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I did indeed call my disability lawyer about the latest developments.

Me: So I'm scheduled to see a neurosurgeon and an orthopedic specialist about my back
Lawyer: what's going on with that? is it the meningitis?
Me: no, well I don't know, I just have a problem. My back has been in pain, like serious severe pain, ever since my last stay in teh hospital. Its been going on for three months now
Lawyer: Oh that's GREAT!
Me:...
Lawyer: oh! uh, I'm sorry. wow, that's not what I meant, I mean, I'm sorry, that is probably really awful for you but um, ah, its great for your CASE. wow, I'm really embarrassed. I'm so sorry. that was awful of me...
Me: [bust out laughing] that's okay, you're a lawyer, you're allowed to say that
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I was about 7 years old. My parents and I lived in a little house that rested behind an apartment building about two blocks away from Piedmont park. There was an alleyway to get to our house. In the middle of essentially downtown Atlanta, we lived in seclusion. The upstairs of our house was rented out to some other couple but I believe at the time there was no one there. My parents were hippies. They didn't "believe" in guns and thus never allowed me to have or play with them. I had gone to a friends house a few days before and played with the two boys there - Chris and Carl. They were twins, in fact, but because my class had another boy named Chris this twin was nicknamed "Pistol". His choice. Pistol and Carl loved typical boy games, as did I, and we played happily that day with Pistol's collection of toy guns.

A few nights after my playdate, we were all sleeping when we were broken into. My father woke up and found a gun staring him in the face. My father wears glasses - can't see anything farther than three inches from his face and the man holding the gun stood in darkness urging my father to wake up and tell him where the valuables were. We didn't have any valuables; we were on food stamps and my mother was enrolled in technical school. My father remembers the man was very nervous and kept saying "where's the drugs man?! where's the drugs?!" My parents finally made the man realize there was nothing for him to take. He rooted around a bit in my mother's jewelry box but it was plain we had nothing for him to take.
So he took my mother.
With the gun to her head, he told her to get up out of bed and come with him. She did. He led her through the house to the front door and out. Once they were on the porch, he paused, probably surveying his escape with her. She decided, in that split second that she didn't care if he had a gun, she wasn't going anywhere without a fight. Meanwhile, My father was out of bed and trying to find his glasses. We didn't have a phone at that time.
My mother opened her mouth and screamed bloody murder. I woke up and laid in bed trying to figure out if what I thought I heard was real, my heart pounding. I heard movement outside, on the porch and a then the front door slammed. I laid in bed, trying not to move, willing this tremendous fear to go away and believing that if I laid still enough, I would wake up again and find out nothing had happened.
Then my parents burst into my room. Turning on the light they checked on me and dragged me out of bed to hold me. Then we all went outside as the neighbors came out to see what had happened. One of our neighbors came, rubbing his eyes, with a gun in his hand.
"Did you hear that scream?" he said incredulously.
My parents laughed.
Then there was police visits, questions etc, but my mom was okay.

the real ending )
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1: If I won't go downstairs and kill a spider cricket, what makes you think I'm going to rob a bank for you?
2: there's no bugs involved.
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Someone in Australia is doing research on the families of Autistic children. I thought it was a pretty good survey and it's kind of nice that for once a research actually gives a shit how family members are affected.

So here is the essay part of the survey )
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a recent post by [livejournal.com profile] spoonfeeding got me thinking about le odeur de buttcrack.
be forewarned, this is graphic )
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This was written a few weeks afterwards (rather than a few days) and so is more complete and a LOT more interesting.
Read more... )

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