You may think that it's sad looking at the office supplies on your desk and wondering which would win in a fight - but not as sad as realizing that this isn't the first time you've thought about this.
The weather is warm, the trees are green and the squat house beside my apartment building is spewing out its inhabitants even later into the night. Thankfully, they never seem to tire of professing in the piercing tones of their eloquent drunken dialect the love or derision they feel for one another.
Aside from the tell-tale signs of spring, there has been another blessed event of wonderment which has touched down on the tarmac of my aspirations. On June 3rd I took part in the age-old, Alberta right of passage... branding.
It was glorious; I thought that my general maternal, nurturing instincts would kick in and swell me with pity for these sweet creatures and their plight. I guess the ration outweighed the hippy, over-sensitive side of my id, and all was well. The weather was pretty chilly and wet, which made the pen we worked in a gumbo of mud, blood and feces. I won't give myself undue credit and say I was a natural, but I held my own and I have no qualms saying so. I tackled, I held, I pulled - those calves were in good hands, let me just reassure you of that.
I was amazed at how quick the whole process was; especially the castration - I would've though that would be the most painful (second to the branding of course). But nay, it didn't seem to inflict much discomfort, although I can't speak for the men doing it.
Overall, it was a very memoriable experience. The only cloud over my success in becoming an official "citiot" brander would be the harassing texts and calls that streamed in after I decided to share my day on facebook. While I can't express total gratitude for psychopaths now (being still involved in an altercation with one), I sure am glad they're around to keep things spicy and remind me that as much as I'd like to change about myself - saints be praised him not THAT far gone.

I think I could hear my unborn children crying in between the Democrat's Pavlovian dog-like standing ovations last night.
Now don't get me wrong, I think that President Obama is a great man. As much harping I stand to take for that statement alone, I really do think that he has the right attitude to make some real changes. The focus and the direction that he's been able to maintain despite the conditions of the union when he took office.
A lot of his points last night I thought were brilliantly articulated and extremely poignant. I appreciated his call to both Republican and Democrat alike to abandon the partisan thinking that keeps anything from getting done, and work to restore public faith in government.
His focus on economic infrastructure, mainly in stronger support for small business and fewer tax cuts for the super rich, is the only solution where they're concerned. Too bad the U.S. can't work up the moxie to ban Wal-Mart like Germany - that deficit would melt away like the pounds of their patrons. I do find it interesting that he's choosing to "reinvest" 30 billion of the bailout return back into these small business initiatives. So, that's 30 billion of the money that you didn't even have to start with - correct?
All the items covered in the address, from health care, to national defense to education, sat well enough with me... until
Iraq. Oh sweet goodness. I wanted to cry. All combat troops out by August. That's like bringing your son home from rehab, going and hanging a big sign in the red light district with your son's name, address, phone number and list of drugs of choice. COME ON! Look, I'm not an idiot, I knew that this would happen eventually - but I guess I just hoped there would be a bit more time. Vietnam revisited I suppose. I'm happy that American soldiers get to come home and be reunited with their families - but my heart aches for those families who have stood beside the Americans in Iraq. There are some dark months ahead.
I guess that about covers the bulk of the State of my Opinions on the State of the Union. Other than the Republican in the orange tie who never showed any emotion and had his fingers pursed together like Dr. Claw - I wanna party with that dude.

15 Days
Darlene Etienne survived the aftermath of the Haiti earthquake trapped under the rubble by drinking bath water, for 15 days. 5 days after the search for survivors had been called off, and the death toll had risen to an imcomprehensible 200,000, this incredible 16 year old girl was pulled out alive from the remains of her school. Dehydrated to the brink of death, this frail, weak frame drew from her last parcel of strength the power to say the words "thank-you"

And here I am wondering if I'll be able to stay off Facebook for two weeks.

We really have no idea how blessed we are, and how much responsibility we have to lift up the heads the hang low. To brighten the eyes glazed with burden and despair. Even in my darkest moments, I could not conjour the courage and will of this 16 year old girl. Temporally, we are wealthier than society lets us think we are - but morally, we are leagues behind the curve.

Dreams. The excitement to create, witness, experience or complete something beyond our immediate grasp or capacity, but the pursuit of which keeps us wading through the sometimes endless wake of confusion and opposition. I've never really ever understood anybody that only had one dream. As all-encompassing as it may be - i.e. get married, have a family and be happy - I've always been left a little dumbfounded at those that carry only the dreams handed to them by tradition or custom, and were satiated in doing so. Not to disparage or negate said dream, on the contrary I've come to realize those who carry it are far more wise and live lives far less wrought with hollow pursuits and distraction that keeps them from finding the happiness that life has to give them. But it's odd to me when someone has never been so moved by something in their walk through life, that in that moment all other realities seem to pause, and your only reality becomes this dream, or series of dreams. The belief that your potential, your purpose is tied into them and through them you'll channel a fulfillment that until now you couldn't really have even contemplated.
Suffice it to say, this week I've been thinking alot about dreams. Maybe because tomorrow is my 25th birthday - the marker of when I would be basking in the reality of one of the dreams of my youth. Truly, it's those dreams that have brought me to New York this week. By 25, I was going to be living in New York City and either writing for or performing on Saturday Night Live. Now life happened to me as I assume it has happened to all of you. The unfolding of a different path has brought me somewhere I never really would've imagined - thankfully it's not an unwelcome, or regret-inspiring place, but it is different nonetheless.
My fear is that as we grow up, we tend to turn our backs and betray the person that we were. True, we mature, our tastes, talents and ambitions change and we change right along to cradle them. But part of learning to love this life is learning to love yourself. So don't turn your back on who you were 10, 20 or 30 years ago. Use who you are today to live out what the child within you waited with baited breath for; show yourself the fruition of your dreams even if you think it's not important to you anymore. Teach yourself to believe by being faithful to the hopes you dared to throw out into the void of possibility when you were a little less jaded and a little less weary.
Now opportunity, talent and time, among many other factors, prevent me from realizing my dream of being on SNL at 25; but tonight, on the eve of my 25th birthday, I will be in the audience here in New York City. This I will do to pay homage to the 10 year old whose dreams I can validate and satiate, to show her that I love her and my faith will always be in her.

The following events are based upon non-fictional characters and their non-fictional story…seriously. However, there maybe slight personality embellishments and general exaggerations made purely for the entertainment of the reader and at the sole prudence of the author; as well, all dialogue is classified under the assumptions of the author based upon her experience, however pathetically un-empathetic it may be. Said assumptions may just as well be thought of as fact…

Ah, love. At one point in time or another we’ve all been jammed into that proverbial pigeonhole of those the eager aficionados of love and its twisted patterns.

Cast your minds…
You’re a beautiful young woman. By worldly standards as well as by their counterparts, you are well traveled, well-spoken, very intelligent, motivated and a culinary genius. You enjoy wonderful relationships with friends, co-workers and other colleagues all who esteem and venerate you. You’re in your early twenties; young enough to escape the jaded bitterness of time, and old enough to be justified in your deliciously merciless scrutinizing of “kids today”. Now, in your love career, there have been some encounters that were...less than faith-invoking. But, you will not be swayed in your pursuit of this core belief that love is out there.
Now, you are well aware of the socially accepted conduits through which you may find said “love” – parties, friends etc. But, for some reason (seriously…what made you do this?) the call of the internet dating service is as melodious as it is intriguing, like a modern day siren - calling from the banks of desperation…
So, after jumping through the standard bureaucracy of professional love-finding, you’re ready. And then…you meet him.
His name is Bauch, strange you think – but you would challenge anyone to not be fascinated by such a name.
He’s pushing 30, attractive, and in all other areas of life, refreshingly average.
Time passes…an unexpected entity manages to drive the first wedge between the two of you. Though it may be easier to cure than the common cold, indubitably action must be taken, that which requires the realization that one of you is to blame…and you know it’s not you.
Bauch apologizes profusely and vows to expedite the remedial measures necessary to eradicate said “entity” and thereby eliminate any future wedges of that nature…
Time passes…no one likes to have a cold twice in a row, am I right? Well, at this point you don’t really care how many things can’t be cured as fast as this little bequest which warrants NO applause; you grow even more perturbed.
Time passes…the hurdles have gotten higher, but perhaps mingling with one another’s respective posses may cast the other in a softer, more amicable light. A night out with friends reveals past discomfitures for you; like the time that you blew a massive snot bubble whist in a grocery store from laughing so hard at that really funny friend that you love more than any of your other friends because of her generally attractive nature set off by her uproarious humor or her overall scrumtralescense. “How embarrassing!” you quip in perfect tenor. But Bauch’s “embarrassing” past is quick to change the tone of the evening.
His roommate decided to contribute with, “Dude, remember when you, like, went to prison because that chick’s parents totally charged you with stat rape just cause she was, like, 15 and you were, like, not? Dude…that was hilarious!” …
“Or afterwards, when her brother freaked out and came and tried to beat the crap out of you…and you like beat the living crap out of him? …you…you remember that? That was awesome!?”
Disbelief, awe and confusion seem to strike you across your cognizance like some perverse braid of perplexity. Jigga what?!
It continues… “Or when those guys tried to like, attack you when you were in prison and you like totally killed that one dude! WHOA! We were all like, DUDE! That’s some heavy stuff right there…”

Just to reinterate...this actually happened to someone. A very beautiful someone who has more exciting and amazing things to offer to the world, let alone one single person, than anyone I know. Someone who could hit whatever she set her sights on...she could hit that.

The following is not directed at said friend in any way shape or form...she is exempted.

You may take this testimonial as you may; I cannot persuade you into thinking one way or another. How boring the world would be if everyone were like me…awesome in its own right…but boring. But I implore you…good people of the single persuasion. Is it worth it? Is loneliness so deplorable that we turn to the java script wise men of our day to “match” us to people that God has most likely gone to tireless efforts to have us never have to meet in our life times?

Let's drop the mouse; put on some shoes; go for a walk (outside) and maybe we'll remember that life is worth more than that; and we should cherish what dignity we have left after Reality TV and catchy Britany Spears songs have had their way with us.

Just something to think about.

Some may accredit genius to things like dedication, sacrifice or good genes. I, however, accredit all my genius to bitterness...especially the following.
Despite my previous expectations, I actually had a great Valentine’s Day. I got flowers, I dressed up and I dined with some of the most elect ladies within my sphere of influence. But said holiday caused me to call seriously upon my means of inspection. I stewed in thought over this apparently superfluous holiday; The words “every day should be Valentine’s day” reverberated in the crooks of my mind, to which I cannot wholly condone or condemn. But whether or not our lives are filled with romance wasn’t what concerned me. We’ve all loved, lost and someone conjured up the ability to love again. However, the assumption that we are all in love on one particular given day a year is obtuse at best. Wouldn't it be better to celebrate something that we can all relate to?
Fortunately, I pride myself on being pro-active in those oh so crucial matters of life, and I have come up with a solution. A holiday; a holiday that celebrates a universal figure which transcends culture, religion, sex and age...
No matter who we are, or what walk of life we find ourselves on, there is a common link that connects us all.
In life, “it must needs be that there is an opposition in all things”, or so we are all well aware. Each of our lives are filled with those little antagonists; be they individuals, inanimate objects, laws, or just character traits - those illusive little stumbling blocks impede us from our perception of perfection. Sometimes, to us they are a source of shame, exposing our weakness and inherit dependence upon sources outside ourselves. We would have the world see us as impenetrable and conqueror of the proverbial Achilles' heel; though we are as vulnerable if not more so in more cases than not.
So, I propose a holiday, day to recognize one opponent in our lives and renew our resolve to defeat said enemy. Now, you may be saying to yourself, “Self, Cindy sounds like she’s describing New Years’; with resolutions and everything.” Now we need to be very clear about this, in no way do I suggest that we should only focus on the adversaries whose trouncing would make us “better people”…absolutely not. In fact, I would rather we focus on those rivals that society continually tells us to “just let go” of. From needless traffic, to mail boxes full of flyers, to socks with sandals, to Carrot top, to the entire cast of Dance Wars; exercise your right to stand up to that which provokes you and threatens the general decency of humanity!
Where would Superman be if Lex Luther had just decided to go honest and get a 9 to 5…riddle me that? I’ll tell ya where he’d be – he’d be sitting at home watching Friends reruns or scrap-booking, instead of fulfilling his destiny as the typified hero within us all…although I bet that scrapbook would kick ass.
Each of us has an arch nemesis, a Lex Luther if you will; and thank your lucky stars that we do. How bland our lives would be without them!
So, this March 27th, won’t you all join me in the First Annual ‘Archenemy Day’? Archenemas for short.
Why March 27th, you ask? I chose this day as homage to the birth date of the consummate antagonist of our time… Mariah Carey.
Be creative. If you hate cats, run with that. Perhaps you hate Pontiac Sunfires with mardi gras beads and lei's hanging from the review mirror and a "Princess" license plate. Celebrate your irrational disdain for that which incenses you!
...You know I will.

So, I’ve left everyone hanging there for awhile now haven’t I? I’ve neglected my sweet little flock and left you wanting for genuine insight and pure, unadulterated cynicism.
But I must say that lately I can’t conjure up enough disgust with anything to warrant an entire entry. Could this mean that I am growing up, and slipping off of the cloud of youth that carries me over reality whilst allowing me a perfect view to examine, criticize, question and circumvent?
HEEEYYYY no!
But my thoughts do turn to that oh so dangerous and interdicted topic; love. Ah, sweet love. The proverbial bringer of the balm for our inherit loneliness and insecurity, or so we reassure ourselves. As many times as I have thought that I had it, is as many times as it has kicked the living crap out of me.
As cynical as I have always been on this subject, recent observations make my perception a little more hospitable of a nest for the idea of love. I truly realize how sweet the promise of this enticing entity can really be to someone who has reached that un-mapable point in their life that is as easy to remember as it is to predict.
The world really screams at us sometimes to live for ourselves, and in more ways than one take on the Narcissistic campaign of self-indulgence and hollow affirmations. I know that I have always felt like it would be a sign of vulnerability and weakness to give up anything for love; something so mysterious in its own right, whose only predictability is its eternal unpredictability. The catalyst in this mortal probation through which we get back a little of what we had before we all agreed to hop on this crazy roller coaster.
Why do we fear the realization of the thoughts and aspirations that are in fact the very fuel behind the motivation to trudge through the tedious errands of life? WHY?!
Perhaps it’s because it is so foreign; perhaps because it requires a surrender of control and self-preservation tactics which are relied on so heavily when love isn’t readily available. We have to put so much trust in another being whose thoughts we cannot know, and who is as vulnerable to change and catharsis as we are. Or maybe it’s just because we are scared to let go and free fall into something with the child-like naiveté that we’ll never hit the ground.
No matter how many times I get my ass handed to me by love, I can still cite one of my favorite songs in saying… “I love, love; I love being in love – I don’t care what it does to me!” Take it from Paul, ya’ll; suffering is the essence of life; and what sweeter suffering is there than being in love?!
It hurts. But nothing soothes the lovelorn as much as hope; which comes from the realization that they are worth far more than any label, good or bad, that could ever be put upon them. But don’t regret any of them, not a single one; you have no right to rob yourself of those experience which are ultimately they only things that you will take with you throughout your life. Claim those moments, and then put them away. So whether it lasts two weeks, two months or two years; fall in love. Why the hell not? Do it as many times as you possibly can. And that’s all I have to say about that.

I wish to address an inquietude that has been vehemently placed upon my powers of observation as of late.
I drive a 1985 two-toned brown, 4 door Toyota Camry (relatively rust free). Now I am not naïve as to the negative and down right aristocratic criticism and disdain that the Audi drivers and the Mercedes owners of Calgary may feel for my little car, and dare I say even for me. I feel that my car mechanically pigeon holes me into an unfair stereotype of poverty and overall self- nullification on my part. With the weight of this knowledge upon me, I still face the bottlenecked, construction strewn streets of Calgary day after day, with as much pride and dignity as my character allows me. Having said this, I wish to address the so-called “Bourgeoisie” or “Elites” of the Calgarian population.
Now, upon returning to our great nation from a year and half absence, I was exultant upon the discovery of above average and down right “good” radio stations gracing the Calgary airwaves; the most recent, and by far the best in my personal opinion, being 90.3 Fuel. I have found myself on more than one occasion, caught up in the euphoria of the great music of our history. I hear the first guitar riffs of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, or ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and I am alight. Sometimes, should I feel compelled to do so, I even shout out a felicitous cry of collaboration with the DJ’s and their good choices. I ready myself…the music gives way for the words…
And there I am, alone, singing in my car. Not just singing...jammin’. From the dashboard drums to the air guitar, it’s no ordinary drive home. But I stop, perhaps disconcerted by the motionless, soundless scene which surrounds me left to right. No one else is jamming. No one else is jamming, guys. They’re just staring straight ahead, praying that their eyes will not be veered even a fraction of a degree and cause them to make any sort of eye-contact with any other human being. Mouths closed, eyes fixed. On what, you ask? NOTHING! ON NOTHING! Why do we pretend that we are bound by propriety, and could never bring ourselves to the “self-degradation” of rocking out alone (which is a point that shall be argued shortly) to our favorite songs? Do you think that Led Zepplin (may it rest in peace) meant for its songs to fall upon cold, lifeless ears that dismiss it as background? If you want to sit and think pensively, than do it. But don’t mock the Gods of rock by demeaning their creations to mere filler.
Look Jack Uptighty McTighterson, you can’t fool me… I know that all you wanna do is lose it when you hear ‘Billy Jean’ come on the radio. You curse the conventional vehicle and its restraints to the dancer inside you. So go on! Don’t be frightened. Let it start with lip syncing, then you can add in the “whoa”s, and then my young chiquito, it will grow into a incomparable pastime that will fill your world with joy and possibility. With time and practice, you’re looking at a lucrative karaoke career.
So I will not stop rocking out to my favorite tunes on the radio. Send your stares; send your disapproval and mockery! I will not be moved! One day you too will catch yourself in a wicked head rhythm trying to hit those notes that only Freddy can. And someday, maybe we can overcome this vice that divides us, be joined in music as a community…as a family. And I promise you on that day that you break out of that futile shell, you’ll look over to the car beside you, and there I’ll be, smiling, with a single tear running down my cheek.

"Rowling: 'Dumbledore Is Gay' At a public appearance at Carnegie Hall in New York, author J.K. Rowling announced that Dumbledore, the headmaster character in her popular Harry Potter series, is homosexual. What do you think? "

Larry Hahn,
Water Delivery Man
"Wow. I hadn't heard that. I've been really busy lately not caring about the sexual preferences of fictional people."

For those of you wondering, yes I did rip this off of the Onion and I in no way claim it to be my own. But I reflect the sentiment. Come on people!

Can you smell that? Ahhhh. That is the smell of pure, unadulterated, throbbing anticipation in the air.
As I went out to my car this morning, I was disheartened to see the touch of frost on my windshield and hood. This scene, to the far off oranges and yellows of neighboring trees, called my mind to reflection…
Whatever city you may find yourself in, all across North America, we are all joined in the common aspect of one thing. Assemblages of children, from one to 93, are awaiting the most sacred of all the pagan holidays…all hallows’ eve. From ghosts to pirates, princesses to pirate wenches; the hunt for the perfect costume is never an easy one. But children north of the 49th parallel find themselves under a shroud of a much greater angst. Unlike the cushy Halloweens of the ‘mild winter’ to ‘no winter’ states, we here in the Great White North face the pale-faced, ruthless shrew, that is Mother Nature. Any seasoned trick or treater from Canada knows well the risks that you take in the choice of any costume, transforming them into a veritable gambler.
Almanacs, elderly, rheumatic bones, meteorologists…they offer no real confirmation. The kind with which you could, with confidence, invest your allowance of months gone by; countless sacrifices of fun, movies, digital pets and jelly beans; into a costume sure to win you higher social status and infuse you with the energy and the buoyancy to go longer than you have any year before.
October 1st, most of us wake up and hardly take notice of anything other than having to write 10 instead of 9, or the increase of orange in our daily lives. But just down the hall, as your sons and daughters wake, they hesitate to open their eyes, and their bodies lie stiff, as a blatant cenotaph of the inner struggle between faith and memory. Their eyes open, slowly. Light begins to register in their minds. If the light is a yellow, warming light – faith wins the battle and belief is permitted to build its defenses that day, under scrupulous caution and reserve. But, if the light is gray, being filtered through overcast and holding no warmth whatsoever – a painful release enters into the child’s body as memory wins the battle and the strain and panic take seed. And so goes everyday in October. Until you get into the final countdown.
I tell you now, all the hours I spent analyzing, contemplating and pontificating my theories and arguments, meant nothing once we hit the 20th of October. Mother Nature’s curve ball, as I like to call it. No matter what patterns have been formed in the weeks prior, sun, rain, snow, Chinooks, blizzards, locusts - what have you…it all amounts to nothing in those last ten days. Patterns and theories are thrown to the wind and the true mind games begin. Everyday, the pressure mounts until that fateful day when the decisions are made, props are bought and acquired and masterpieces are organized. We give into the struggle for omnipotent control over sun and earth, and submit ourselves to the greater power which confounds and dethrones us.
Little girls, praying, that they won’t have to wear snow suits underneath their beautiful yards of pink tooling and satin. That their wands may be graced by a soft hand adorned with the glittering of silver plastic rings and rhinestones; instead of a scratchy wool mitten unromantically connected through the inside of a huge, figure altering winter jacket to the other hand holding onto an old pillowcase. Armies of ostensibly anaphylactic princesses; and atop their frowning faces, a tiara, balanced upon a touque. It isn’t a pretty picture, but it is just how it is. We have all been through it, and I make the argument that we have a better grasp on the harsh realities of life because of it.
The day is coming my friends. We are only a few days away. So take it easy on those kids. If by a turn of wicked fate, the weather turns and we have a white Halloween - don’t buy crap candy, and don’t be stingy either. Give those little troopers a champion’s reward for braving a Canadian Halloween.

Unfortunately for the music, it bit

I should've suspected as much, but I was holding out for a bit of a Friday night miracle considering it was my last dance. But alas it was nothing but techno, rave, full-body spasm type music to which I could not groove. But there were a few saving graces thanks to one Mr Sean Paul.
I got a bit more emotional than I expected I would, and with people that I never would have thought. But sure enough, good-byes were said and I can honestly say that missing my life as it is now will only be remedied by losing myself in the work.
Oh, the latest in the grand plot to thwart me from serving this mission... I recieved a letter from my Mission President telling me what I REALLY need to buy instead of the Salt Lake list. When did I recieve said list? Yesterday. Three days before I leave.I get the REAL list which unhappily doesn't include much of what I've already purchased. This was the straw that broke the camel's back, or the camel that broke the straw's back...either way it was bad.
So I left it up to Heavenly Father, I said "If I'm not supposed to go, ram a car into me right now and make it so I physically can't go." Barring an unfortunate bus accident...I'm still going.

A Day in the Life of Natalie Portman
...your thoughts.

A Week in Retrospect

I had to go to Vancouver to get my Visa for Ecuador - by the by Bishop Low (if you're reading this) the Consulate director was "extremely impressed" by the notarized documents, he wouldn't stop talking about the gold seals; thanks again. So I got my Visa after walking to the consulate from the airport, don't worry it only took 3 and a half hours.
All in all; a successful day.
The Oscars were scrumtralescent, Jon Stewart was great. It's frustrating that the drones of Hollywood are too saturated in tanning lotion and Atkins to realize good comedy when it's right in front of them. The lobbying videos - those were classic. I'm sorry if you missed it.
Last night was my last performance as a member of "The Bonnie Oviatt Project featuring the Cindy Russell Experience". We sang 'One' by U2 and 'Here I Go Again on my Own' by Whitesnake. Good stuff, good stuff.

Thought for the day -- Maybe the only reason we die is because we accept it as an inevitability - whaaa

If you missed it...

For those of you who couldn't make it to my previous farewell, never fear.
I will be speaking in Drumheller on MARCH 12 at 10:00 AM.
Please feel free to e-mail me if you need directions. scrumtralescent78@yahoo.com
If you do e-mail, please send me your phone # aswell - that's directed at you Ster-dogg.

Thanks...you shant be disappointed! Well, you might...but I can't be liable for your bad taste.

I won't lie, it will be nice to escape the politics of the roommate hierarchy, especially after this week. But I can't say I'm overly happy with the way things ended, nor can I say I would change where I stood on an issue involving a person of a certain sex. There's just some things that aren't Kosher.
Monster Jam rocked, and by rocked I mean was moderately fun. I wasn't that bad, I just hoped for more danger and intrigue, and more back stories.
"Here, driving Gravedigger, all the way from Backwater, Texas where he lost his true love in a freak tractor incident..." or "Fresh off parole for over-the-phone credit card fraud against the elderly, driving Jurassic Attack..." stuff like that.

I should go, I have a date to go and make fun of a movie tonight with KoKo. Oh the things I will miss.

Where are You going to be Sunday morning at 11 am?

17th ave chapel.

That is all.