Look the closest I came to an IQ test was when we were in elementary they made us all take something called a "FxAT" and I remember when I came home with my results in an envelope and my mom opened them up and she just started crying, right there at the kitchen table, the scent of hamburger helper in velveeta wafting through the scene, our own little caille en sarcophage of the trailer park jetset, and I walked over to her and put my arms around her neck to hug her tight and saw from the corner of my eye in big red letters on the paper "EXTREME MENTAL RETARDATION." And I'll never forget the look in her own eyes when she glanced up at me, fixed fire, a woman who'd raised a family through trouble with dignity, and she whispered fierce "You don't pay mind to that, Jimmy. You are my boy and I love you, no matter what. You're going to do something great." She died three years later. That's always stuck with me, that little kitchen moment, the two of us there just trying to make our way through the swirling eddies of a life neither of us asked for, brought on by ill fate or malicious hap, whatever you'd like to call it, clinging to each other in some unspoken admixture of desperation and hope, the one informing the other, like two wretcheds on thin wood in the middle of the Pacific, searching the horizon for some salvation.
I still don't understand what that paper meant. But I don't care. I took my mom's words to heart. I have my own family now, a good wife, Candy, and the kids, and I work hard at the ordinance factory to put food to table best I can, church prayer toil bower on the weekly, regular at community events, doing my best to distribute some of my own success to the lesser in the town through the turkey draw and other such. This place has seen its share of knocks, that's for sure. People who've gone missing in inexplicable ways. You remember zeke morris? He was a good, quiet kid, liked to whistle to himself while he walked the streets at dusk trailing some gewgaw or other that he'd put together with his brother, toronto unit, at the garage bench in their house on Wilson--a wooden dog on wheels one week, a cowboy that moved its hands as it rolled the next. Their life wasn't an easy one--their father worked shift as a staff attorney at Skadden and everyone knew they had trouble making ends meet--but they were affable and kind and loved to play baseball. When's the last time you heard anyone mention zeke morris?
Date: January 6th, 2023 4:30 AM Author: lurid anal narrative
that plant in town produces ORDINANCES. every red-stamped and duly filed quill-on-parchment rule and regulation that comes off that line is one small grain in the heap that is the great big arsenal of litocracy that keeps DEAL TEAM SIX and all our other fightin' boys in brooks brothers armed to the teeth and ready to roll
Date: January 6th, 2023 5:41 AM Author: maize quadroon
This has bugged me every time I've seen this poast, but I wasn't willing to mar the wall of blank bumps with my pedantry. Relieved not to be the only autist here though.
Date: January 6th, 2023 7:38 AM Author: Pumonymous
I figured 2.5+ years of adulation was enough. Plus, it's not like it was a pure wall of blank bumps. If it had been, I would've reconsidered, but there are several non-blank replies and one reply to a reply.