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  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

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        Friday, June 18, 2004

    It's Your Dad...

    Or your brother. Or your son. Lying there in a bloody heap. His head sawn off by people you do not and can not ever know or understand.

    The press is outside, with their painfully bright camera lights. All you hear throughout the house is crying. Sobbing. Occasional outbursts of anger that descend into sobbing and snuffling. And helicopters, whupping furtively overhead, like buzzards hoping for a nice, tasty, smelly portion of what used to be your life, cameras at the ready...

    Is your computer on? Is the glow calling to you? An email to a well-wisher is currently up, unfinished. You ran out of letters...every one you typed seem to evaporate off the screen. Someone has used a rusty garden trowel to scoop out your intestines, and when you breath in through your nose you smell blood, and your heart pounds sometimes in rythyms that tell you you could die, right here, right now, and nothing anybody can do can save you, and you wouldn't want that anyway because if it happened you would clench your teeth and crawl off to somewhere dark and die as quietly as you could because the pain would stop and maybe, just maybe, you could be with him again, and hold him and comfort him and put your hand over his mouth and silence the scream and rub his hair and tell him that it is all right, we're with Jesus now, and nobody can ever hurt us again.

    Ahhh, the comfort of the computer. A familiar thing. Pull the chair back, minimize the email, and go to Drudge. You've done this a hundred times a day for years...it's a comfort place. A link. The word 'photos' catches your eye. You haven't seen him in months, and you...

    You just click. That's all you do. Just one click.





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