tango 24

Growing up in Brunei I know what you mean about humid as fuck and no wind. shit is no joke. prawps given.

south korea, 2010

people with mental health issues are stigmatized, they are labelled as defective rather than treatable and locked away. Australia is currently trying to overhaul its very archaic mental health system (something I have experience with) though I'm not sure what it's like in the US. Simply creating new 'tags' for people to file them neatly away isn't going to help. Autism isn't going to cause you to go out and shoot people, I can only imagine how many autistic students are now getting sideways looks in hallways after Sandy Hook.

can't wait to be working in the ED christmas day, boxing day, NYE, new years day and Australia day. last year there wasn't ONE person who worked a shift over those days that wasn't assaulted, FYEAHRURALAUSTRALIA!

^Exactly how I feel

toilet paper: unsanitary stick up the poophole: sanitary

black guy: boring voice asian guy: sounded like porky fucking pig. "yibida yibida i shouldn't be fucking rapping" the best one was the jack osborne looking motherfucker. 2/10 would not listen again

Frontiere

watching "Lars and the real girl" drinking that expensive Iced coffee, opening care packages, waiting for work to start

hahaha damn tha's cold false, I did some ruthless shit and made it up on some my name is earl tip now I can't handle bad kharma tpbm is a one man destruction party after drinking

wheres ya bintang singlet brahhhh

someone call the council, got a whole page of trash to take out

girlfriend is interstate, family is overseas and I'm working. I do buy a giant leg of ham and share it with neighbours every year, this year I haven't. Don't particularly feel like inviting the trash to my house.

had to mute that shit

NO tpbm poops and oontzes at the same time

at first i was all like dildos? and then i was all like coldildos....

That would be Miranda Kerr

you're like the Halley's comet of 12oz

2 posts in 10 years, holy shit

I like to pretend I can write sometimes The blank walls stare back, her broken mind twisting the cracks and spider webs in to leering faces; they accuse her, weighing her sins. She doesn’t look away, she stares on as if waiting for the paint to peel back and the bricks to talk. Her hair is matted and tangled, she looks like a feral child but she has no mirror to correct it. Not that she would anyway, all sense of being have left her. Her eyes bore vacantly ahead of her, they are disconcerting. It is as if she can see straight through the wall. “no change?” He turns around to find himself no longer alone in observing the small girl behind the observational mirror. The figure in the door is framed by the light spilling in from the outside corridor and he cannot place the voice. The visitor closes the door and the warm feeling of recognition floods his extremities, It is her mother. As she moves towards him he turns back to the patient , the soft glow of the lone bulb in her room casts a haunting shadow of her against the wall. Maybe her shadow is conversing with her. It wouldn’t surprise either of the two people watching her. They know each other well now; Him, the Scientist, and Her, the Housewife. He turns to look at her, he cannot help but to analyze her. Her posture is slack, her eyes hooded. She looks tired, almost defeated. A wave of sympathy passes over him, almost forcing the Scientist to reach out and take her hand. Checking the urge, instead he turns to the charts on the table between him and the mirror. “No changes, she is only lucid for brief periods of time, though they are becoming less frequent as we continue…” The Scientist stops, noticing the Housewife is swaying on the spot. Sometimes he forgets that the child on the other side of the glass is her daughter. To him she is just another patient, a number in a file. A photo on a wall. Collecting himself, the Scientist hands her a tissue and stands awkwardly while she blows her nose. She turns to him, her lips tremble with a question that she dares not ask. The Scientist already knows what she wants. He shakes his head. No, she does not remember you. I am sorry. Awkwardness settles in the room, choking the words out of them both. Biting her lip, the Housewife turns her gaze back upon the little girl she once held against her breast. No longer recognizable as her own blood and flesh. The realization that she has no recollection of her own mother hurts beyond words. No tears can express the futility, the weary sadness, that she feels with the world. “I think I’m done” He is puzzled at her words, done with what he wonders but he keeps his query to himself. He knows better than to question her. Still staring at the small, huddled figure in the other room, he sees her turn on her heel and move slowly towards the door again. Her shoes click on the cold concrete floor. She still likes to wear high heels. The Scientist hears her stop at the door but he does not turn around. “she's your daughter too, you cold hearted bastard” He does not respond, his gaze remains steadfastly pointed forwards. His eyes locked on the girl in the room. The door slams behind her and the Scientist is alone once again. With his thoughts and his patient. His daughter. His burden.