After careful consideration, I decided to omit... basically everything I was going to show you. Everything but this. The rest I'm going to burn. Well, I might burn this one, too, but I haven't decided.
I scanned this earlier today at the library and I guess the file got fucked up somehow. What does it matter, though - as far as I can tell, no important details have been left out, and I'm not going back just to rescan it if you get the basic gist.
It came along with about a dozen others that are sort of similar, but they're so smudged, I can't see where outline turns to shade. I'd rather save my money.
I don't know what to make of it. Honestly, I'm surprised it's not... something else, knowing what he does.
Maybe I'm not thinking clearly. Maybe you can tell me, "oh obviously this means Rhodes was a fucking snake charmer" or something, because to you it might be completely fucking obvious. Hell, I've been living on bread and water, it's just easier than anything else, and before today I hadn't been outside in... I don't even know how long.
Shouldn't talk about that, though. I'm definitely not at liberty to say where I've been for the past few days.
...This blogosphere used to be a cathartic outlet, a way for us to have some semblance of permanence, of friends, of people to share in our hardships. And now we've got to watch ourselves, because the smallest slip could mean someone's untimely demise. The Enemy is watching. It's not a haven anymore. It's a hostile environment. It doesn't, shouldn't help any of us. Anyone is a spy, anyone is an innocent, and there's simply no way to tell.
So why does it still make me feel better when I've pressed the publish button and I know someone out there is reading? That should horrify me. It should.