Judge Wilner had a decision to make. Was it the store owners fault for the distribution of these things or was it the fault of the consumer with bad intentions. What were the regulations on this, anyway? What law ever stated that it is illegal to sell someone's dignity, and put it in the posession of somebody else?
In the old days, this species of a store was easy to come by. Unlike today, where it tends to be an underground business, an individual's dignity was hardly ever their own. Unless, of course, you were a king or queen, sometimes a noble here and there. If you were a peasant, your dignity was bought in part by the rich. Dignity in whole is expensive, but like a stock, parts of you could've been sold to various individuals. If you were a woman, your dignity was owned by a man. And if you were a slave, your dignity wasn't on the market, because it never existed. With time, the distribution of dignity was thrown underground by the constitution and other such acts, but legal limits have yet to be put on it.
The death of the prosecuter's client's daughter was a direct connection between the selling of her dignity and her lack of resiliency. Sure, the person who bought it abused it until all self respect dissolved into thin air. But he had paid full price for it and, legally, it belonged to him. There have been cases like this before, where the individual can bounce back from such a sale and create new dignity to work off of. Considering it is not impossible, why should anyone be persecuted? The judge made the final decision to throw the case out of court.

We're taught in the bible that Eve came from the rib of Adam, and that she was basically his underdog. She followed his orders and she lived for him. Adam set standards for her and she did her best to meet them. Lilith came before her, and was a goddess considered to be evil. Adam commanded her to do something she opposed to, and for this reason she left the Garden of Eden. She is overlooked in the bible and considered evil for disobeying Adam. What isn't known about her, however, is that Adam made the mistake of failing to purchase her dignity. He was under the impression that because she came off vulnerable (naked in an unknown new world), she would listen to him. His thoughts were contradicted, and when creating Eve, he knew better than to make that mistake again. This time, he took sole ownership of her dignity, purchasing it from a serpent who owned a store, knowing it would someday roll in big money.

As you can see, this practice has been acceptable since human kind began. How could the justice system tamper with culture, tradition, and human way? Judge Wilner faced issues equally debatable as this one on a daily basis. In a way, that's what his job description was; The combination of morals, ethics, and laws (moral/ethical or not). Although his conscience told him that his ruling was wrong, he knew he had no other choice. He was to follow the law, and his personal opinion had little say in the outcome of this case. As with the majority of government workers, he turned a blind eye.

1st room- this room
2nd room- bedroom
3rd room- imaginary room

In a nutshell, this room needs to be painted. Wires are hanging out of the cieling, which may or may not be a fire hazard. There seems to be about three unused printers an d some out of use computers on top of file cabinets. Also, the "NO EATING" sign goes unnotticed, because the entire garbage can is filled to the brim with food. Yum. The floors appear to have been put down by an amateur and the windows need a serious cleaning. To top it off, we are being observed by the inhabitants of the room next door.

My bedroom is going to be redone in the summer because of how much it is lacking.

My imaginary room doesn't have walls. So I guess it's not a room. If I could choose, I would live in an open plain where I could see everything, no matter how gross. It's a good way to know the truth and for everyone to be close =]]]]]]

Silly poet,
Did you really think the stars stopped burning when you closed your eyes to sleep?
Silly poet! Violets are violet!
And not all roses are red
Silly poet, the sidewalk doesn't have to end
If you're peter pan, that is
O captain! my captain!
Silly poet, you're talking to the wrong guy
Everyone knows a captain goes down with his ship
Silly poet, I doubt your name is John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt
That is identity theft you know
Silly poet, your words are no comfort
If the baby is going to fall, cradel and all

“Would you like some tea?”
“I would. Thank you.”
“Careful. It’s hot.”
“I usually prefer iced tea.”
“Mmm. I don’t have any.”
“Maybe I can put ice in this tea.”
“But that’s what I’m saying—I don’t have any cubes.”
“Sorry.”
He couldn't drink this tea. It was hot. Hot means scorching of the tongue. As a child, he had been diagnosed with sipa, a rare medical condition that didn't allow him to feel pain. This didn't bother him. In fact, most things didn't as he didnt feel them. He could feel touch, he could feel emotion pain, but physically he couldn't comprehend what this sensation of pain was like. What bothered him was the awkward situations he was put in on a daily basis. In example, is it easier to seem rude to a job interviewer or to share an unfathomable medical condition with them in the first five minutes? Rejecting tea wasn't a considerably bad situation. Try turning down invites for paintball gunning as a kid or being unable to try out for any sport. Or going to the beach, because sand would get into his eye and scratch his cornea without him noticing. Pain may seem negative to most, but many lack appreciation for it and view it as a means of survival.

As a child, he had taken some pride in his disease. He pretended to be superman, and would jump off the swing higher than any of the other children could. When playing "mercy" he would always win. The other kids took awe when he was able to perfect a belly flop at the local pool, without crying afterwards. He had always viewed himself as tough and accepted, rather than a kid with a genetic disease who would suffer from many dillemnas growing up. It wasn't until the end of middle school, when the ability to withstand pain lost its shock value to kids on the playground, that he began to question. What was this thing they called hurt? What was it about this sensation that brought people to tears and made them scream in agony?

pain- physical suffering or distress, as due to injury, illness, etc.

He couldn't help but wonder if one day he would have cancer consume his body and not know it. Would he be on the floor dead from a heartattack without feeling the slightest symptom first? Life could be taken from him before he'd have any inkling of what was about to happen. It's not that he had a fear of the unknown like many anxious people do. It was one hundred percent reasonable, and maybe even probable, that the fears he posessed would come to be true. That left him with two options. Either he could live his life in fear, or he could use his disease to his advantage, like everyone else saw it. Knowing optimism usually wins, he chose the later of the two.

Lorrie Moore's view of writing is probably realistic for people who are trying to be published. From what I hear becoming a writer, whether it be a novelist or journalist, it all hard to accomplish. I've heard much of it comes from luck or who you know rather than skill or style. I guess it's similiar to acting or becoming a singer- I'm sure most cruise ship singers have better voices than Rihanna or Britney spears.

WHERE WAS MONDI!?

The sole purpose in Mondi's tardiness to his creative class was to get Michelle and Gabby mad. Gabby doesn't have a lunch period and Michelle is absent so much that she has to do work all period and basically all of her life. They were absolutely famished from an absence of a good meal. In fact, they only eat well on the weekends because it's the only time when they are free from the stale, B.O reeking dungeons of the town prison. It's almost like an insane ayslum; once you enter the building most of your human rights, except for legal ones (sometimes), are stricken from you. Crazy people are often considered somewhat of the children and responsibility of their care takers. Same concept.
Anyway, Mondi had a nice chat with Mr. Stein. They discussed Indie music, Jessica's annoyingness, and so forth. Stein gave Mondi some advice on the novel he's working on and the rest of their conversation continued on with that note. Notice they were talking about relevent aspects of their life, not the cosine of a triangle. The only time I can think of where I'll ever need to know anything about a triangle is never, but if I were on the softball team, maybe for figuring out the distance between bases. But there's google on my phone for that. I really wish I was eating a sandwich right now. However, we are glad to know Mondi is safe and sound and back to his assigned class doing his job.

The night I killed myself was the first time I had proof of her with this meat packing guy. I figured this must be my hell, my punishment for committing a sin in ending my own life. I am a bird; it's an instinct for me to want to fly free. Instead, I am confined to a metal cage, held down by my past. I had hope that I'd be stored away in a garage somewhere where I would be forgotten. Perhaps my wife and this monster could go on vacation and forget to feed me for a week. Maybe I could even catch some kind of bird disease and leave the world untouched with my presence. The feeling wouldn't be too foreign to me, considering she moved on fast. What I can't learn to accept is that she moved on before I was gone, and that her leaving me would have been inevitable. As a human, I believed my purpose was being the breadwinner, and having her to depend on me. The money I brought home brought us food, it paid the bills, and it didn't win her affection. Looking back, I realize I had no specific purpose, and I was confined to a similar cage as I am now. In this way my human life and bird life coincide.
I could try to fly away into the shimmering endless sky, aimlessly, forgetting my past and concentrating only on my next nest, my next twig of berries, or my next getaway plan from a predator or recreational bullet. I used to go hunting. I didn't even have a reason to shoot a bird. I swear I would've played videogames if I knew the detrimental effects the pull of a trigger causes to small animals such as myself. As much as a cage shields me from the outside world, being free would let me run from my mistakes and guilt. Instead, I am forced to rest in her palm, literally in the palm of her hand, and pretend as if I don't like it. I don't want to want her; it's a strange division between my conscience, subconscience, reality, and fantasy. Where does the line between each really begin?
One day I broke loose and flew around the house. It was the perfect plan to escape. If I had just kept quiet and waited for him to come home, I could've broke free through the door before he knew what had hit him. This was the game plan, until my jealousy and rage kicked in. My bird heart, which already beat a good 900 times a minute, accelerated to a whopping 1000. Instead of fleeing the scene, I made the imulsive decision to shit on his head. It was great. It truly was for the next few hours as I tweeted happily to my and rang bird songs throughout the house. He called me a few vulgar words which only made it better. And then I was back to square one, missing my opportunity because of a human emotion. A bird with the mind of a human. That's hell in itself. I was getting no where through my anger and desire for revenge. That's when I recognized, in the middle of a triumphant chirp, that I had to forgive her for what had transpired if I ever wanted to truly be free as a bird.