511 lines
23 KiB
Plaintext
511 lines
23 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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P.S. Don't read this if you are in a good mood. It's an almost certain
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cure for good moods.
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A Voyager's Parables
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A child learns many lessons as he progresses to maturity. Here are a
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few I learned.
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When I was 5 I went off to school. At school, we we going to have a
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foot race. The winner was to receive a model airplane. I ran as fast as
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my legs could carry me. I lost.
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Moral of this story: The system rewards winning, excuses are valueless.
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That same year, I had my first run in with the powers that be in our
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educational system. I did not want to take a nap during the day. The
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system required that I take a nap. It was my internal biological clock
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(As a 5 year old, I did not fully understand diurnal cycles) versus the
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power of the teacher. I was defeated, and I at least pretended to take
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my naps.
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Moral of this story: The system rewards conformity, even when it is
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inefficient.
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When I was 6, I had a teacher who I did not get along with. No one
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cared. I stayed in the same class.
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Moral of this story: The powerless have no options.
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When I was 8, I had a fellow named Alexander in my class at school.
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Alexander was a bright fellow, if a bit quiet. Alexander was also small
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for his age. I liked Alexander, as I usually like quiet people. One day
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when I referred to him as Alexander he corrected me and told me his name
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was Alex. I made a mental note not to call him Alexander again.
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A few weeks later, I mistakenly called him Alexander again. He rebuked
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me strongly, and I immediately apologized. Several days after that, I
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again mistakenly called him Alexander. I apologized immediately, but he
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did not believe me. He was very angry with me. I liked Alex, but I was
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not bothered by this, because he was very small.
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Later that week, Alex's 12 years old brother and three of his friends
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met me at the school bus stop and beat me so bad I had to be sent to the
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hospital. I still have the scar from the stitches.
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Moral of this story: Social skills are very important.
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That same year, I again had problems with a teacher. Mrs. Grady was
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very sexist, and she did not like little boys. This was plain to see,
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even in the eyes of a 3rd grader. I made life difficult for Mrs. Grady.
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She made life difficult for me. I spent most of 3rd grade sitting alone
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in the hall outside the classroom. I spoke politely and calmly to the
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principal about the issue. He ignored me completely.
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The final straw was when Mrs. Grady cheated during a spelling contest,
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causing me to be disqualified and causing a your girl in the classroom
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to go to the school wide competition in my stead. When finally I could
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take no more, I simply yelled "Mrs. Grady is a bitch" in the hall
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outside my classroom during a class change. The principal stopped
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ignoring me.
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I was kicked out of school.
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Moral of this story: The powerless may empower themselves, but the costs
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may be high.
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After I was kicked out of school, my parents moved to a new part of town
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and I was again enrolled in school. From this school, I had a long walk
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home. One day, on the way home, I passed a cute little girl playing
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with about ten young boys. She looked at me and asked her young friends
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to please beat me up. They did.
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Moral of this story: Power corrupts.
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When I was growing up, I was very afraid of my step-father. He had a
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very violent temper, and no special love for me. One day when I was 9 I
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was walking down a short hallway in our home. My step-father came out
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of the bedroom at the end of the hall. Suddenly, I was filled with
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fear. I was certain he was going to hit me. I pressed my body up
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against the wall and waited for him to pass. He saw the terror in my
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eyes. I was relieved to see him pass by, until he turned around and hit
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me so hard it knocked me into the door at the end of the hall. I do not
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think he would have hit me had he not seen the look of fear in my eyes.
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The thought of a 9 year old child so afraid of him enraged him to
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action.
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Moral of this story: Fear is just a waste of time.
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That year was not all bad. There was a contest at school, and all of
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the winners got to go see the circus. I was among the winners, so after
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school one day I was bussed off to the circus. The circus lasted into
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the evening and was quite entertaining. Unfortunately I had no money
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and there was no water fountain at the circus, so I was very thirsty and
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very hungry by the end of the evening.
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When I got home that evening, I went immediately to the kitchen and
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began to drink heavily. My mother and step-father asked me why I was so
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thirsty and why I was getting home so late. I did not know what else to
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say, so I told them I had been to the circus, and had not been able to
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buy refreshments.
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They reprimanded me for not telling them and asking them for money to go
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to the circus. I did not know how to tell them I was afraid to ask them
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for money. I shut up and nodded.
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Moral of this story: You never know the rules until after you've played
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the game.
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Later that year, I was waiting in the lunch line at the school. This
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young girl about my size kicked me. I ignored her, not knowing what to
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do when a girl kicked me. She kicked me again. I hit her.
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She screamed and several staff members came over. I explained what
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happened. They told me I should not hit girls. I explained she had
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kicked me first, but they did not seem interested. The little girl was
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not reprimanded, though she did not envy kicking me. I was not allowed
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to use the school lunch room ever again.
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Moral of this story: Justice is not to be had from the authorities.
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After that incident, Mom gave me money every week to buy lunch at the
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Dairy Queen across the street from the school. I discovered that if I
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had a light lunch, I could buy marbles at the David's by our apartment.
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Everyone at our school played marbles, mostly due to the predominately
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Vietnamese population. I later discovered that I could sell the
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"shooter" marble from the bag of marbles I purchased for almost as much
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as I paid for the whole bag.
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Moral of this story: Getting in trouble isn't always bad.
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The path to David's was beside a large stream that wandered through
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town. We played in the stream, usually catching crawdads. On one
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particular day, I was standing on a small dam and skipping stones into
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to river. A boy a little larger than myself came up and started to
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throw stones with me.
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After about a half an hour, he pushed me and I fell into the stream. I
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came out fighting mad. He quickly apologized, and said he fell into me
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on accident. I slowly accepted his apology and we went back to throwing
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stones. Fifteen or twenty minutes later, he pushed me into the stream
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again. By the time I got myself out, he had run off.
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Moral of this story: People are not to be trusted.
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A David's is much like a K-Mart or a Target. The entry hall to David's
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was not very visible from inside the store, but it contained a
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mechanical riding horse and several gumball machines.
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One of the gumball machines was broken. I took a bag and turned the
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knob again and again and again until I had all of the gumballs. I went
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home and hid them in my closet.
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Moral of this story: Crime pays.
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Walking home from school one day during that same year, a young boy I
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did not know decided to start a fight with me. I had little choice in
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the matter. He displayed a pocket knife and then preceeded to attack me
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with it.
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For a time, I successfully defended myself. Then his older brother came
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along. From my previous experience with older brothers, I was certain I
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was headed for some serious pain. The older brother grabbed the
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younger brother, took the knife away from him, and yelled at him as he
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dragged him home.
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Moral of this story: Sometimes things just work out for the best.
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I was attending the same school the next year, and walking the same walk
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home. By this time I was having a bit of trouble. I was 10, and in the
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5th grade. A group of half a dozen 6th graders were catching me on the
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way home and beating me almost every day. I was not very skilled
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physically, and was not doing well against them.
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After a time, I decided to talk to one of the kids mothers. They were
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neighbors of ours and she and my mother were friends. I went to their
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door, and Sean's mother answered. I explained my story, and ask for her
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assistance. She explained that I should not bother her again.
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Giving up on that strategy, I went to the school authorities. One of
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the school administrators called all of the boys who were beating me
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into his office. There we all were, together. I was certain things
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would be set aright now. The administrator turned to me and asked my to
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explain why I was provoking these boys into beating me up every day. I
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could not answer his queries, as I had no idea why they had chosen this
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particularly odd hobby. The administrator became frustrated with my
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lack of an answer, and sent us all away.
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The beatings continued until my family moved at the end of the school
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year.
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Moral of this story: Weakness is not rewarded.
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I started the next school year at another school in another state.
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Student Council elections were the first day of school. I entered, and
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won. All of the girls voted for me to spite the popular boys who were
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acting arrogantly. I had great amounts of fun and was an excellent
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council member. I later started a school newspaper.
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Moral of this story: Humility pays.
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At Christmas break, Grandma came to visit and she took me back home to
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live with her. I was enrolled in a school in a very rural school
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district.
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On the first day of class my new home room teacher, Mr. Nelson, asked
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the entire class to turn in the four book reports that were due from
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before Christmas break. Almost the entire class looked at him like he
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was insane. I say almost, because there were two exceptions, Mr.
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Nelson's son and his son's girlfriend.
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Mr. Nelson would not believe the stuents who told him that he had not
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assigned the book reports. He stated that now 8 book reports would be
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due, one every two weeks.
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I did not intend to deal with a fool like this, so over the next two
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weeks I read 8 books and wrote 8 book reports. This would keep me out
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of trouble for the rest of the year. On the day to turn in the first
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book report, I turned in all 8 instead. I was very pleased with my
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work.
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When the day came to turn in the second book report, Mr. Nelson demanded
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my book report. I stated that I had turned it in previously. He denied
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that I had done so, and stated that he was going to administer corporal
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punishment. Corporal punishment meant bending over while Mr. Nelson hit
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you with a wooden paddle. Not my idea of fun. Not my idea of good
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child rearing practices. Not my idea of something a school official
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should be given the right to do.
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I argued. I complained. I demanded to speak to the principal.
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Eventually, I ended up in front of the principal, with Mr. Nelson by my
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side. I explained my story, and Mr. Nelson denied it. I stood my
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ground, and Mr. Nelson eventually broke down. He admitted receiving my
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8 book reports, and agreed to give my 1/2 point of extra credit for
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each. That would raise my grade from an A+ to an A+. However, it would
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also keep me from corporal punishment. I was also required to turn in
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book reports with the rest of the class, but was not allowed to turn in
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the reports I had previously presented.
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Throughout the remainder of the year, Mr. Nelson took every opportunity
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to find me worthy of corporal punishment. He succeeded on many
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occasions. I would often be forced to bend over as he hit me once or
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repetitively with that wooden paddle. However, at the end of the school
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year Mr. Nelson was let go from his teaching position. I had won.
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Moral of this story: Standing up for yourself is going to hurt, but it
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can be successful.
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On the third day of class, right in the middle of the previous incident,
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I had a bit of trouble in music class. We were learning some sort of
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folk dance, and this fellow named Mike stepped on my toes. I looked at
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him, and he wandered off. Several minutes later, he stepped on my toes
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again. I told him to be careful, and he wandered off. A few minutes
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later, he stepped on my toes again. I explained to him that if it
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happened again, I was going to deck him. In a short while, it happened
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again. As promised, I decked him. He went down, and he did not come
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back up.
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I received three days of in-school suspension, during which time Mike
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and I became best friends.
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Moral of this story: People respect strength.
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That Summer, I was looking forward to going off to Summer Camp. When the
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time came, I did not do so well. My social skills were quite pathetic
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and I was not making friends. One day, twenty or so of the other
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campers were throwing insults at me. I told them to put up or shut up,
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to fight or to be quiet. I intended to take them on one at a time, and
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expected they would agree to this. I figured that if I took out the
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first two or three, the rest would leave me alone.
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They did not agree to me terms, and instead rushed me all at once. I
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held my own for less than a minute before I was taken. My ribcage was
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cracked. However, I could not tell anyone. Grandmother would be
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furious at my stupidity. It hurt for a long long time
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Moral of this story: Your ethics are not everyone's ethics.
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Near the end of Summer Camp, I got in a bit of a fight with one other
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camper. He was larger than I, and very athletic. Nevertheless, I had
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him on the run. He ran beside a cabin and turned around the cabin, I
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followed. As I turned, a smaller friend of his cut me good with the lid
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from a tin can. I was bleeding profusely from my palm.
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I was forced to abandon the chase of both of them as I administered
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first aid to myself.
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Moral of this story: Beware treachery.
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The next year at Summer Camp went much better, I made several friends,
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including the fellow I was chasing in the previous story. However,
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there was this one large and not terribly bright fellow who took a real
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dislike to me.
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He convinced two of his friends to grab me and hold me by the shoulders
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as he walked forward to beat me. When he was about 30" away, I bent at
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the waist and kicked him with both feet squarely in the chest. He left.
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His friends left. I was standing alone.
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Moral of this story: Meet violence with violence.
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The Summer Camp authorities had not been aware of any of the previous
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violence, but my luck could not last forever. On Thursday, we were out
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playing some game and a fellow I didn't really know kept throwing green
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pinecones at me from point blank range. I told him to stop and when he
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did not, I grabbed him, put him in a headlock, and hit him repeatedly.
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He ratted. I got caught. Mr. Grantham had us both beside the main camp
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building. He got the stories from both of us. He asked us both if we
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realized we had been in the wrong. My antagonist quickly agreed that he
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had been in the wrong. I, on the other hand, stated that I was merely
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defending myself when no camp official had been present to do it for
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me. Mr. Grantham instructed the other fellow to leave.
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Mr. Grantham came forward. I prepared to hear his argument. Instead,
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he picked me up and threw me against the rough wall of the cabin. Mr.
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Grantham then asked me again whether I agreed that I had been in the
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wrong. As the current sutuation had no logical connection to the
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previous event, I stated that my position had not changed.
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That went on for quite some time. I had taken quite a few beatings by
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the age of 12, and was quite stubborn. Eventually, I realized that Mr.
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Grantham was more stubborn than I, and I began to fear for my life. I
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thought he might never stop. I panicked. When next he asked if I had
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changed my mind, I agreed that I had been in the wrong.
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Mr. Grantham told me to get cleaned up and get ready for supper. After
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some time, I stood up and managed to make my way back to by sleeping
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bag. I lay there, hoping the world would leave me alone. After much
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too short a period of time, another camper came in, telling me I should
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come to supper. I had no intention nor desire to stand up, much less to
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eat dinner with all of those people.
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Several minutes later, another camper came in and told me that Mr.
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Grantham said that I had better come down for Supper. This changed
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everything. I was filled again with terror. Would be beat me for not
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coming to Supper? I was certain of it. I got up and slowly made my way
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down to the supper line.
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I stood in line, unable to stop the tears rolling down my face. My
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spine was screaming in pain, it hurt just to stand up. No one said a
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word to me, nor asked a single question. I went through the supper
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line, sat down, stood up, threw away my food, and went back to bed.
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To this day, I hate myself for giving in to Mr. Grantham. If I could go
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back and change it, I would. I know that he would not have killed me.
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As it is, he killed something inside of me. I may have forgiven Mr.
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Grantham for his actions that day, but I will never forgive myself.
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Moral of this story: Never give up, never give in.
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When I was 16, there was this kid who lived in my neighborhood whom I
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knew just a little bit. He and I were hanging around one day, and he
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took something I owned. I realized it several days later and confronted
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him about it. He denied taking it, but his denial was weak and untrue.
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I threatened him, and he continued denial.
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He sent a knee towards my groin. He missed by about two inches. He
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then jumped on his bicycle and attempted to flee. I grabbed him by his
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shoulders and threw him to the ground. We wrestled for some time, and I
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got him in a headlock.
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I was not particularly upset, as I had not been hurt in the least. I
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was certain we could work things out, so I simply waited. Every few
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minutes, I would ask him if he was ready to get up yet. He would
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respond by thrashing around and attempting to escape my hold, and I
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would tell him that if he mellowed out I would let him up.
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After a time of this unfruitful activity, his older sister happened to
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walk by. While I had experience with older brothers, I had no
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experience with older sisters. She told me to let her brother up. I
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explained that if I did, he would attack me. He assisted greatly by
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flailing around and attempting to hit me. I explained that if she would
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get his dad, I would release him to his father. She left to get the
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father.
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Then I woke up. Bleeding. Unable to see clearly. Nauseas. Throwing
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up. Covered in sticky red liquid. Lying on the grass. A diaper over my
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face. A man I did not recognize administering first aid to me.
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My older sister took me to the hospital where the two sides of my nose
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were stitched back together. Eventually, reconstructive surgery brought
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my face close to what it was like before the incident.
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I found two fellows who witnessed the events that I do not recall, as
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they were sitting on their porch across the street. I do not know what
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the sister told the father, but there was a grevious error. Apparently,
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the father ran all the way to where his son and I were resting and with
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one suprise kick to my face with steel toed work boots ended the issue.
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The fellow who had administered first aid to me, that was the father.
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If it were not for the father and the diaper, I would have died, drowned
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in my own blood.
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If it had not been for the mercy I had show the son, I would have beaten
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him fully before the sister of the father had ever entered the picture.
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Moral of this story: Show no mercy.
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The previous events left me with a white cast on my nose. Everywhere I
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went, people would ask me how I got that cast. I got so sick of telling
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the story that I painted the cast red. Down the middle, I game it a
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wide yellow stripe. On each side of the yellow strip, was a thin blue
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stripe. After tha, not a single person asked me about my nose.
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Moral of this story: Be strange enough, and people will leave you alone.
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These are all lessons that I learned as a child. You may argue with
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them, but they are the lessons *I* learned. This is what life taught
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me, right and wrong is a separate issue.
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I learned many more lessons as a child. These are the ones that spring
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to mind as I sit here writing. Remember these stories. Remember them
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as you have children. Take what I have learned and apply it to your
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life. Learn from the mistakes and the successes of others. Learn and
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live, life is too short and too important to waste worrying about the
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things that do not really matter.
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These stories do not represent the me of today. I have grown and my
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childhood is now little more than a distant memory. I have corrected
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the flaws that led me into most of these troubles. I have learned from
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my experiences, these and other as yet untold.
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I hope you have enjoyed my tales, and I hope you have learned from them.
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Voyager[TNO]
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
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= Internet : jericho@netcom.com (Mail is welcome) =
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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= Gote Land +27.31.441115 =
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= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
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= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Celestial Woodlands 214.252.6455 =
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= Goat Blowers Anon 215.750.0392 Hacker's Haven 303.343.4053 =
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= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
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= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images 407.834.4576 =
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= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
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= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
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= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
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= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
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= Phallic Paradise 801.944.7353 Purple Hell 806.791.0747 =
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= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
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= The Keg 914.234.9674 =
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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= Files through Anonymous FTP: FTP.NETCOM.COM - /pub/je/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.FC.NET - /pub/deadkat/misc/FUCK =
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= FTP.WINTERNET.COM - /users/craigb/fuck =
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= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT - /pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
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= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
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= Files through WWW: ftp://ftp.netcom.com/pub/je/jericho/jericho.html =
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=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
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