|Reading these suicide pages you will find people seeking help and people offering their help. Some witness about suicide from real life experience, others who play along with me would pretend it's a children's game. Some make sick and cruel jokes about it, and angry people blame me for even mentioning the subject. You might also want to read my favourite answers. If you want your answer to be included here, fill in the form.|
What is the best way to kill yourself when you're under 13?
Quelle est la meilleure forme de suicide pour les moins de 13 ans?
|12 Sep 2003||RedAlice||i've been told that we're only as sick as our secrets. i like the sound of that. It would make a particularly good bumper sticker here in Hades. With that in mind I'd like to engage in a little ineffectual therapy and reveal one of my deepest, darkest secrets. There've been times when the mere thought of this secret has nearly overwhelmed me with self-loathing. And yet, there've been other times when i actually took a perverse pride in it. So what is this personal bit of esoterica? i've got your attention now, don't i? You probably even skipped ahead to see if this is really juicy. Well, skip no further. My secret is this: i'm not that smart. Yup, there it is, dug up and thrown into the sunlight. Since i was a little kid i've known that (like it or not) there were an awful lot of people who had a lot more on the ball than i did. Oh, believe me, i've tried to suppress this awareness. i've tried to convince myself that i was special, that i was gifted. But i eventually learned that this secret could be my greatest asset. i learned that with enough bright friends even a dim bulb can light up a room. i like the sound of that. With enough bright friends even a dim bulb can light up a room. Someone ought to print that on a bumper sticker and slap it on Air Force One.|
|11 Sep 2003||Lucy Cortina||Hi people! I'm back! Well, I'm gone.
Dear dear, the suicide kit has descended into chaos. Billy is back (my god! they actually released you from the psychiatric unit after your hands-up-Lucy's-knickers incident?)
Anyway. Here is me, a single person. I'm not part of the mass manufactured stories or fancy names that plague this site from jealous wannabes. I'm just me: bog-standard, big-breasted, Lucy Cortina. Or am I...?
Actually, I'm not. This confession may shock the whole of this world. More shocking than being bisexual or being a vegisexual (being plain old boring 'Gay' just isn't enough these days - no offence to you, Gay Punk).
So, who am I?
Hehe, this brings back memories. Those lazy days with Felicia in my living room, eating cornflakes, and me standing there holding a bottle of milk and saying "mooo", but Felicia still not knowing that I was being a cow.
Well, it may be a further shock to know that I have never even met Felicia. I'm not sure if she even exists. That is because, I, Lucy Cortina, do not exist myself.
Lucy Cortina, then what are you darling? The suspense is killing us! We are on the verge of swallowing our cocktails of paracetamol and Valium. Do hurry it up, darling.
And, another point worth inserting here, I really can't be arsed with trying very very very hard today to end up under Mouchette's favourites list. It once held appeal, when I was so bored and depressed and had nothing better to do. When I didn't have a life. I still don't have a life. But I will soon have death.
So, anyway, yes. It's me, Lucy. No fancy sub-names, just the regular depressed girl, not quite perfect, posting here on the spurr of the moment, without need for competing. But hang on! You aren't real Lucy!
That's right. I'm actually, what for it....
Ok, so I'm not Buddha. I'm a boy. I'm 17. I have known of this website for years, since 1999 at least. or is it 2000? I'm not sure. Anyway. I found this site on the first stages of my franctic search for the meaning of life. (Death, that is. Or for the technical wahlers, 'suicide').
I found this site, read the stoopid, yet intriguing, posts. Went away for a bit. Came back. Went away. Came back. Got an intense desperate urging lust to be in Mouchie's favourites list. Did it. Kept doing it. It got boring. When the "pretenders" popped up like all the little girly singers did when Britney Spears arrived, to steal Lucy's thunder (or even her breasts!), I decided that life was too short, and tried to get one (a life, that is).
I have Social Anxiety Disorder, and Depression, an eating disorder, and probably a whole list of other possible illnesses. I hate life. I have this past to deal with too. Everything's crap. My name is Phil.
Lucy Cortina is as fake as Britney Spears' whole music career. (Or her breasts).
Ok, maybe she isn't. Who knows. Maybe Lucy Cortina was my way of airing some of the crazy thoughts in this head of mine. Maybe she was the outlet for many things.
But, sorry people, I was never real.
My name is Phil. And I will soon be dead. No, I'm not just messing about like many people do. I have it planned to every detail. No one will stop me.
I just want to say, goodbye suicide kit. Goodbye Billy, Felicia, all the others. I don't know who you all are in real life, if you made up a persona like me, but thanks for the entertaining reads every day when I get into this room and switch on my PC, after another day of hell, another day of life. Another day of everyone talking about me, of people hating me (yes ok I admit it, I'm a teenager yapping on about my problems and will probably launch into a "poor me!" child abuse story here if someone doesn't stop me). So I will stop myself.
Umm, anyway, yeah. I will be dead soon. Lucy Cortina ends here. She had a nice and eventful life. I hope Mouchie keeps everything in small archived files in his cellar full of wine and cheese, so that one day the suicide kit will become a Hollywood production (you're aiming bit high there, Lucy!). I guess Lucy Cortina was the suicide kit slut. Sending pictures of naked ladies in underwear privately to Mouchette was the only reason I stayed Top Girl. Or was it? I'm not sure.
Anyhow, incase you are crying into your cocktails by now, or in the case of Billy, crying into your condoms, I love you all, and remember darlings, we are all going to somewhere better soon, that big breast factory in the sky. The purpose of this little community was only meant to be brief, as all here are suicidal (aren't we?). I never meant to live this long. Maybe it was you, Mouchette. Maybe it was someone else, in fact, I know it was- my Danny. But maybe I'm just an insane, gay, 17 year old teenager. Maybe Lucy Cortina was part of my mind personified. Yes, that will be it.
So, no breasts, no SSSS, no sister, none of all that nonsense. Still, it was fun, wasn't it?
Take care people. Good luck with your deaths. If you wanna contact me - not that you would - but I will be alive maybe a while yet (but Lucy ends here). Leave your email addresses, and I will email you.
RIP Lucy Cortina.
*Lucy leaves the room, leaving the occupants of the suicide kit free to release the farts or whatever else they were keeping in, in fear of upsetting Lucy during her important speech*
*Lucy enters room again, to an awful smell. She splutters out a few last words:
"Mouchette, I think you owe us all a small explanation. WHO, exactly, are you?"
...then leaves the room*
And everybody claps.
FINALLY, she has shut up whining, and gone!
|11 Sep 2003||Larius Mackellar||SYMPARANECROMENIAN FAVORITES. VOL.109
The nourishment of solitude is powerful and significant. Change is important to shake up complacency and again open your eyes. Someone once said to me that she "couldn't even SEE me" because i was too familiar and too often "there" in her daily life. When she started spending time away on a regular basis, she smiled at me one day and told me that being away had made her realize how much she sincerely appreciated my qualities as a person.
Do relationships become "stale" when you live with that person? Does a room become stale because it is so familiar to you that you don't even notice the beautiful paintings on the wall anymore? Has our world become stale???
Do what you have to do to shake it up and breathe.
|11 Sep 2003||Michael Mackellar||Meticulously Cultivated Ignorance|
|11 Sep 2003||Fionuellia||In 3 words, how would you define the collective content of Mr. Mackellar's mind???|
|11 Sep 2003||Michael Mackellar||It's very easy to put your faith in other people because you see something in them that is Beautiful. It is probably something you want that they seem to have and that you do not think you have yourself. it's very easy to make a big deal out of what you think is wrong with other people and barely notice the positive things that come from love, genuine caring, thoughtfulness. One day you begin to notice that no matter how you are judged by another person, it does not matter one bit. One moment they smile at you; the next moment they yell at you. One day you stop being a slave. One day you find your center and realize that it is strong because it does not know everything.|
|11 Sep 2003||nomeD cilegnA||the body is damp. moisture fogs the mirror. the string quartet surges and recedes in a circular progression. the lips caress in dimly lit space. the microphone is dangerous in the bath. D minor A minor for days. never have i been so perfectly misunderstood. not even by myself. my apologies, Mr. Punk, for your comprehensive shortcomings.|
|11 Sep 2003||billy the freak (the one and only)||guess who's back? back again. billy's back tell a friend. guess who's back? guess who's back? da da da... do da da do da da do...
you act like you never seen a freaky person before, jaws all on the floor, like billy and lucy just burst in the door and i started wooping her ass worse than before mouchette.org. throwing me under furniture
it's the return of the... no wait! he didn't just say what i think he did. did he? and mouchette said... nothing you idiot mouchette's dead, she's locked in my basement. ha ha ha!!!chicka chicka chicka internet women love biily the freak, "i'm sick of him. thinking you know what, typing for you know who. yeah, but he's so cute though." yeah i might got a couple of screws up in my head loose, but no worse than what you download in your computer rooms. sometimes i want to get on the net and cut loose, i can't, but it's okay for lucy to talk about her boobs. "my tits are on your lips! my tits are on your lips! and if you're lucky you might give them a little kiss."
and this is the message we send to suicidal kids and expect them to know what the answer to life is...
no really guys, i'm back for at least a post or two, i got a few things i'm working on for you.
|10 Sep 2003||Chris||Suicidal people have the habit of frequenting certain places. For example some might go to a bar and drink themselves to oblivion to forget their problems. Others may go to a suicidal friend to get the courage to commit the suicide themselves and others may go to the church to pray, forget and hope for the future. The list goes on. In the following piece I remember when I once went to the church, or was it somewhere else? When I am feeling suicidal things have the tendency of getting muddled up so try to figure out for yourself...
"I feel lucky." I said to my friend Trevor and hurried to where a fat faced friar dressed in a white coat sold indulgences in a glass wall confessional box. "Two dollars of twenty cents please." And he obliged with a flourish of hands like a priest giving a blessing, pouring the coins into my hand from a plastic holder.
At the wall I chose a statue to worship before: A machine with four rollers and playing card symbols: Ace, Joker, King, Queen (Hail Mary, Queen of Hearts), Jack, ten and nine. This was the most unforgiving machine; I always played it like a gambler with an unconscious desire for damnation. I gave myself up to prayer and actually got a pay of five coins from the first pull-- then I noticed that Trevor had followed me.
"Don't tell me you are falling for those things." Trevor said, swaying behind me. "Ah, yes, your girlfriend told me you played them here one Saturday night all through the concert happening here. Bloody idiot. When you buy anything you do so with a match-box for a deposit and play pokies, no wonder you're in financial trouble. You were always in financial bother, all your short, bloody life."
Poised with my right hand on the knob of the machine's arm and my left thumb on a coin in its slot, I glanced at Trevor over my shoulder and wondered how much he remembered about my past. And I acknowledged that he remembered everything as others remembered everything about other episodes in my life when my blemished self had betrayed my ideal self. Perhaps if I could ever have accepted that others remembered my moments of weakness I might not be here on this journey to the grave, I thought. And suddenly I realized that I could not sustain the idea of taking my own life simply to quiet the cry of self-disgust within me. To have meaning, my death must have some effect on those who increasingly saw me in terms of my weaknesses-- on Trevor, my girlfriend and the rest.
"Your girlfriend is a bitch but you forgave her in the past and you've forgiven her ever since because you've got no guts." Trevor said. I freed the coin and pulled the handle but neither the whirr of the rollers, the drone of Trevor's voice nor the clink of the two coins in the tray could drown the inner voice that cautioned: don't conjure up the repressed memories of the past. But the past was impinged as if on a screen above the machine like a distant town seen through a mirage and shimmering heat.
The past where my girlfriend betrayed me time and again, where my parents hated me, where I was put through extreme pressure at school (though I never managed to do extremely well), where I was abused physically and mentally by the teachers and the authorities in society that are supposed to help people in need and the whole past where I never had a bloody penny in my pocket. But my ideal self kept giving me this message: 'Fuck it, struggle, struggle despite all the corrupt people in the world. A better world is being hewn out by decent people.' And I tried to believe this message and therefore forgave, hoping for a better future and a better life.
"What can't you remember?" Trevor was saying, swaying but persistent like a lavatory door banging in a gale. "I remember everything." I replied, turning to focus his face and the garish room. "Listen, you've been pouring money into that machine and talking to yourself like a lunatic." "Don't tell me I've lost all my money!" I drew the wallet from inside my pocket and opened it. No, I put it under Trevor's nose. "Not to worry, mate, I've got this money set aside for a special, very important purpose, but I'll buy you a drink."
I bought two glasses of beer and we sat at a table aside. Something I had remembered when playing the poker machine- I could not now recall what it was- had led me to believe that my death must be some kind of transforming message from the dead to the living, to Trevor even. My ideal self accompanied me. His air of arrogant superiority confronted Trevor.
"Do you agree with my statement about the moral issues we have to face." I said, "about the need to confront the past?" The situation was so choicely ironic- like a fanatic from Women's Liberation advocating abortion to a nun- that I regretted I would not have the opportunity to tell all my friends about it because I was planning suicide, probably that night.
Trevor sat down, rolling back and forth in the chair until he got his balance, eyeing me malevolently. "Some people ought to talk about confronting the past. With your past, you shouldn't use that term. "How do you mean?" I said shocked. Trevor replied: "I've known you a long time. I was with you almost all your life. Sometimes, I can believe that you don't even remember your personal pasts." 'Don't let him divert you, my ideal self urged.' Of course I remembered my past but suddenly I was getting muddled up, mixing the past, present and the few hopes for the future, in this world or not. And suddenly my only problem was money. I asked Trevor to lend me but he told me that he wouldn't because I was spending them on pokies and because me and my girlfriend were the talk of the town, and he didn't want to mess up with me. So I said, no more pokies, no more drinks and no more life...
(Having transcribed this story, I sit holding the faded original in my diary- the Arafura sea scrolls, so to speak- and wondering why I wrote it and the other pieces about my past, secretly, like a man with a hidden vice. They were obviously written at different times over the years, perhaps as an excercise in self-analysis. Through them I might have sought to reconstruct myself and develop powers with which I could suppress my weaknesses. They also reveal a changing attitude towards myself, now self-deprecation, now self-heroising, and usually projecting an image of a tragic victim of circumstances. Through them, I sought to create a dialogue with myself about the private psychological life. In direct human relations I remained inacapable of revealing my inner life; I channeled my emotions into the world of ideas and politics that I believed in and lived them out there instead of with my family, girlfriend and friends. There is also a sense in which my secret writing symbolises my unconscious mind where I buried my repressed memories: most of my stories portray some agonized or shameful event which leaves a negative picture of me which I may never be able to revise because of their complexity).
So I rest my case. It is either suicide or a continuation of this fucked up, sorrowful life...
See ya all in hell!
|05 Sep 2003||Hanriq Guingois|| Do you ever feel like you're experiencing a powerful and terrifying shift in your fundamental consciousness? Do you ever have thoughts that horrify you? Oh, dear God, was that me who just thought that evil thought? Do you ever open your eyes in the morning and wonder if you're the same person who went to sleep the night before? Do you ever think, "Aw, screw it. Why do I even try? What's the point? Everything always goes to hell anyway." Do you ever wonder if the guy bringing you your soup hates your guts because he has to wait on you and pretend to be pleasant all the while knowing in his heart that he's a better man than you and his current servile status is final proof of an unjust universe? Do you ever think, "People are only nice to me because they want something?" Do you ever think, "I'm only being nice to this person because I want something?"
Well, the reason I bring all this up is to reassure you that I don't. Just thought you'd like to know... although I can't help but feel that you're not particularly happy for me.
|05 Sep 2003||Karen Elson||sometimes you can sense yourself retreating into a very private space inside yourself. there is activity around you. you can see that your hands are accomplishing some task. yet you are not there. i hear in my head what i have been writing for weeks. there are many obligations. a digital piano is one of them. i am obligated to myself in this way. don't die with the music
inside of you. ....................
|05 Sep 2003||Gisele Bundchen|| The Buddha taught that the first principle of existence is impermanence.
Absolutely everything in this universe is impermanent.
Impermanence creates uncertainty.
I don't know about you, but I have a very low tolerance for uncertainty.
Uncertainty causes me discomfort.
Discomfort causes me to think stupid things.
Stupid thoughts cause me to take stupid actions.
My stupid actions bring about unfortunate results.
Luckily, the unfortunate results are impermanent.
Is this a great universe or what?
|05 Sep 2003||Nomed Cilegna||SYMPARANECROMENIAN FAVOURITES. VOL.31
The Gay Punk was mildly disoriented when he realized he and Just A Girl were the same person. This sort of cognitive moment tends to undermine a guy's sense of self. But it didn't stop there. When The Gay Punk looked around the room, he realized he was also Lucy and Emily and Mouchette and Mackellar. Heck, he was also the imaginary Ghost-orchids on the sight-front. Suddenly he felt enormous compassion for all these variations on himself, or rather "ourself", which he thought was a more appropriate label. The pain of loneliness and the fear of death were suddenly swept away by this one blinding flash of insight. It was so obvious! There are no separate forms of life. Life was life, just sort of wandering around looking at itself, loving itself, and unfortunately killing itself. Which is when The Gay Punk woke up, wanked, showered and shaved, went to work, worried about nonsense, drove home, watched a supposedly funny show, had a stiff drink and went to sleep again.
|05 Sep 2003||Peter Hoeg (Mackellar)||It was a novel thought for Krisha: What if she's not someone who is perpetually in need of repair? What if the real grunt work of self-improvement is simply being aware of the things one thinks, feels, says and does? Krisha decided to put her novel thought to the test by being aware of the first feeling that came along. As it turned out, her first brain guest was the feeling of horny. Krisha was aware that she was horny. But, her awareness told her she was not so much horny as lonely. And the loneliness was really just a deep-seeded fear that she was unworthy of being loved...... even by herself. Suddenly, Krisha no longer felt horny. Now she felt hungry. But not so much hungry as sad. And the sadness was really just a deep-seeded fear that she was unworthy of being loved...... even by herself. Which caused Krisha to no longer feel hungry. Now she felt insane. But, that was okay because she was aware of it. And it wasn't so much insane as psychologically giddy.|
|05 Sep 2003||Chuck Lorre||I believe I think too much. I believe I'm literally drowning in a thick swamp of thoughts. No, swamp's not right. It's more like being in the middle of a swarm of bees, all of them flying insanely about, occasionally stinging for no apparent reason. Yup, bees, definitely -- thoughts are bees. In fact, I believe my entire understanding of the world is based on my thoughts, which are generated by my emotions, which are generated by ... well, I guess my reaction to stuff that happens. Anyway, I understand the world through the filter of my thoughts and emotions. If this is pretty much how you understand the world, it brings up an interesting concept. Probably since we were infants, none of us have directly perceived this world we live in. What does it mean to directly perceive something? Well, I suppose it would mean to be totally with that thing, as opposed to observing and thinking about it. It's a duality issue. Here's me, here's you. here's me, here's the sofa. Ya dig where this is going? We live on a planet dominated by a race of beings whose only connection to reality is constantly buzzing, mental bees. We're all walking through life in a dream state that is, at best, a funhouse mirror-image of what's really out there. It makes you think, doesn't it? Ouch! Dammit!|
|30 Aug 2003||Chris||Have you ever thought about who was the first person to think about a particular thing? For example, who was the first person to look at a lobster and think, "I bet that tastes just delicious" or who was the first to decide that forty plus years of your life were best spent working, only coming to an end when you are not fit to do anything else? Who was the first person to take some dough, cheese and scraps of tomato, put it in an oven and call it pizza (I would build a statue to this guy), who was the very first person to take an anti-malaria medicine and mix it with an anti-constipation drink and call it gin and tonic, thus creating one of the world's most poular drinks (another statue for this guy), who was the very first person to look at tobacco and say, "I bet that tastes good and looks cool if you smoke it" and indeed, very important, who was the first guy who had problems and said "killing myself will release me" (another statue you say)! The list goes on and on. But no other field can compete with fashion when it comes to making the most bizarre idea cool and de rigueur.
Recently I was lucky enough (I think) to be present at the birth of a new style statement. I am talking not about fashion design but those little quirks which separate the ordinary people from the mega-trendy. Remember the time when everyone wore their sunglasses suspended under their chin? Now, ask yourself, who was the first person to look into the mirror as his shades dangled from his ears and thought, "Yes!, Yes!, Yes! That's the look for the summer this year!" A year or so back there was the short lived sunglasses on the back of the head but it didn't last. What about back to front baseball caps then... what is that all about and who was the fashion guru who thought that a reversed baseball cap was to the last word in style? Pullovers tied around the neck... what can I say except that I assume someone was so hung over one morning that he couldn't manoeuvre his arms and hands through the appropriate holes in his wooly and just gave up and tied it around his neck and tootled off to work, never suspecting that he had just launched the look of the decade, condemning thousands of men to never know what their jumpers look like worn properly. Of course no Italian male over the age of seven has ever been known to wear his jacket or topcoat any other way except draped over his shoulders. Could it be that the same guy with the hangover responsible for the jumper in a knot created this one too?
But back to my experience at the birth of a new style statement. Recently while on holiday for a few days I was relaxing at an outdoor cafe, enjoying the view and equally enjoying the parade of fashionable people ambling past, when I had a shock to my system. Low and behold, sauntering down the street was a chap with his head on backwards! I can assure you that there are few things more shocking on a summery day than seeing someone approach with his head on the wrong way. But my astonishment, happily, was fleeting because as he came closer it became obvious (even to me drinking Jack Daniels and strong red wine during the hot, summery daytime) that in fact his head wasn't 180 degrees out of synchronisation but he was wearing his jacket not only draped over his shoulders but draped over his front and not his back. As you can imagine this came as a tremendous relief to me (as much on his behalf as mine), a feeling that was rapidly replaced by one of elation... for it was at this point that I realised that I was in the presence of a true trend-setter, just at the point in history when he was busy setting his new trend. If I had been a little less awe-struck I would have stopped him and asked him if he was the jumper, jacket and back to front baseball cap guy but alas all I could do was gape in admiration as he proceeded on his trendy way down the street. As you can imagine my next step (after downing my drinks) was to dash back to my room and see what my own jackets and raincoat look like draped and back to front but sad to say the result was a very poor reflection of the wizard!
So you see, some time ago I talked about my bad looks at the beach with me looking bad in baggy swim shorts and a not very sexy tan and now this! Everytime I try wearing something sexy and looking cool I fail. I am anything but a fashion guru. Summer is really suicidal!
See ya, hopefully with a jacket draped and back to front (if you look good in it)...
|28 Aug 2003||jacek||why kill yourself, if we kill self always too late?|
|27 Aug 2003||Lucy Cortina||It is my, uh, mid-years resolution now to steer clear of girls for at least a few weeks. I have nothing against lesbians, however, my theory is this:
Lesbian sex is like eating a wet lettuce salad when hunger demands that you scoff a big, juicy...
burger. (in a bun of course!)
So, I am on a little merry holiday of my own, Mouchette (take that!) I am on holiday with a good pal of mine, who happens to be a gay professor (to minimise all temptations).
However he seems to be mistaking my naturally flirty manner as having meaning.
Last night, I sat up in bed reading a Jackie Collins novel (a girl needs to get her fix somehow!)
Anyway, as I yawned, I said to the prof, "I am in bed professor.
Are you ready?"
Which was when he gasped and said "Ready for what????!"
And I said, "For switching off the light".
He seemed to relax then, and said "Ohh...yes".
We are staying in a caravan near one of those huge astronomical observatories, to look out for Mars, as it is apparently very close to Earth right now. I have got all my panties and bras stored in a special fridge, and I have a nice laptop PC to browse suicide websites.
Happy holidays to me!
|26 Aug 2003||Lucy Cortina||Ooh! 1 day to go until our dear Mouchie gets back and announces he had a secret wedding to Kylie Minogue in Bali.|
|18 Aug 2003||Felicia on Economical Spending||My stress of Arnold being the next governor is hazy. But for all you know he may be good. Some American born citizens become judgmental by assuming Arnold Schwarzenegger will win through popular vote in the recall election and be a terrible California State Governor.
For one thing as far as math skills, Arnold counts his safe and swiss accounts daily from the residual incomes of blockbuster Terminator hits along with Olympia Gold Medals, including his connection to the Kennedy Dynasty. Compared to California Governor Gray Davis, American born, whom thirty-six years ago rolled in beach sand and moonlighted kisses with Cybil "Maddie Hayes" Sheppard. If we, the born Americans were all trained in math to be highly efficient with the rest of the World, there will be no economic budget crisis, less suicides, wealth in the land, and less frivolous governmental spending on IKEA furniture from Washington D.C. to the White House.
Though I myself am not able to handle the balancing of governmental accounts assets, which will involve millions of dollars, I too can be overwhelmed and say, Well I'll let the government take care of it, they can figure it out.
Well, that's what one accountant did and that is why the senate is spending money the accountant stashed away because he or she had no time to deal with it. As a result, new furniture from Ikea and Apple computer monitors get expedited to the White House. Later Arnold gets elected from the total recall vote, fixes up the economic deficit with his honed math skills and Swiss accounts, his face gets engraved on fifty cent coins, taxes are refurbished, exercise tapes on health and beauty are distributed to each household along with pumping iron pills, and we are at world peace all over again.
Thank you God. Arnold is here to save the world from economic destruction and I am running out of lottery money, badly.
Please support the Felicia Floresca Organization of the Economically Deprived at 1600 Pennsylvania Washington D.C.
Assign it in attention to the accountant in charge of the Bush weaponry fund.
Money orders only please and send it through Federal Express, overnight delivery.