, had I known the way this day would play out I would have been racing her to the car. But no, Nick and I were intoxicated by the lovely feeling of the sun, finally showering us with its warm, decieving rays after such a long and difficult winter. We decided to stay behind. She’d only be a half an hour.

Half an hour turned to an hour. And after flipping many times, we finally began to feel a little uncomfortable in the sun and decided to call it quits. The sand was even hotter than before, and it was truly an amazing sight watching Nick dance his way across thw sand once again. When we finally made it to the cool safety of soil and grass, we waited for Nick’s mom to come reteive us from our picnic bench…And all was still well.
It was still well when we got back to the house. It was well as we hung out, and as I made my eventual way to work. But as time passed, my shirt rubbing against the skin I’d soaked up all those rays with, I began to feel uncomfortable. Then it started to hurt…then…

Nausea. Tears. Dizziness. It was almost closing time when I leaned over the sick at my work and vomited all the coffee and pepsi I’d consumed the evening. I could see straight. I’d taken off my bra hours ago because anything so much as looking at my now cherry-red skin was torture.

I went home that night and lathered myself in Aloe. It helped some, but not much. I was waking up every few hours, gooey, hurting, and stiff. Everything hurt. I was covered in this monsterous burn. I made it through the night and managed to drive myself to Nick’s house once again in the morning to continue the Aloe process. It helped the more we did it, and cold showers, and cabin fever were aids as well.

Now I’m still trying to get some of this pain to leave before work tonight. All I know is, I better not ever burn like this again. I think I would just die.

I’ve been saying it for a while–I want tattoos. I’ve met more people who have tattoos in the past year than I have in my whole life, and being the un-inked one of my group, I feel like I’m missing out on some secret society. This I knwo is not the case, but I am still egar to express myself through my skin.

First one: This is something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. If you know me, you know that my favorite movie is Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Something about rockstar transvestites looking for love for others and themselves just rubs me the right way. There’s a song in there that is heavily philosophical and romanic in just the way that it made me fall in love. Speaking of which, it’s call the Origin of Love. It basically describes a time when people had four arms, four legs and two heads. They knew nothing of love because there was no need for it. They were connected and were something like perfect beings. It scared the gods, and so they split them in two and now the feeling of love that we feel when we meet someone is that longing to be put back together. I believe it in a sense, I guess. I think that if two people fall in love, they have to potential to make amazing things together, moreso than if they were apart. The tattoo itself looks something like a Picasso face, cut in half.

Second one: This one isn’t as monumental, but to me is just as important. I was at Payless Shoes with my mom the other day and I came upon a flip flop with a gorgeous flower print on the sole. As soon as I saw it I knew I had to have it…on my foot. The print is just a few flowers arranged around intertwining leaves and stems, but to me it was beautiful. I know that flowers on the foot are an incredibly common tattoo, but getting it will be such a huge accomplishment for me. See, I have the most ticklish feet ever. Only just recently has my boyfriend been able to even rub my feet. I feel that if I were able to get something on my foot, it would show a kind of strength in myself, a mastry of my physical body.

I’m hoping I can gather the money to get these within the next few months. I’m incredibly excited. I can’t wait to be inked.


October 2018
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