Today, I bring you three quickies.
1) I received this email a while back: You have used 98.9% of the total data allocated to your mailbox.To avoid placing your incoming massages on hold or loose them permanently,we require you to re-validate your mailbox to expand your data allocation size.
My response: Dear Web mail system administrator,
3) Another form of art from ash ~
This weekend, I went to a local cafe for a friend's jazz performance. She did great, as always.
At the end, a younger crowd with pierced nostrils took over, excited about a fundraiser show for Camp Fire survivors.
Since I'd secured a front row seat earlier, I stayed to enjoy some spoken word.*
The first performer wasn't a fire victim, she said. However, a strong spiritual connection to the fire motivated her to produce a number of poems that graced the walls and were available for purchase. "Here's my first one," she announced, and then read from a small slip of paper.
"I cry!" her voice, loud, confident, dramatic.
Next, she said with equal emphasis on each word: "I cry!"
And then . . . "I CRY!"
I almost cried. But I was sitting in front. I couldn't leave; it'd be too obvious. So would my tears.
"...cry." Alas, she'd finished.
"Here's my second one." Crap!
"It is love," she began.
Then, "It is love."
Next, . . .Yeah, you guessed it. "It is love."
I stood up and pushed through the crowd to reclaim my freedom.
"Seat in front! Seat in front! Seat in front!" I belted, as I opened my car door.
I don't know, my friends. I do know that one thing I appreciate about you is this: You never post that stuff for the rest of us to applaud or cry, cry, cry. Thank you x3 for that.
Be good to yourselves.