this is plagiarism/admin

[SammyelMariachi]

after reading both poems there is no doubt that this is an almost exact replica of the poem by tecktack [AKA] Tom, there are no excuses for copying and posting another persons poetry (from any site) especially from this one. it is to close to the original tobe classed as a homage, passing another person's poetry off as your own is something we take very seriously and because of that we have no allowances that can be extended to you. not even if you didn't realize it wasn't allowed You have been banned for plagiarism/ billy/Admin

Summer Nights successive re-writes found below:
10-05-2013, 01:26 AM
9PM
The air itself was choked that night,
it lay unmoving hot and moist;
slumped across the smoke-hazed town,
in doorways meshed against the fly,
in river loops and forest depths,
on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.
Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,
sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,
and swilled back warm, black, city ale.
10PM
Youth in prime dismay of life
moped about for cooler haunts;
then flushed and florid, melded in
to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,
as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.
Extinguished by the press of night
the flame of impulse flickered out
with every parting shadow shift,
‘till only one or two kicked cans
along the slickly shining street.
11PM
Soon the spill of last-to-leaves
broke into maudling, raucous song.
They laughed at metaphors for moons,
Belisha Becon, Orange friend;
then crossed in safety. Off and on,
the flashing amber fired each face.
In bonded knots they stumbled home
each sharing legs from either side,
'til in the distance they were gone.
Without the living on the streets
the silence added to the heat.
12 Midnight
No one stirred in cramped, dank rooms
with peeling walls and curtained beds,
where ceiling fans clanked slowly round
in futile hope of moving air;
they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or cough
disturbs the suffocating sleep.
Each bladder warning opens eyes;
invokes the same incanted prayer.
Just end the night, just send the dawn,
bring one more morning, cool and fair.

Original

9PM
The air itself was choked that night,
it lay unmoving hot and moist;
slumped across the smoke-hazed town,
in doorways meshed against the fly,
in river loops and forest depths,
on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.
Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,
sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,
and swilled back warm, black, hop-dry ale.
10PM
Youth in prime dismay of life
moped about for cooler haunts;
then flushed and florid, melted in
to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,
as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.
Extinguished by the press of night
the flame of impulse faded out
with every parting shadow shift
‘till only one or two kicked cans
along the slickly shining street.
11PM
Soon the spill of last-to-leaves
broke out with dire homeward hymns.
Some sang drunk metaphors for moon,
belisha becon, orange friend;
yet staggered, thankful, where he shone.
Aglow in sickly sodium light
they stumbled on in friendly knots,
each sharing legs from either side,
until the distance took them… gone.
Without the living on the streets
the silence added to the heat.
12 PM
Not one soul stirred, but in the rooms
with peeling walls and curtained beds,
where ceiling fans limped clanking round
in futile hope of moving air;
they lay in salt-steeped, sleeping dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or turn
or cough disturbs the fragile state.
Each wide-sprung eye, each bladder cry,
invokes the same incanted prayer.
Just end the night, just send the dawn,
bring one more morning, cool and fair.

written by tecktak
05-10-13, 01:26


9PM

The air itself was choked that night,

it lay unmoving hot and moist;

slumped across the smoke-hazed town,

in doorways meshed against the fly,

in river loops and forest depths,

on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.

Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,

sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,

and swilled back warm, black, city ale.



10PM

Youth in prime dismay of life

moped about for cooler haunts;

then flushed and florid, melded in

to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,

as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.

Extinguished by the press of night

the flame of impulse flickered out

with every parting shadow shift,

‘till only one or two kicked cans

along the slickly shining street.



11PM

Soon the spill of last-to-leaves

broke into maudling, raucous song.

They laughed at metaphors for moons,

Belisha Becon, Orange friend;

then crossed in safety. Off and on,

the flashing amber fired each face.

In bonded knots they stumbled home

each sharing legs from either side,

'til in the distance they were gone.

Without the living on the streets

the silence added to the heat.



12 Midnight

No one stirred in cramped, dank rooms

with peeling walls and curtained beds,

where ceiling fans clanked slowly round

in futile hope of moving air;

they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,

pickled from the inside out, and outside in.

How fitfully a toss or cough

disturbs the suffocating sleep.

Each bladder warning opens eyes;

invokes the same incanted prayer.

Just end the night, just send the dawn,

bring one more morning, cool and fair.



Original



9PM

The air itself was choked that night,

it lay unmoving hot and moist;

slumped across the smoke-hazed town,

in doorways meshed against the fly,

in river loops and forest depths,

on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.

Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,

sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,

and swilled back warm, black, hop-dry ale.



10PM

Youth in prime dismay of life

moped about for cooler haunts;

then flushed and florid, melted in

to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,

as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.

Extinguished by the press of night

the flame of impulse faded out

with every parting shadow shift

‘till only one or two kicked cans

along the slickly shining street.



11PM

Soon the spill of last-to-leaves

broke out with dire homeward hymns.

Some sang drunk metaphors for moon,

belisha becon, orange friend;

yet staggered, thankful, where he shone.

Aglow in sickly sodium light

they stumbled on in friendly knots,

each sharing legs from either side,

until the distance took them… gone.

Without the living on the streets

the silence added to the heat.



12 PM

Not one soul stirred, but in the rooms

with peeling walls and curtained beds,

where ceiling fans limped clanking round

in futile hope of moving air;

they lay in salt-steeped, sleeping dreams,

pickled from the inside out, and outside in.

How fitfully a toss or turn

or cough disturbs the fragile state.

Each wide-sprung eye, each bladder cry,

invokes the same incanted prayer.

Just end the night, just send the dawn,

bring one more morning, cool and fair.



Summer 2013

tectak

[tectak]

An Ode and but a re-write to A Summer Night.

9PM
The bear itself was choked with might,
it play at moving pot and hoist;
pumped across the hope-glazed frown,
in cathedrals meshed against almighty why?,
the river poops it's forlorn depths,
in oft spent bar, in steamed-up zip-locks.
Though winter wheezed in squallard bog,
sweat-drenched favour poked with stars,
and shot back warm, white, oozing jail.

10PM
Old lay prime spent of life
mopeds rush for Modish haunts;
then flushed and florid, folded in
to eggwhites, peakless, aimless waves,
as horses lost the stallion-slapped mare.
Extinguished by the press of rump
the flame of phallus flickered out
with every parting shadow lift,
‘till only one or two kicked horseshoes
along the cobblestones rutted path.

11PM
Soon the pill of last-to-heave
miracles unto sprawling, open song.
Mare laughed at metaphors for moons,
Baboon's Pecan's, an Orange friend;
then crossed in peril, Off and on,
the flashing amber fired each face.
In bonded knots they stumbled home
each sharing legs from either side,
'til in the distance they were rammed.
Without the living on the branches
the silence added to the heat.

12 Midnight
No one baboon in cramped, dank cage
with peeling fruit and curtailed existence,
where ceiling fans clanked slowly round
in office hope of stifling air;
they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or cough
disturbs the suffocating hand.
Each bladder warning opens eyes;
invokes the same incanted mouth.
Just end the tunnel, the mow of the lawn,
bring one more asshole, moist and bare.

Utter nonsense. That is the first impression so I read it again. Utter nonsense. Now, to critique. A line by line would not help. I am sticking my head above the parapet as it is. A deconstruction of this bowl of alphabet soup yields up nothing of merit. I could write the next verse in seconds and, this is important, get the same acclaim or otherwise as you will for posting this. It seems that you are making the minimum effort to produce the maximum impact and I am afraid that this rarely produces anything worthy...so...what to do? Will you defend the piece? If so, you will need to show intent. That means convincing the honest crits that you understand the meaning of words. I am not convinced. It means that you have coherent thoughts which by clever and succinct methods you can transmit to the reader. I am not convinced. It means, more importantly, that you expect to receive at least serious comment and at the most critical acclaim for your work. I cannot. My failing? Perhaps, but we shall see. I will read it again.
Utter nonsense. All is opinion.
By the by, you have used one of my lines...but out of context.
Best,
tectak

[ray]

There are some nice lines, I think

the river poops it's forlorn depths,  - its, not it's

Mare laughed at metaphors for moons,

and there are others. The poem flows along nice and rhythmic for a time, then suddenly changes tempo, and not to good effect. As for meaning and narrative thread, it's beyond me and I suspect it's beyond others too. Not that poems have to have meaning, of course, but when its meaning isn't immediately apparent
one is apt to wonder whether, as Tectak suggests, it's just utter nonsense.

[Leanne]

An Ode and but a re-write to A Summer Night.

9PM
The bear itself was choked with might,
it play at moving pot and hoist;
pumped across the hope-glazed frown,
in cathedrals meshed against almighty why?,
the river poops it's forlorn depths,
in oft spent bar, in steamed-up zip-locks.
Though winter wheezed in squallard bog, -- *squalid
sweat-drenched favour poked with stars,
and shot back warm, white, oozing jail.  -- this stanza sounds like it's exploring the relationship between constipation and anal sex -- or maybe the dangers of carrying cocaine in stomach -- clarity is not a dirty word, by the way.

10PM
Old lay prime spent of life
mopeds rush for Modish haunts;
then flushed and florid, folded in
to eggwhites, peakless, aimless waves,
as horses lost the stallion-slapped mare.
Extinguished by the press of rump
the flame of phallus flickered out
with every parting shadow lift,
‘till only one or two kicked horseshoes
along the cobblestones rutted path.  -- back to anal

11PM
Soon the pill of last-to-heave
miracles unto sprawling, open song.
Mare laughed at metaphors for moons,
Baboon's Pecan's, an Orange friend;
then crossed in peril, Off and on,
the flashing amber fired each face.
In bonded knots they stumbled home
each sharing legs from either side,
'til in the distance they were rammed.
Without the living on the branches
the silence added to the heat. -- sure, she's got a face like a horse, but get a few drinks into her and she's an animal

12 Midnight
No one baboon in cramped, dank cage
with peeling fruit and curtailed existence,
where ceiling fans clanked slowly round
in office hope of stifling air;
they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or cough
disturbs the suffocating hand.
Each bladder warning opens eyes;
invokes the same incanted mouth.
Just end the tunnel, the mow of the lawn,
bring one more asshole, moist and bare.

I'm sorry to say this, but although I enjoy surrealistic imagery possibly more than some of my companions here, I really like it to have a key and the only keys I've managed to pick up are the ones I've mentioned, which feel cheap and unpleasant.  These are not images transporting me to a dream, or even a nightmare; rather, there are just too many lines that live only in your head, without any chance of access.

This is not terminal, however.  You have a purpose for writing this -- presumably to entertain, and also to communicate -- and your edit should hone in on what is really necessary in order to achieve this purpose.  Remember, your audience is not in your head.  

There are many famous abstract or surrealist or deeply metaphorical poems out there, the meaning of which is not immediately clear.  Meaning is not my beef with this -- it's that unlike many of those other poems, I don't want to read it more than once to pull more out of it.  It is missing the element of fascination, and I do so love to be fascinated.

Which "A Summer Night" is this supposed to be a rewrite of?  There are many, and I know a few of them well, but can't reconcile this with them, so it must be another.

[SammyelMariachi]

Summer Nights successive re-writes found below:

10-05-2013, 01:26 AM
9PM
The air itself was choked that night,
it lay unmoving hot and moist;
slumped across the smoke-hazed town,
in doorways meshed against the fly,
in river loops and forest depths,
on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.
Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,
sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,
and swilled back warm, black, city ale.

10PM
Youth in prime dismay of life
moped about for cooler haunts;
then flushed and florid, melded in
to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,
as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.
Extinguished by the press of night
the flame of impulse flickered out
with every parting shadow shift,
‘till only one or two kicked cans
along the slickly shining street.

11PM
Soon the spill of last-to-leaves
broke into maudling, raucous song.
They laughed at metaphors for moons,
Belisha Becon, Orange friend;
then crossed in safety. Off and on,
the flashing amber fired each face.
In bonded knots they stumbled home
each sharing legs from either side,
'til in the distance they were gone.
Without the living on the streets
the silence added to the heat.

12 Midnight
No one stirred in cramped, dank rooms
with peeling walls and curtained beds,
where ceiling fans clanked slowly round
in futile hope of moving air;
they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or cough
disturbs the suffocating sleep.
Each bladder warning opens eyes;
invokes the same incanted prayer.
Just end the night, just send the dawn,
bring one more morning, cool and fair.

Original

9PM
The air itself was choked that night,
it lay unmoving hot and moist;
slumped across the smoke-hazed town,
in doorways meshed against the fly,
in river loops and forest depths,
on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.
Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,
sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,
and swilled back warm, black, hop-dry ale.

10PM
Youth in prime dismay of life
moped about for cooler haunts;
then flushed and florid, melted in
to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,
as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.
Extinguished by the press of night
the flame of impulse faded out
with every parting shadow shift
‘till only one or two kicked cans
along the slickly shining street.

11PM
Soon the spill of last-to-leaves
broke out with dire homeward hymns.
Some sang drunk metaphors for moon,
belisha becon, orange friend;
yet staggered, thankful, where he shone.
Aglow in sickly sodium light
they stumbled on in friendly knots,
each sharing legs from either side,
until the distance took them… gone.
Without the living on the streets
the silence added to the heat.

12 PM
Not one soul stirred, but in the rooms
with peeling walls and curtained beds,
where ceiling fans limped clanking round
in futile hope of moving air;
they lay in salt-steeped, sleeping dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or turn
or cough disturbs the fragile state.
Each wide-sprung eye, each bladder cry,
invokes the same incanted prayer.
Just end the night, just send the dawn,
bring one more morning, cool and fair.

Summer 2013
tectak

An Ode and but a re-write to A Summer Night.

9PM
The bear itself was choked with might,
it play at moving pot and hoist;
pumped across the hope-glazed frown,
in cathedrals meshed against almighty why?,
the river poops it's forlorn depths,
in oft spent bar, in steamed-up zip-locks.
Though winter wheezed in squallard bog, -- *squalid
sweat-drenched favour poked with stars,
and shot back warm, white, oozing jail.  -- this stanza sounds like it's exploring the relationship between constipation and anal sex -- or maybe the dangers of carrying cocaine in stomach -- clarity is not a dirty word, by the way.

10PM
Old lay prime spent of life
mopeds rush for Modish haunts;
then flushed and florid, folded in
to eggwhites, peakless, aimless waves,
as horses lost the stallion-slapped mare.
Extinguished by the press of rump
the flame of phallus flickered out
with every parting shadow lift,
‘till only one or two kicked horseshoes
along the cobblestones rutted path.  -- back to anal

11PM
Soon the pill of last-to-heave
miracles unto sprawling, open song.
Mare laughed at metaphors for moons,
Baboon's Pecan's, an Orange friend;
then crossed in peril, Off and on,
the flashing amber fired each face.
In bonded knots they stumbled home
each sharing legs from either side,
'til in the distance they were rammed.
Without the living on the branches
the silence added to the heat. -- sure, she's got a face like a horse, but get a few drinks into her and she's an animal

12 Midnight
No one baboon in cramped, dank cage
with peeling fruit and curtailed existence,
where ceiling fans clanked slowly round
in office hope of stifling air;
they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or cough
disturbs the suffocating hand.
Each bladder warning opens eyes;
invokes the same incanted mouth.
Just end the tunnel, the mow of the lawn,
bring one more asshole, moist and bare.

I'm sorry to say this, but although I enjoy surrealistic imagery possibly more than some of my companions here, I really like it to have a key and the only keys I've managed to pick up are the ones I've mentioned, which feel cheap and unpleasant.  These are not images transporting me to a dream, or even a nightmare; rather, there are just too many lines that live only in your head, without any chance of access.

This is not terminal, however.  You have a purpose for writing this -- presumably to entertain, and also to communicate -- and your edit should hone in on what is really necessary in order to achieve this purpose.  Remember, your audience is not in your head.  

There are many famous abstract or surrealist or deeply metaphorical poems out there, the meaning of which is not immediately clear.  Meaning is not my beef with this -- it's that unlike many of those other poems, I don't want to read it more than once to pull more out of it.  It is missing the element of fascination, and I do so love to be fascinated.

Which "A Summer Night" is this supposed to be a rewrite of?  There are many, and I know a few of them well, but can't reconcile this with them, so it must be another.

[billy]

after reading both poems there is no doubt that this is an almost exact replica of the poem by tecktack [AKA] Tom, there are no excuses for copying and posting another persons poetry (from any site) especially from this one. it is to close to the original tobe classed as a homage, passing another person's poetry off as your own is something we take very seriously and because of that we have no allowances that can be extended to you. not even if you didn't realize it wasn't allowed You have been banned for plagiarism/ billy/Admin

Summer Nights successive re-writes found below:
10-05-2013, 01:26 AM
9PM
The air itself was choked that night,
it lay unmoving hot and moist;
slumped across the smoke-hazed town,
in doorways meshed against the fly,
in river loops and forest depths,
on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.
Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,
sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,
and swilled back warm, black, city ale.
10PM
Youth in prime dismay of life
moped about for cooler haunts;
then flushed and florid, melded in
to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,
as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.
Extinguished by the press of night
the flame of impulse flickered out
with every parting shadow shift,
‘till only one or two kicked cans
along the slickly shining street.
11PM
Soon the spill of last-to-leaves
broke into maudling, raucous song.
They laughed at metaphors for moons,
Belisha Becon, Orange friend;
then crossed in safety. Off and on,
the flashing amber fired each face.
In bonded knots they stumbled home
each sharing legs from either side,
'til in the distance they were gone.
Without the living on the streets
the silence added to the heat.
12 Midnight
No one stirred in cramped, dank rooms
with peeling walls and curtained beds,
where ceiling fans clanked slowly round
in futile hope of moving air;
they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or cough
disturbs the suffocating sleep.
Each bladder warning opens eyes;
invokes the same incanted prayer.
Just end the night, just send the dawn,
bring one more morning, cool and fair.

Original

9PM
The air itself was choked that night,
it lay unmoving hot and moist;
slumped across the smoke-hazed town,
in doorways meshed against the fly,
in river loops and forest depths,
on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.
Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,
sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,
and swilled back warm, black, hop-dry ale.
10PM
Youth in prime dismay of life
moped about for cooler haunts;
then flushed and florid, melted in
to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,
as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.
Extinguished by the press of night
the flame of impulse faded out
with every parting shadow shift
‘till only one or two kicked cans
along the slickly shining street.
11PM
Soon the spill of last-to-leaves
broke out with dire homeward hymns.
Some sang drunk metaphors for moon,
belisha becon, orange friend;
yet staggered, thankful, where he shone.
Aglow in sickly sodium light
they stumbled on in friendly knots,
each sharing legs from either side,
until the distance took them… gone.
Without the living on the streets
the silence added to the heat.
12 PM
Not one soul stirred, but in the rooms
with peeling walls and curtained beds,
where ceiling fans limped clanking round
in futile hope of moving air;
they lay in salt-steeped, sleeping dreams,
pickled from the inside out, and outside in.
How fitfully a toss or turn
or cough disturbs the fragile state.
Each wide-sprung eye, each bladder cry,
invokes the same incanted prayer.
Just end the night, just send the dawn,
bring one more morning, cool and fair.

written by tecktak
05-10-13, 01:26


9PM

The air itself was choked that night,

it lay unmoving hot and moist;

slumped across the smoke-hazed town,

in doorways meshed against the fly,

in river loops and forest depths,

on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.

Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,

sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,

and swilled back warm, black, city ale.



10PM

Youth in prime dismay of life

moped about for cooler haunts;

then flushed and florid, melded in

to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,

as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.

Extinguished by the press of night

the flame of impulse flickered out

with every parting shadow shift,

‘till only one or two kicked cans

along the slickly shining street.



11PM

Soon the spill of last-to-leaves

broke into maudling, raucous song.

They laughed at metaphors for moons,

Belisha Becon, Orange friend;

then crossed in safety. Off and on,

the flashing amber fired each face.

In bonded knots they stumbled home

each sharing legs from either side,

'til in the distance they were gone.

Without the living on the streets

the silence added to the heat.



12 Midnight

No one stirred in cramped, dank rooms

with peeling walls and curtained beds,

where ceiling fans clanked slowly round

in futile hope of moving air;

they lay in salt-steeped, lucid dreams,

pickled from the inside out, and outside in.

How fitfully a toss or cough

disturbs the suffocating sleep.

Each bladder warning opens eyes;

invokes the same incanted prayer.

Just end the night, just send the dawn,

bring one more morning, cool and fair.



Original



9PM

The air itself was choked that night,

it lay unmoving hot and moist;

slumped across the smoke-hazed town,

in doorways meshed against the fly,

in river loops and forest depths,

on soft road tar, in steamed-up cars.

Though summer wheezed in pollen fog,

sweat-drenched labour smoked in bars,

and swilled back warm, black, hop-dry ale.



10PM

Youth in prime dismay of life

moped about for cooler haunts;

then flushed and florid, melted in

to strolling, shiftless, aimless gangs,

as hormones lost the heat-sapped war.

Extinguished by the press of night

the flame of impulse faded out

with every parting shadow shift

‘till only one or two kicked cans

along the slickly shining street.



11PM

Soon the spill of last-to-leaves

broke out with dire homeward hymns.

Some sang drunk metaphors for moon,

belisha becon, orange friend;

yet staggered, thankful, where he shone.

Aglow in sickly sodium light

they stumbled on in friendly knots,

each sharing legs from either side,

until the distance took them… gone.

Without the living on the streets

the silence added to the heat.



12 PM

Not one soul stirred, but in the rooms

with peeling walls and curtained beds,

where ceiling fans limped clanking round

in futile hope of moving air;

they lay in salt-steeped, sleeping dreams,

pickled from the inside out, and outside in.

How fitfully a toss or turn

or cough disturbs the fragile state.

Each wide-sprung eye, each bladder cry,

invokes the same incanted prayer.

Just end the night, just send the dawn,

bring one more morning, cool and fair.



Summer 2013

tectak

[bena]

SOoooo Tom called his own writing utter nonsense? Yup, sounds like him =)

[Todd]

SOoooo Tom called his own writing utter nonsense?  Yup, sounds like him =)

There can be a silver lining in plagiarism I guess. When the original author mocks his own work.

I feel that way about most of my stuff too though so I should have seen this one bright side. 

[tectak]

[quot]e='bena' pid='178784' dateline='1415810201']
SOoooo Tom called his own writing utter nonsense?  Yup, sounds like him =)
[/quote]
Harumph...it was only to get the twat to come clean...I even gave him a clue that I was on to him. Zilch.
and anyway, shit stirred is still shit
Best,
tectak

[just mercedes]

I'm amazed at the intellect that would plagiarize a poet - on the same site. WTF?

Though I have to admit it happened to me at Allpottery.

[bena]

Hell I get plagiarized on my own site, with them knowing I'm the admin....some people are just that stupid.

[shemthepenman]

this is so strange. I mean seriously, what was the boy thinking?

anyhow, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Although, if the person 'flattering' you is a complete dickhead, then one should maybe reconsider the value of that proposition (:

[justcloudy]

I'm aghast that someone could be so stupid.... so much so that I'm almost sure he's a troll. Right?