Just A Rat
I'm down on my knees,
I'm down on my luck,
My life's no longer a breeze,
My life's just a big clusterfuck.
I'm a mess,
Ignorance was a painful bliss,
Now I'm the slave and you're the master.
I'm nothing but a rat,
And you've laid a trap,
Because you're the big cat,
And I'm complete crap.
I'm down on my knees,
I'm down on my luck,
My life is no longer a breeze,
My life's just a big clusterfuck.
I'm a mess,
I'm a disaster,Ignorance was a painful bliss,
But now I'm the slave and you're the master.
I'm nothing but a rat,
and you've laid yourself a trap,
Because you're the big bad cat,
And I'm nothing but crap!
I get submissions in which I read in order to advertise it to the online fans. Our favorite submittor 'Kenny Stark Udar' is back with a new set of artwork he's done. It's all random and different, so this post will be called 'The Random Package.' I could post each one a day, but that's kinda lazy and pretentious when you think about it. Anyhow, here's the random set of artwork.
Looking with your Hands
My granny was an eccentric old woman. I had seen photographs of her when she was younger.
She was beautiful and elegant. Her beauty and elegance even followed her somewhat into her
golden years. People still mistook the seventy year old woman for being in her forties or fifties.
In spite of this, my granny doesn't own a single mirror. I always thought this was a little strange,
as my mother always kept a mirror in every room.
Like my granny, she was an exceptionally beautiful woman. However, unlike granny, she
wanted to be constantly reminded of it. This always struck me as an odd obsession
of hers, but as it was hers, I did not question it. I always assumed that her vanity was what
caused my granny and mother to have a minor split in their relationship. Of course, it's only
noticed when granny comes over and mother grudgingly hangs black cloths over each and every
single mirror. Mother's smile was always warm - so long as those mirrors were uncovered and
she could look at herself whenever she pleased - and she smiled like ice when granny came and
she had to cover them.
To a child, these subtle things were lost. To a teen, they were avoided as tactfully as possible.
That in particular was a lesson I learned the hard way. I was thirteen and working with my
mother in the kitchen. We were making cookies and I absent-mindedly asked her, "Why doesn't
granny like mirrors?" She stopped mixing the cookie dough and looked at me dead in the eye.
"Because granny is silly," she responded, beating the dough just a little rougher than she should
have. "But why is granny silly?" I asked again.
She was starting to get irritated- I could tell by the grinding of her teeth and the wonton way of
whisking the dough, the barely contained anger behind her voice, "Because granny is a silly old
woman who doesn't know any better." She set the bowl down and turned towards a mirror to fix
her hair. This was a habit of hers to calm herself down whenever she got angry or upset. I knew
that to press on would be to endanger myself, so I didn't ask her anymore and we finished the
cookies without further incident.
That was the way our life was for the next three years- always full of an uneasy and bitter tension
between the three women of the household. My mother was angry at my granny because of her
silly ways, my granny at my mother because of her vanity - and I was angry at them for neither
getting along nor explaining their feud.
They were going about their polite business with the mirror positioned perfectly in front of them.
They were discussing whether or not to hang holly or hellebore in front of the door. I was
wrapped up in a red sweater that I had gotten last year and drinking some chilled eggnog. Mother
and granny's voices never rose above polite conversation, though their eyes screamed at each
other for them. Their white knuckles ached to bury themselves in the other's nose, the teeth
ground together to prevent one from biting the other's head off.
I couldn't stand it anymore. I stood up abruptly, not wishing to take part in this subtle battle and
was on my room. I tripped in front of the mirror and a hand shot out to grasp something- anything- to stop me from falling. I grabbed a fist full of cloth and down with me came the black
covering. My mother looked at the mirror to berate me for my clumsiness and screamed in sheer
terror at what she saw. I looked up to see what she was screaming about and followed her gaze to
Where my granny should have been was an ancient and grey wolf.
A cold, chilly draft filled the stone room. The only light came from the yellow candle's flickering flame in the upper left hand corner of the table. Within the light revealed two figures, one smaller than the other. The smaller one was clearly a boy upon closer inspection, and he was writing on something with a dark black raven quill, a bottle of crimson ink at his side. The larger one had a piece of chalk and was writing queer symbols on the wall.
The ink dripped from his quill, staining the parchment in front of him. It bled from the tip of his quill ever so slowly as the boy watched the man's hand dart across the board. It was obvious that though he was eager to learn, he would quickly get bored. The stain slowly expanded in size, drip by drip, until the man rapped the boy's knuckles, telling him to focus on his parchment and make sure that he did not stain his ebony robes. The boy nodded, understanding. Delicately, the tip of the quill grazed the parchment before the boy as he began to write. The parchment dragged the quill back a bit, causing a few wrinkles that vanished shortly after the words were completed, however that was on par with the parchment. It was soft and supple, some of the best that money could buy.
The boy only ever had the best, from his quill to the robes he wore. A pauper could eat for a year from the gold weened by selling his robes and quill. The surface beneath the parchment stirred a little as the boy pressed too deeply into it. He frowned at his carelessness, pressing too deep would ruin the parchment and tear a hole in it. He had to remind himself of what the man had taught him. The man had provided him with many things, from playmates to the very parchment he was writing on now. He liked this parchment. It was nice.
The boy stopped for a moment and smiled. He covered his ink well and laid his quill over it. He waited for the ink to dry and become rust colored before running his hands over the parchment, it was a guilty pleasure of his, and so long as it wasn't hurting anybody, the man allowed him to have it. He loved the smoothness that would turn into small round bumps as he ran his hand across it gently. He shivered with delight as he felt the many layers beneath the current one squirm beneath his fingers. He smiled, looking at it once more. The symbols from his master's chalkboard were copied to the parchment and he began the hard work of cutting it away.
He picked up the silver knife on his left, turning once more to the lovely parchment. It really was beautiful. It was almost a shame to waste it. He gently pressed the blade into the parchment and it sank down, causing the ink beneath it to burst forth like the breaking of a dam. He quickly pushed the parchment up and refilled his ink bottle before laying it back down. His hands were turning red as he picked his knife up again and continued cutting down to the white hardness that signaled the last layer of parchment. The parchment let out a soft groan, unheard by the boy who was intently staring at his work. The man heard it and pursed his lips. This did not bode well for the boy. He didn't use enough drugs on the parchment.
The boy turned his knife gently and finished cutting it away. The crimson ink stained his hands even more as the boy lifted his page away, and suddenly the parchment awoke and began thrashing about having broken free from its loose bonding, its screaming pierced the near-freezing air. The boy froze, his knife poised to cut its throat. The man shook his head at his apprentice's laziness and the boy quickly secured the bond with the man and then dazed the parchment again.
He looked to his master, his eyes asking if he could get more of the parchment. It seemed to him like such a waste to let it wither away and vanish. The man briefly thought for a moment then nodded, giving the boy permission. He smiled and with glee, he began to skin and cut away the rest of the parchment. It moved no longer. The master gently picked up the remains and carried it to the furnace. He started a fire to warm the two, and tossed the remains inside it. Nothing remained of the parchment's origins but ash and bone...
The 1988 Volvo could get Brine from point A to point B without breaking down, isn’t that the idea of a car? Other guys his age consider it a tool for popularity, but Brine sees that purpose for those who compensate for their short comings. He steers his car into a road covered by fallen dead leaves, almost like entering the remnants of an abandoned town. The trees leaned and spread it’s branches, blocking the sun from shinning it’s light, almost like a tunnel made out of branches.
‘Turn on the headlights.’
Brine saw the environment around him become darker and darker, accompanied with the sound of wind. The wind played it’s sound of hollowness, soothing and rhythmic; a sound everyone hears when entering the forest. In the middle of the road stood an erect looking man, wearing black and white leather armor with a strangely white gas mask, holding an electric baton and a rifle wrapped on his back.
Brine stopped his car next to the strange figure and rolled down his window.
“Your purpose in visit?” His voice was muffled and full of static as it emanated through the small speaker in the mask‘s mouth.
Brine felt a little nervous, “I’m here to see a friend.”
“The girl with the brown hair and sundress?” asked the guardian
The guardian pulled out a small device, tapped the touch screen which printed out a small ticket from a thin slot and handed it to Brine.
“Be careful not to touch her.” Said the guardian.
Brine stored his ticket onto his jean pocket and drove his Volvo further down the road.
‘There she is.’
There stood Brine’s friend Alice, wearing her white summer dress as she skipped stones onto the glowing blue creek.
“You’re here.” said Alice.
“Well, my parents think I’m at the local library so we better make the best of it.” Brine pulled out his picnic basket and mat from the trunk.
Both Alice and Brine sat on the picnic mat, began eating the sandwiches he brought and washed it down with apple juice.
“Did you make these sandwiches?” she asked.
Brine began to chuckle, “Hell no, me make food? No, my older sister made them. If I made these sandwiches they’d would be burned and tasteless.”
“Quit exaggerating Brine.”
“I’m not exaggerating, I can’t cook.”
“They’re good though, your sister knows how to make a sandwich. Been long since I‘ve ate some.” Alice wiped her mouth and savored the sandwich in her stomach.
Brine grabbed the plastic wrappings and tossed them onto the basket. “Don’t they have sandwiches where you live?”
“They have everything.” Said Alice unenthusiastically.
She stood up and went back to the pond where she stood before. “Have you ever tossed a stone into a pond, sink deep then rise afloat?”
“No. Stones can never float.”
“Just like dying, no one can ever come back.” She then rushed towards Brine and grabbed his waist in a tight hug.
A stinging pain began to burn where Alice’s hands touched. “Aw-bloody..!!!”
“I want you to do something for me, I want you to join me. I’m so alone up there. Everyone has someone there and I‘m alone. Heaven can get me everything, but heaven can‘t get me you.”
Alice continued interrupting, “I‘m Christian and you‘re the only one who knows. You’ve had a crush on me since sophomore year right?”
“Alice, you have to….let go-”
“No brine, I have a crush on you, I’m never letting go. Do you like, want to go out with me?”
“LET GO!!” Brine yelled to the top of his throat.
Alice’s arms unwrapped and saw Brine’s waist burning with black and red.
“Oh my, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to.”
“I know, no harm done. I’m just going to need a bunch of ‘anti-burn’ ointments for this.” Groaned Brine.
“I can walk it off.”
Alice felt nothing but guilt, she forgot she could not touch him and felt guiltier seeing his burn marks. It was common law for the living to never touch an ‘L.G.U’.
“So, what do you think?”
“I cannot do what you are asking me to do Alice, I’m sorry.”
“Why?…..Are you seeing someone else? I’m alright with that.”
“No. It’s not that.”
“Is she beautifull?”
“No, listen. I cannot join you Alice, I’m turning my life around and I’m making myself better. Sure before I’ve always contemplated suicide but now I’m loving life. I’m starring a fanzine and as you already know I’ve just got my licence and-.”
“Does she satisfy you? I can do twice as better, this girl taught me to use my-”
“I’M GAY!” Shouted Brine before Alice said anything more absurd.
“You heard me, I’m gay, fruity, queer, faggot. CALL IT WHAT YOU WILL, I AM HOMOSEXUAL!”
“Oh.” Said Alice quietly, shocked and overwhelmed.
Both Brine and Alice where silent through the remainder of the time, until Brine decided to cut the awkwardness.
“So, I saved all of those phantom letters you sent me. Kept every single one of them in Mylar bags, they’re important memories for me.”
“I have to go now, see ya.” She said without emotion.
“WAIT! We still have half an hour left till I have to get home. We can chat some more and reminisce of the old times we had.”
“No, I have to go, I have to go back and read my bible. This is the last you’ll see of me till we meet in the same realm, Jesus loves you.”
She was gone, back to the realm she belonged to.
‘Sigh. She was the only female friend who I knew living, and the first one I had to burry on the day of the funneral. I thought she would understand me, guess not. What a world we live in where people, both living and dead, cannot understand a person’s way of living.’
Brine got on his car and began to drive away and wonder what went wrong.
“How did it go with the L.G.U?” Asked the guard.
“Not well.” replied Beine.
“Well, it’s not easy. L.G.U’s have everything up there, but they always miss things down here.”
It was the night of Halloween back in '81 and our Boy Scouts troop had given up a night of trick-or-treating in favor of spending time in the woods.
We walked towards the Historic District, past the House of Forty-Four Ravens, past Poe's studio, past the old Jenkins Undertaker's House, and past still the old Mill.
The sun set, and our new Scoutmaster Steven stopped us next to a strange looking tree. The tree was a sturdy wide oak. What made it strange was the branch that stood at a right angle, and it was the perfect height to hang a man from. Steven smiled, and pointed down the road.
"Down there is the old historical Lenoresfield jail," the Scoutmaster said, pointing down the road. "There's not much down there anymore, except for the historical museum, but that's not why we've gathered here." He smiled. "I've already got a cache of firewood for us to light our fire, Howard, why don't you build it for us?" he asked. I nodded and set about building the fire in a teepee with the kindling beneath it. I then struck my flint and sparked life to the fire. We smiled and roasted weenies over the fire, and later we made some S'mores.
The fire started to die down a few hours later, and the woods seemed more ominous than they had in the day time, and our troop huddled together, when Steven decided it was time for us to swap ghost stories, since it was after all Halloween. He started first.
"How much do any of you know about this tree?" Steven asked, tapping the trunk of the tree. None of us knew much about it. He nodded. "I didn't think so, it's not taught until the eighth grade," he said, smiling as he looked around. "Unless of course, you participate in the Halloween trip to it. Most of you were too young or didn't want to go last year, but I can tell. The older boys convinced you this time."
We nodded, indeed they had convinced us. "This tree is called the Gallows Tree," he said speaking quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "It has hung at least sixty-five of the most hardened criminals in Lenoresfield, and would have hung a sixty-sixth, if the prisoner hadn't escaped." He smiled and looked around. "Prisoner Sixty-Six's was a woman by the name of Susann Smithy, and she was married to the blacksmith. She was accused and convicted of the murder of her husband and witchcraft, and the judge decided to hang her, before burning her body at the stake. The hanging was to take place on the sixth of June 1615, the day after the trial.
They had the noose set up and Susann could see the tree from her cell. She decided that night she wasn't going to die by hanging.
"So as the legend goes, she prepared a spell to help save her life. It took her six hours to cast. The sun rose and they brought her right here to this tree. They started to hang her, when suddenly the sheriff himself dropped dead. Folks claimed they saw his ghost rise up from his body and cut the rope. They also swear that as Susann ran, the ghost swore to follow her and her kin, killing them should they ever come beneath the tree. They found her dead that Halloween beneath the tree, her neck with rope burns as though she'd been strangled. They say that you can still hear her scream in terror every Halloween too, and her and the Sheriff's ghost re-enact their death every Halloween."
After Steven finished his story, we huddled together, terrified that we might hear her scream and witness her brutal death by the ghost of the sheriff and his grisly rope. We fell asleep around 10 PM, and awoke two hours later to the terrified screams of Scoutmaster Steven. He was swinging from the Tree, a rope around his neck.
We lay together on her bed,
I placed a soft kiss on her head.
I entwined my arms around her,
Her smile, a great sense of allure.
We move closer,
She closed her eyes,
And again, I remember,
Today is the day she dies.
We kiss and a tear forms in my eye,
For in my arms, she does die.
I curl around her tighter,
I whisper her name,
But the silence is always the same.
We lay together on her bed,
And she is dead.
I run down the interstate many times, hauling various loads. It's a lonely job, and one that keeps me always on the move. I rarely get to make friends, so I always keep a tape recorder with me to record the interesting conversations I often have while on the road, and play them back when nobody is on the radio. This is a transcript of my last run.
Fox Whiskers: This is Fox Whiskers here, riding down this good ol' stretch of road called the interstate, anybody got anything to say tonight? Over.
Hound Dog: Hello there Foxwhiskers, this is Hound Dog, how are you? Over.
FW: Hello Hound Dog, I'm just dandy, you? Over.
HD: I'm great, over.
FW: That's good to hear. What're you running? Over.
HD: I'm the big soda truck, over.
FW: Oh? You got anything for me? [Laughter] over.
HD: [Laughter] No, not unless you're stopping in Tallahassee, over.
FW: Naw, I ain't stopping in Tallahassee, I'm stopping in Lenoresfield. Over.
HD: Lenoresfield? The hell are you running? Over.
FW: Family, we have our own CB radio installed, over.
HD: Oh? The missus must be asleep huh? Over.
FW: Yeah, Mrs. Whiskers fell asleep 'bout an hour ago, shortly after we traded places. Over.
HD: Heh, be glad you have a copilot, over.
FW: Oh yeah, makes the trip much shorter, over.
HD: I'll bet. Sometimes I wish I had a copilot, over.
[The next hour is full of a comfortable silence.]
FW:[Panicked] Hound Dog, you still there?! Over!
HD: [Concerned] Yeah Fox Whiskers what's the matter? Over.
FW: D-d-do you know where the n-next hospital is? Over.
HD: Yeah, there should be one in the next town, what's wrong? Over.
FW: Mrs. Whiskers, she-she-she s-s-s-stopped breathingafew minutes ago. Over.
HD: What'd you mean Mrs. Whiskers stopped breathing over?
FW: I-I-Idon't know, this shadow jus' flew right past us and she suddenly let out a loud gasp and cried out, h-h-holding h-h-her throat. Over.
HD: A shadow? Over.
FW: [Worried] Yes, that's what I said, a Shadow, over!
HD: Why don't you call for an ambulance Fox Whiskers? Over.
FW: No cell service. Shit. [Static] me.
HD: What was that Fox Whiskers?
FW: I just saw the Shadow again. Shit.Shit.Shit.
HD: [Worried] Fox Whiskers?
FW: It's behind me! Oh god! It'sbehindme!"
HD: What car are you in Fox Whiskers?
FW: Uh- shit, a green [garbled static], dinged up driver's side door. Fuck.
[Garbled static fills the CB again]
HD: Fox Whiskers?
HD: You there?
HD: Fox Whiskers?
I never again heard from Fox Whiskers, and there were no reports of missing people in a green car with a dinged up driver's side door. In fact, if I hadn't found this recording, I wouldn't have ever remembered this incident. It's almost as if they've been wiped from memory. This isn't the first time this has happened on this stretch of road either. I did some research, and it seems that particular stretch is called Dead Silent Road. It seems that not only do cell phones not work in that area, but neither do radios. In fact, I tried to raise a fellow trucker on that road and was only greeted with silence. I learned of the legend of Dead Silent Road from him. He said that I was lucky to have ever made contact with Fox Whiskers. He provided no more information on the subject, but I get the feeling that there's more to this story than he's letting on. My next assignment takes me to Lenoresfield, I have to deliver some frozen meat up to the Grand Oak Mall there. Maybe if I ask around about Fox Whisker's car, I'll learn some more. It's a long shot, but hey, it's worth it to me.
The snow falls softly there, alighting gently on our hair.
Eyes closed in bliss, it was our first kiss.
It ended much too soon, and we sat beneath the moon.
Her hair was like red like the fire, mine brown like the mire.
Her eyes blue like the sky, mine brown like ripened rye.
I never knew why this angel chose me, but I was happy as can be.
The snow falls softly there, alighting gently on my hair.
Eyes closed in despair; my heart was without a pair.
It ended much too soon, and I sat beneath the moon.
A young man sits in a bright green gown and a cap. Sitting next to him is one of his many friends. At one time he had a crush on her, but that was in the past. She rejected him. He was fine with that and they remained good friends. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself. The wind rushes past his ears, whipping his long blonde hair in and out of his face. He nervously smoothed out the gown and closed his eyes, counting to ten as he listened to his valedictorian give a speech in a rap song. The man would not remember what the speech was about a year later, the only thing he could remember thinking was that he could have been up there, giving that speech if he truly cared about it.
He didn't though. The man did not care for fame, despite what he said. All he cared for was to find his place in the word. After his speech, they began handing out the diploma cases. The boy would have gotten one, but they ran out; that upset him a little. The school did not bother to count how many people were graduating so they could'nt get the right number. They were three cases short. He sighed, but then he turned around and smiled. His whole life was now in front of him. He was in control, he was master, he was king, and he was a fool. He thought that he could get a job as soon as he walked out of the school. He thought that people would respect his high school diploma. He was wrong.
He had a diploma, but so did the hundreds of other people who graduated with him. He recalled his friend whispering that she knew what her future was. She whispered the word “death”. He knew that she was cold, and that she was the only person he knew that wanted to become a pharmacist. He did not know that it was also her ultimate goal to die. He looked back at her, and shook his head. She was cold enough to whisper that. He made no comment on it ever because it was her personal moment. He did not know what his future was.
One year later, the same young man is in college. He’s struggling, He does not have a job, He tells everybody he wants to be a lawyer and a detective. He tells them that his heroes are Sherlock Holmes and Jack McCoy. He knows the cold truth about the world now. He doesn’t care about a diploma, it’s just a piece of paper to it. It hurts, but that’s okay with him. He’s still proud of the thirteen years he spent studying. He decides to make it a fourteenth, and goes for his associates in Criminal Justice. He does not have a way to pay for it, the world hasn’t given him money. He’s upset about that.
He’s sitting on his couch, and he’s feeling sick and tired and alone. He texts one of his many friends, he tells this friend that he’s having problems coming to terms. He’s nearly 19 and he doesn’t have a job. His life has amounted to nothing more than a high school diploma. He tells his friend that he isn’t living up to his own expectations. His friend merely nods to him and tells him they’ve been feeling the same way since they turned 18. The next day the boy sits down and closes his eyes.
He looks out the window, and closes his eyes. He thinks for a moment, and he sees into the future. He sees himself in his own home with a wife and a kid. He smiles and has a moment to himself. That’s what he wants. He wants a wife and a kid. He wants to make his own family. But he’s trapped. Trapped by circumstances, trapped by an inability to drive, trapped by an inability to get a job.
He feels like a sloth, he feels like shit. He knows he needs a change, but he doesn’t know how to. He’s still going for his associates still. He’ll be graduating in a year, if he can get the money.
He's also broke.
There is a small town in the Eastern Rural part of the United States of America, by the name of Lenoresfield. Inside this small town, there is a strange building, and while most of the city appeared to be out of touch with the times, this building was particularly old. It was wooden, like most are in Lenoresfield, and it was a squat building with a weather-worn sign outside. The sign once proclaimed in golden letters the name of the building, Os Immortalis. It was a mask shop once, and if one peered beyond the time stained thick glass, one could see two or three masks still hanging on the walls. My grandfather told me the story about the man who owned the shop.
He spent hours working on the masks that hung around the walls of his shop. That the love of his work was undeniable, and many referred to his shop as his second wife. They would not be too far off in this assumption, considering he had thrown himself into his shop after his first wife had died in a carriage accident. The worst part of this tragic tale is that a couple of nights after she had been buried, body snatchers stole her body away. After that, the mask maker was never the same.
He would often be seen up late in his work shop, painting and fitting masks, and he always had this haggard look on his face as if he was too tired of this world and didn't want to live in it for much longer. Or at least that was his face when he wasn't at his work bench. When he was there working, his beady little eyes were focused on the mask. The mask seemed to come to life beneath his fingers, almost as if he was working with real flesh. The paint dripped from the end of his brush like dew from the end of blade of grass, and as it spread across weaving strange shapes, the mask maker's frown would slowly turn into a smile.
One night, many months after the passing of his wife, the mask maker shut his shop down for three whole weeks. Naturally, this came as a surprise to most of the townsfolk, as none could recall the last time he had closed his shop for so long a time. A few months later, he finally reopened the shop with his face drooped lower than ever. If anything, it seemed to sadden him even more. He started barring entrance to those who got too curious about his workshop and those three weeks that he had shut himself in.
In the months that followed, he often was seen muttering to himself as he worked, a new habit he had picked up, and among the words heard were "Demons," and, "I should of never tried it." My grandfather himself witnessed firsthand the owner's mutterings when he went to pick up a mask for his sister. The old man was not aware of my grandfather, and spoke aloud the name Ba'alzamon. My grandfather did not recognize the name, so he assumed that Ba'alzamon was simply a foreigner. My grandfather told me that the mask maker was bent over on something he could not see, though it was clearly not a mask, and he was quite certain if he hadn't knocked one of the masks off of its place on the counter by accident. The old mask maker would of continued working on his project.
As it were, the mask fell and bounced off of the floor, taking several solid objects with it, all of which made a rather loud ruckus. The old man's visage when he turned around was frightful, it left my grandfather, a wee child at the time, in hysterics for weeks, so much so that he refuses to this day to even go near Os Immortalis. The face my grandfather described was only one of madness, of a man who has lost something precious and he only knew it after he lost it, and desperately wants it back, and would do anything to get it back.
As my grandfather was fleeing the workshop, he swore that out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mask maker's dead wife sitting on the stool, smiling at her husband as he worked.
I couldn't say how much I missed you,Because i couldn't have you.
I couldnt say how much I missed you because I don't have you.
I wouldn't say how much I missed
you because you might know, even if you don't know.
That's all i know
Someone sent us this, now we're in the mood for some circa 1989 Urkel O's Cereal