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On 8 March 2005

Hi everyone!

Sorry, I know that this isn't the update that I promised in my last post, however, I just happened to stumble across "This" when I ran my name through the Duck Duck Go.com search engine a few minutes ago [full disclosure dictates that I tell you that I have no financial interest in said search engine].

Anyway, it was a lighter moment in my otherwise bleak day. The update that I promised will be forthcoming in the next few days.

I have a lot of rebuilding and upgrading to do on my PC, and home electrical system before I will be able to get back into the swing of things here.

I think a snail could out run the PC that I have to use right now, and it's really straining my nerves just trying to get used to something with only 128 MB of ram when I'm use to having over a GB.

Love to all of you guys, and to those of you who have left me replies that I haven't answered yet, I apologize and I'll be getting to them soon.

Oh, and by the way that's not really me that's selling guns. It's just someone who came along and stole my name.

♥ Wendy

 

Southern Counties Lubricants, LLC – Wholesale Supplier of  California Lubricants, Oil Petroleum Products CA, Industrial Lubricants - Heavy Duty Oil, Automotive Oil, Aviation Oils, Greases, Chemicals Fuels etc. Brand Like Chevron, Shell and Unocal from Northern California and Southern California.

It has been reported that all the people who have died from this Swine Flu lived in Mexico. Everyone else that has been infected so far has got over it, and was not seriously ill.

Strange stuff. A lot of fear out there, just the same. I would not be surprised if the border becomes quite restricted if many more people die down there. Definately a negative for drug smugglers. But its bringing down the price of oil, as travel is negatively affected.

Interesting comments about my gun control blog. People are always passionate about their guns. Guns are part of American culture, and will be for a very long time. I am going to get out this summer and do some shooting at the range.

Now that the Supreme Court has finally gotten off its butt and given the people of the District of Columbia their constitutional right to own firearms in their homes without fear of arrest perhaps crime and murders might come down now. For over 30 some years District residents weren't allowed to own a handgun or shotgun legally for that matter, any type of firearm. Those who did had to have it unloaded and locked and kept in a safe place. My question has always been, what happens when the burgular or robbers attempts to breakin ? Do you tell him to wait while you fine the ammo to load it or let me find the key to unlock it ? Only Law enforcement officers are allowed to carry weapons in the District, not only that, there are many SPO's Special Police Officers in the District working on Government jobs that have arrest powers but no weapons and those who do are only allowed to carry 38 cal. revolvers. Whats my point here ? 

 

1. The police don't protect you and your family from harm  you do. They can only respond after the fact. Until something happens they'er hepless in helping you/us. Mayor Fenty tried tirelessly to get this case through the Court, he wants all guns out of the District. He feels there's no need, and yet DC is like a war zone. Anytime you have 8 people killed in a nine hours, you have a crime ridden city. This was just one weekend.

2. Restricting  your ownership of your choice of weapons is another means of control. Meaning you don't get to own a semi automatic weapon.

3. The old law as far as having weapons in your home will be illegal for 21 days until the Metro PD has come up with the propper registration forms and fees.

4. There will be no carry permits issued to private citizens, you can only own a firearm for the home not carry, citizens may feel just a little safer now. In the State of Va, people a have right  to carry  permits, and crime is down.

5. We as citizens need to look at our constitutional rights under the second ammendment and paay close attention. We barely won this on in the highest court in the land. 5 to 4, it seems we have 4 justices who wish to rewrite the constitution their way. If we aren't careful all gun owners will have their weapons taken away just like they have in England, and look at that country plum wild and off the hook with crime.

6. Criminals have better weapons then the police beleive it or not.

 

Assignment for history. We had to take things from a soldier's point of view in World War One, and write a letter home describing what the trenches were like and how the surroundings were and everything else. Please enjoy. I kinda like this one.

March 9th, 2009
Emily G. Fieldus
----------------------

Dear Mother and Father,

I want to apologize for taking you for granted. It seems like ever since I’ve entered this war, that I’ve been regretting every time for the days when I haven’t told you that I loved you. It’s amazing what a war like this can make you feel. I’m going to be honest in this letter. Nothing but completely honest.

Living in a trench is ten times worse than what others say it is. I’m constantly wet. Soaked. I can’t remember how it feels to be dry. It’s been that long, even though it feels like I waved good-bye to you and entered this endless battle only yesterday.
I’m sunken in up to my ankles in thick mud; which I have been trudging through just to reach the other end of this smelly trench. The smell is worse than anything else I have ever smelled. It makes me gag, but I can’t hide my nose because my hands are already holding onto my gun. It feels like they will not let go.

There is no escape from the swallowing embrace of the monster that is sprawled out along the ground, waiting to capture the most unaware of soldiers. I’ve seen my fellow men get snagged by their feet. Trapped within the arms of this unremorseful creature, they desperately extend their arms for help – screaming to be saved until their throat goes numb. All we can do, time after time, is stand – weapons in arms – frozen in fear as we watch them slowly, gradually, being pulled under. I have waited endlessly for them to surface. Nothing. Not even a man’s helmet. It never takes me long to realize that the lost and stolen ones will not return. The men continue to push me forward as I stand there silently, taking a small moment to mourn. They shove me in the back, ordering me to keep moving forward with their heavy, thundering voices.

You would think the mud would drown and cover everything it sees. But it doesn’t.
The vile, spat out remains of what the mud did not enjoy is all over the trench walls and floor. Nothing but unpleasant sights. Ones that remain within your mind forever.

Rats. Hundreds. Millions of them are gnawing at anything they can get at with their short, pointy claws and miniscule but dangerous jaws. They stare endlessly at me with their glowing, red eyes – and I know they are waiting for my downfall. From dawn until dusk, they are waiting for me. Waiting for me to hit the ground and lose; so they can feed their already-grotesque and enlarging bellies with my uniform fabric and freshly rotting flesh.
They have infested the trench. Nobody ever goes a minute without having a small pack of rats nibbling sharply at their awfully worn shoes and dead corpses that are spread out along the bottom of our hideout. It’s like these creatures were delivered by the devil, himself.

It takes a strong man to stare at these rats, and watch them eat away at a deceased corpse that once used to stand beside you in this fierce battle and not grimace in utter disgust. Or not furrow their eyebrows. Or even move a single muscle within their face. I am not one of these men. I can’t help but turn away; torn, shattered, and broken at the sight of these rats feeding off the dead flesh off a soldier’s bones. My memory will not be rid of the brave souls that gave it their all, even if they were yet to strike our enemy.

Lice have infested my hair and clothing. I always get an often urge to itch and scratch, but I can’t. I can’t lose my life to something as silly as wanting to cure the itch. Getting rid of these pests is impossible. Not even an iron and board can get rid of them. The infestation is immortal. They live within the stitches and fibers of my uniform, and my body heat keeps them alive. They bask within the strands of my hair, and feast on my cold scalp. These insects cause me to itch non-stop, but I am learning to resist these pressed urges and remain to keep my focus attached to this nightmare.

There is also a strange infection that has already grabbed many soldiers. They call it the ‘Trench Foot’. It’s the consequence to keeping our feet poorly kept; that is our fault. But we can’t help it. We are here for war, not to complain about such petty things. I have seen men get sent away due to this disease, and have the afflicted limb amputated. I have a strong feeling deep in my gut that I am this monster’s next target.

I have also watched soldiers grow insane due to the traumatisation of this war. Some call it ‘Shell Shock’. These warriors would scream in such agony, clutching their aching heads, pleading for everything to stop. The sights and the sounds. The piercing whistles of fired bullets, and the deafening explosions from the mines. The blood splattered sand our feet swiftly sweep across, and the dead bodies that lie there. Untouched and left behind for natural disasters to rid them of their current locations. I have watched these poor souls be driven away to asylums, knowing that they will never return to a relaxed state of mind ever again.

Men are slowly being reduced to young boys. Fear never releases our minds, and our nightmares as knee-high children are restored to life day by day. The overpowering scent of death is everywhere. Not a single soldier gets a break to ease our minds of this hell on earth. Relaxing doesn’t exist, and even though all may seem calm in the hours of night, our minds are still alert – attached to the victorious sounds of squealing bullets and the screams of death from our foes. My dirty and sweaty hands itch to pull the triggers of guns, and my blistered feet are eternally sore.

Nothing matters when you are in war. Nobody cares if you have a wife, or have children back at home. Nobody matters where you came from, how many languages you speak, or if you excel at arithmetic or have read several Shakespearean plays. Nobody cares if you are rich or poor, or how many friends you have lost in this feud. All that matters is where your aim is, where you’re stepping, and how long you can continue to stay alive.

But don’t worry. I’m okay.

I love you.