Yes, I know it has been a long, long, long time since I have posted a damn thing on here. I know. And Im sorry.
I really havent had anything interesting to write about, actually. No horrible people at work, no weird drama going on, nothing really of note. Which is odd.
I decided today that whenever I am feeling depressed I will go for a run. So I went for a run, about 2 miles, and when I returned and showered, my mother called and made me cry hystarically for about 2 hours. While I was sobbing, I thought to myself, "But I just took a shower! I dont want to have to run again!". At least I was considering sticking to it.
Close friends are moving to California in about three weeks. They found out that they are moving about three days ago, which is, well, great for them, as the oppourtunity they are taking is wonderful. It just makes me sad. Purely selfish reasons, actually. And it worries me, as this could very well effect a new thing I have going at my work.
Im an assistant pastry chef now. Now. We will see if that still holds in three weeks.
I suppose I should keep this short, go do something productive, like put the sheets back on the bed and wash my makeup off, read. What is actually going to happen is nothing like that. Really.
I hope you are all well.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Laughing while alone
Ok.
I know that it is mean to write blogs about people who 1)Dont know that you are doing it, and 2)Would be really pissed if they read it--But I am going to anyway. So there.
There is a person at my work, but in a different department, who is....Odd. He's a nice enough person, just....Weird. Harmless (we think), but weird. He walks to and from work eachday, wearing the sort of backpack a little kid would wear--boxy and stiff--while reading some sexually charged anime comic--Which is fine! As odd as it is to read while walking....But...
He's laughing hystarically while reading this. Walking down a main road, nose buried in a book, childish backpack riding high on his shoulders, cackling maniacally to himself. Its odd. Weird.
But thats nothing.
He goes out of his way to "make converstation" with people at work, but not by saying things like, "How are you today?", "How was your weekend?", or "I like your shoes.". No, no, he operates along the "Hey, I watched this movie? Its Russian? And theres a girl in it, she like, looks a lot like you...and then she has her intestines ripped out by the Yrourtshra Master? And he strangles her with them and sodomizes her with a rifle? Yeah, it really reminded me of you."
Weird.
He tells me every time he sees me that I 'Obviously have contempt for life', as I never smile. At him. I smile when its appropriate, I think. I dont know.
Anyway, I heard today that when he was hired on at the company, he was asked "How are your knife skills?" and he responded....
"In Battle?"
I cried I was laughing so hard. Cried. If he had said this to me (and he was serious!) my response would have been something along the lines of "Yes, you see, we fight the other departments quarterly in a midevil style battle. If you are accepted, you will be issued a company breastplate after your ninety day probationary period."
Jesus.
I know that it is mean to write blogs about people who 1)Dont know that you are doing it, and 2)Would be really pissed if they read it--But I am going to anyway. So there.
There is a person at my work, but in a different department, who is....Odd. He's a nice enough person, just....Weird. Harmless (we think), but weird. He walks to and from work eachday, wearing the sort of backpack a little kid would wear--boxy and stiff--while reading some sexually charged anime comic--Which is fine! As odd as it is to read while walking....But...
He's laughing hystarically while reading this. Walking down a main road, nose buried in a book, childish backpack riding high on his shoulders, cackling maniacally to himself. Its odd. Weird.
But thats nothing.
He goes out of his way to "make converstation" with people at work, but not by saying things like, "How are you today?", "How was your weekend?", or "I like your shoes.". No, no, he operates along the "Hey, I watched this movie? Its Russian? And theres a girl in it, she like, looks a lot like you...and then she has her intestines ripped out by the Yrourtshra Master? And he strangles her with them and sodomizes her with a rifle? Yeah, it really reminded me of you."
Weird.
He tells me every time he sees me that I 'Obviously have contempt for life', as I never smile. At him. I smile when its appropriate, I think. I dont know.
Anyway, I heard today that when he was hired on at the company, he was asked "How are your knife skills?" and he responded....
"In Battle?"
I cried I was laughing so hard. Cried. If he had said this to me (and he was serious!) my response would have been something along the lines of "Yes, you see, we fight the other departments quarterly in a midevil style battle. If you are accepted, you will be issued a company breastplate after your ninety day probationary period."
Jesus.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Hypochondria
I have become more neurotic as time goes by. As I get older, I guess. It occurred to me recently that I am terrified of getting sick. Terrified! I'm not peeing myself or anything over it, but the idea of getting really sick makes me take handfuls of vitamins, drink gallons of water and eat more yogurt than is probably legal in several states. It's worked so far.
E. Came down with the stomach flu--the kind that makes you wonder just what you did to piss off God so much. I immediatly did the math to see if I could possibly have been inflicted, and felt nausea while doing so.
(I'm fine.)
I stuck a knife in my thumb earlier this week. (by accident!) I was talking on the phone and cutting asparagus, and in went the knife. It bled pretty well, scared T and Dad, but once the bleeding stopped, I began to fantasize about all the infections I could get--Would get--from work.
I didnt get an infection. However, I did accidentally cauterize the damn thing with malt vinegar (dont do this. Really.) It went a little something like this.
*splash* "Hey, that's really not soAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" Yeah, not good.
I'm wondering if its the not smoking (41 days!) that is making me have mild OCD. I read an article that says that smoking long term (Thats me!) changes your brain chemistry in such a way that even if you quit smoking--for the rest of your life, you have a much more "addictive" personality. This is why when people go to rehab, a lot of times they wont make them quit smoking, as that increases their liklihood of relapse by something along the lines of 20%. I'm serious! The rest of my life--I'm going to have a MORE addictive personality.....
But one way that can manifest itself is with OCD. I was told at work that I had this--because I will walk around and make sure the whole restaurant matches before anyone gets there, and that I bleach my bathroom and kitchen at home. Apparently, most of my coworkers (I say MOST, not ALL) are slobs to the nth degree. And admit it as such. Don't get me wrong, I'm a fucking slob too, but I do what I can to keep the communal areas of the house clean, as well as the fixtures in the kitchen and bath. The counters are fair game!
I dont know where I was really going with this. What I do know is that I really really want to run the vacuum and put some neosporin on my thumb.
E. Came down with the stomach flu--the kind that makes you wonder just what you did to piss off God so much. I immediatly did the math to see if I could possibly have been inflicted, and felt nausea while doing so.
(I'm fine.)
I stuck a knife in my thumb earlier this week. (by accident!) I was talking on the phone and cutting asparagus, and in went the knife. It bled pretty well, scared T and Dad, but once the bleeding stopped, I began to fantasize about all the infections I could get--Would get--from work.
I didnt get an infection. However, I did accidentally cauterize the damn thing with malt vinegar (dont do this. Really.) It went a little something like this.
*splash* "Hey, that's really not soAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!" Yeah, not good.
I'm wondering if its the not smoking (41 days!) that is making me have mild OCD. I read an article that says that smoking long term (Thats me!) changes your brain chemistry in such a way that even if you quit smoking--for the rest of your life, you have a much more "addictive" personality. This is why when people go to rehab, a lot of times they wont make them quit smoking, as that increases their liklihood of relapse by something along the lines of 20%. I'm serious! The rest of my life--I'm going to have a MORE addictive personality.....
But one way that can manifest itself is with OCD. I was told at work that I had this--because I will walk around and make sure the whole restaurant matches before anyone gets there, and that I bleach my bathroom and kitchen at home. Apparently, most of my coworkers (I say MOST, not ALL) are slobs to the nth degree. And admit it as such. Don't get me wrong, I'm a fucking slob too, but I do what I can to keep the communal areas of the house clean, as well as the fixtures in the kitchen and bath. The counters are fair game!
I dont know where I was really going with this. What I do know is that I really really want to run the vacuum and put some neosporin on my thumb.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Squelch
So.
I'm working doubles. This kills me a little. But just a little. A shred, a fiber, at a time.
When I'm not running around with my hair on fire, its no biggie. You make better money, its laid back, everyone gets a long, while your working you can talk and laugh and basically enjoy yourself. But when the hair is set alight, as it was yesterday, you find yourself and your coworkers passing eachother at a dead run, sweat running down your back and pooling in the top of your buttcrack (yes, the dreaded "swamp-ass"--I make mention to it!), with thoughts such as this running through your mind:
"4ketchuptartar7up, 7checkcandy, 5uptrayjack"--does that make sense to you? it does to me. Its my fucking mantra. People are rude, inconsiderate and impatient. They cannot see past themselves, to the big picture of what is going on in the restaurant, how many servers are on, how many other tables their server has in her charge. No, they see only a girl in an orange shirt, who has been placed before them for their own amusement.....For instance....
Yesterday, we went from laid back and steady to AAAAAAAAAAAGH! in about fifteen minutes. 2 Servers, including myself, full fucking restaurant. We have 18 tables. That means, yes, nine tables per person. Most franchise restaurants, (Applebees, Chili's, Olive Garden, etc.) will only allow a server to take four tables. FOUR. PER. SERVER. If each of those tables contains between 2-6 people, well, you do the math. Lets say the average is four, well, then, I am in charge of keeping...36 people happy. thats more than an average high school class. 36 people, nice, patient, demanding and rude, all for me. Hooray!
Now, back to the origional story. I have a table of six at the far end of the restaurant. They are very nice people, kind, funny, patient. Understanding. My coworker has a table of four at the middle of the restaurant, right in the center of the highest traffic area for the servers--we are passing it every time we go to or from the kitchen or waitstation onto the floor. A woman at this table has the "sense of entitlement" stick buried so fucking far up her ass its amazing she could sit comfortably. She has asked me to turn off the celing fans twice, both times with me telling her NO. (when the restaurant is that full, we leave them on because it becomes a freaking sauna in there in no time at all.) Not being used to being told NO, she is angry, and asks my coworker at least twice, where she is told the same thing.
Remember, this is not my table this woman is sitting at. She is not a member of my 36.
The food for my beloved 6 comes up. I smush 5 entrees onto a tray, put the floor jack over my shoulder, heft the tray, and with my free hand grab the last plate. My hands are rather full. I kick the door open and start down the gauntlet to the far end of the restaurant.
About 5 steps onto the floor, someone or thing grabs my pantleg. A wayward child? A confused geriatric? A rabid squirrel? No, of course not! I stop, for fear of dropping the 25 pounds of food and china I have balanced near my face. I look down.
Guess who?
"I thought I asked you to turn off that fan!" she squeals, pointing at the whirling celing fan above her.
It was at this time that I wanted to quietly pull this woman outside and beat her to death.
"Ma'am??!! Could you please wait, just a moment? I would really like to put this down before we finish this conversation.", I said, tugging my pantleg out of her crabapple fist and continuing towards my table.
I can't recall ever seeing a late-middle-aged woman throw a temper tantrum before. It was quite beautiful, actually. I hadnt made it two steps....
"No! I want you to turn it off! I have asked and asked, and you still haven't done it! I dont want to feel a breeze while I eat! And where is my food? All these other people have food and I dont! Im cold, and hungry! I thought this was a RESTAURANT!"
My arm is beginning to tremble and ache as I stand there, staring at this woman like she vomited up a lobster and asked me to cook it.
"Ma'am, you're going to have to wait." And I went down to my table, delivered their food, and worked my way back towards the waitstation taking drink orders and refills on my way.
I stop in front of her table, giving the a plea for help look to my coworker, who is holding a woman's coat and purse while she re-arranges the table set. (You would be surprised how many people do this. Come in, sit down, and then move everything on the table before they order. In this womans case, before she would even sit she had to feng shui the table....Weird!)
The woman is off and running, whining and bitching and fanning herself with a ferry schedule. I ask if we can compromise, with me just lowering the speed on the fan.
It's at this point, that another coworker, who has been bussing and back serving the last few minutes, appears behind me.
"Listen, Ma'am, do you see how many people are in this restaurant? How many of them work here? Three. THREE people. All these people are hungry, tired, hot, cold, pissed off, whathaveyou. All of them want us, the THREE people who work here, to make that better. But unfortunatly, we aren't therapists or miracle workers---WE'RE WAITRESSES. So I will turn off the Goddamn fan, but all complaints about the heat will be directed to YOU, and not us, ok? Will that shut you up???"
the woman shrank back against her how silently laughing husband as my coworker made us oh, so proud. She nodded. Coworker turned off the fan.
All food was delivered, cleared, and paid for. Cocktails were made, beers refilled, dishes washed. All in 90 degree heat, with the fucking fans off.
But did anyone complain to us? Nope. I made more money in those 2 hours than I did in an entire double shift today. Apparently, if youre going to yell at a customer, make sure everyone can hear you.
After this all died down, I was talking about this with my two coworkers, both seasoned servers. Coworker one, the "coatrack", said that this woman had asked her to turn off the fan three seperate times, and the third time, she very nearly said to her what I think sums up our feelings for hard to please customers....
"Bitch, Please."
Remember that when you eat out!
I'm working doubles. This kills me a little. But just a little. A shred, a fiber, at a time.
When I'm not running around with my hair on fire, its no biggie. You make better money, its laid back, everyone gets a long, while your working you can talk and laugh and basically enjoy yourself. But when the hair is set alight, as it was yesterday, you find yourself and your coworkers passing eachother at a dead run, sweat running down your back and pooling in the top of your buttcrack (yes, the dreaded "swamp-ass"--I make mention to it!), with thoughts such as this running through your mind:
"4ketchuptartar7up, 7checkcandy, 5uptrayjack"--does that make sense to you? it does to me. Its my fucking mantra. People are rude, inconsiderate and impatient. They cannot see past themselves, to the big picture of what is going on in the restaurant, how many servers are on, how many other tables their server has in her charge. No, they see only a girl in an orange shirt, who has been placed before them for their own amusement.....For instance....
Yesterday, we went from laid back and steady to AAAAAAAAAAAGH! in about fifteen minutes. 2 Servers, including myself, full fucking restaurant. We have 18 tables. That means, yes, nine tables per person. Most franchise restaurants, (Applebees, Chili's, Olive Garden, etc.) will only allow a server to take four tables. FOUR. PER. SERVER. If each of those tables contains between 2-6 people, well, you do the math. Lets say the average is four, well, then, I am in charge of keeping...36 people happy. thats more than an average high school class. 36 people, nice, patient, demanding and rude, all for me. Hooray!
Now, back to the origional story. I have a table of six at the far end of the restaurant. They are very nice people, kind, funny, patient. Understanding. My coworker has a table of four at the middle of the restaurant, right in the center of the highest traffic area for the servers--we are passing it every time we go to or from the kitchen or waitstation onto the floor. A woman at this table has the "sense of entitlement" stick buried so fucking far up her ass its amazing she could sit comfortably. She has asked me to turn off the celing fans twice, both times with me telling her NO. (when the restaurant is that full, we leave them on because it becomes a freaking sauna in there in no time at all.) Not being used to being told NO, she is angry, and asks my coworker at least twice, where she is told the same thing.
Remember, this is not my table this woman is sitting at. She is not a member of my 36.
The food for my beloved 6 comes up. I smush 5 entrees onto a tray, put the floor jack over my shoulder, heft the tray, and with my free hand grab the last plate. My hands are rather full. I kick the door open and start down the gauntlet to the far end of the restaurant.
About 5 steps onto the floor, someone or thing grabs my pantleg. A wayward child? A confused geriatric? A rabid squirrel? No, of course not! I stop, for fear of dropping the 25 pounds of food and china I have balanced near my face. I look down.
Guess who?
"I thought I asked you to turn off that fan!" she squeals, pointing at the whirling celing fan above her.
It was at this time that I wanted to quietly pull this woman outside and beat her to death.
"Ma'am??!! Could you please wait, just a moment? I would really like to put this down before we finish this conversation.", I said, tugging my pantleg out of her crabapple fist and continuing towards my table.
I can't recall ever seeing a late-middle-aged woman throw a temper tantrum before. It was quite beautiful, actually. I hadnt made it two steps....
"No! I want you to turn it off! I have asked and asked, and you still haven't done it! I dont want to feel a breeze while I eat! And where is my food? All these other people have food and I dont! Im cold, and hungry! I thought this was a RESTAURANT!"
My arm is beginning to tremble and ache as I stand there, staring at this woman like she vomited up a lobster and asked me to cook it.
"Ma'am, you're going to have to wait." And I went down to my table, delivered their food, and worked my way back towards the waitstation taking drink orders and refills on my way.
I stop in front of her table, giving the a plea for help look to my coworker, who is holding a woman's coat and purse while she re-arranges the table set. (You would be surprised how many people do this. Come in, sit down, and then move everything on the table before they order. In this womans case, before she would even sit she had to feng shui the table....Weird!)
The woman is off and running, whining and bitching and fanning herself with a ferry schedule. I ask if we can compromise, with me just lowering the speed on the fan.
It's at this point, that another coworker, who has been bussing and back serving the last few minutes, appears behind me.
"Listen, Ma'am, do you see how many people are in this restaurant? How many of them work here? Three. THREE people. All these people are hungry, tired, hot, cold, pissed off, whathaveyou. All of them want us, the THREE people who work here, to make that better. But unfortunatly, we aren't therapists or miracle workers---WE'RE WAITRESSES. So I will turn off the Goddamn fan, but all complaints about the heat will be directed to YOU, and not us, ok? Will that shut you up???"
the woman shrank back against her how silently laughing husband as my coworker made us oh, so proud. She nodded. Coworker turned off the fan.
All food was delivered, cleared, and paid for. Cocktails were made, beers refilled, dishes washed. All in 90 degree heat, with the fucking fans off.
But did anyone complain to us? Nope. I made more money in those 2 hours than I did in an entire double shift today. Apparently, if youre going to yell at a customer, make sure everyone can hear you.
After this all died down, I was talking about this with my two coworkers, both seasoned servers. Coworker one, the "coatrack", said that this woman had asked her to turn off the fan three seperate times, and the third time, she very nearly said to her what I think sums up our feelings for hard to please customers....
"Bitch, Please."
Remember that when you eat out!
Monday, February 12, 2007
Non-concious
It would seem that I am suffering from mild, unwarranted episodes of "coma". I stop moving, and, suddenly, am so deeply and intensely asleep that almost nothing can rouse me.
Rockin' cool, as well as very irritating. I get home from work, sit down to change my clothes and make it as far as removing my pants--when suddenly, its 3 hours later and I am wondering why there is a waffle pattern on my face and butt that is reminicent of the carpet. Im getting next to nothing done--but the sleep is glorious.
Unless I am doing my apparent NEW favorite hobby--the startled, panicked wakeup. Last night for example--Drank far, far too much wine at some friends' house with T. Decided to crash there, as driving was out of the question.
The whole house fell into a deep cabernet induced slumber, myself included. An hour passed.
Suddenly, I snap awake like I have been tazed--and attack T. "WE HAVE TO LEAVE. NOW!!!!".
T being the kind soul that he is, put on pants and shoes, and, without asking questions, held the door open for us to go. (I think he was too drunk still to ask what the hell I was on about, but oh well.)
So we did. And drove, drunkenly and sleepily, home.
Terrible idea. I had to call and apologise today.
Funny, tho.
Rockin' cool, as well as very irritating. I get home from work, sit down to change my clothes and make it as far as removing my pants--when suddenly, its 3 hours later and I am wondering why there is a waffle pattern on my face and butt that is reminicent of the carpet. Im getting next to nothing done--but the sleep is glorious.
Unless I am doing my apparent NEW favorite hobby--the startled, panicked wakeup. Last night for example--Drank far, far too much wine at some friends' house with T. Decided to crash there, as driving was out of the question.
The whole house fell into a deep cabernet induced slumber, myself included. An hour passed.
Suddenly, I snap awake like I have been tazed--and attack T. "WE HAVE TO LEAVE. NOW!!!!".
T being the kind soul that he is, put on pants and shoes, and, without asking questions, held the door open for us to go. (I think he was too drunk still to ask what the hell I was on about, but oh well.)
So we did. And drove, drunkenly and sleepily, home.
Terrible idea. I had to call and apologise today.
Funny, tho.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
The List
Its time, my dears. That and I cant sleep.
THINGS THAT PISS ME OFF
1. American Healthcare. Cliche, yes, but shit, I would love to go to the doctor and not get humped in the checkbook for it.
2. Sour milk. Its plauging me. I'm not sure why--but all the milk I have touched in a week has been sour. Blech.
3. Depression. This is getting really old. Thanks.
4. The book I just read--by the same lady that wrote "White Oleander". This one was not good, really.
5. The fact that I gave myself a pox. Only me--I'm so freaking talented.
6. My father's continuing need to lie to me about his health.
7. The Lemon Lady.
8. The Lemon Lady's Handler.
9. Feeling fat all the time.
10. My bruised feet.
THINGS THAT DON'T PISS ME OFF
1. Stimson Cellars Cabernet Savingnon. Magnum only--$11.
2. My job. Mostly.
3. Coffee
4. The Discovery Channel
5. Random phone calls from people you care about and miss
6. Feeling Wanted
7. Baby Pillow
8. My new mascara--it rocks!
9. Wildy comfortable socks--nest for feet!
10. Chicken Tikka Saag, by golly!
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Like no one is there
I made a promise to a friend of mine that I would write again. I used to write all the time, fiction, true stories, quips and poems....since I was little. we would be asked, in elementary school, to make collages of the things we liked best, or what we did on our summer vacation, or something, and I would always use words instead of pictures.
I am afraid that I wont keep this promise. I am afraid to write anything down, or at least, anything that is personal or has any meaning behind it, anything I care about. Lest it be exploited, fall into the hands of someone whose intentions would not be in my best interest....like every other time. My mother has actively sought out and read, then RESPONDED TO--in writing!--journals and diaries of mine. Written her take on things in the margins. Called me a liar, a malcontent, a piece of shit, and then closed the book and put it back where I had so carefully hidden it, with her little land-mines of hate planted for me to find days, weeks, months later. (How often does one go back and re-read their journals?)When I found (still find them!) these things, my immediate response is to throw the whole thing away. Burn it, hurl it into the stove. Can I keep something that has been tainted in such a way? I dont know.
Then, every time I have broken up with someone, they pillage my writing. First on the computer--raiding my email, my saved documents on disk--used my own words against me, then deleted them. Later, and with a different man, my journals were read, openly discussed in a group format--copies of pages were made and passed out. Then, same group, my online diary--downloaded, read, commented on. My own words, again, tainted with the hate and fury of those who hate me, wish me harm, jealousy, or, well, I dont know. My last relationship was with someone barely literate, I can't help but wonder if that had something to do with why I stayed. But I caught his child reading my diary--multiple times. She openly admitted it, tried to talk about it with me--asked me why I was mad, if I was writing things down that anyone could read?
Good question.
I suppose its theraputic. I write because it gets the words out of my head. Makes room. I like to tell stories, things that have really happened to me, that make people laugh. Because if they laugh, then I can laugh too and then its ok.
Does that make sense?
I suppose I should just stop thinking about censoring myself--because, really, who is reading this other than C, F and A? I look at my site meter and there you are, you three. And really, between the three of you, you know everything about me, everything that has happened, pretty much.
So what do I have to hide?
I am afraid that I wont keep this promise. I am afraid to write anything down, or at least, anything that is personal or has any meaning behind it, anything I care about. Lest it be exploited, fall into the hands of someone whose intentions would not be in my best interest....like every other time. My mother has actively sought out and read, then RESPONDED TO--in writing!--journals and diaries of mine. Written her take on things in the margins. Called me a liar, a malcontent, a piece of shit, and then closed the book and put it back where I had so carefully hidden it, with her little land-mines of hate planted for me to find days, weeks, months later. (How often does one go back and re-read their journals?)When I found (still find them!) these things, my immediate response is to throw the whole thing away. Burn it, hurl it into the stove. Can I keep something that has been tainted in such a way? I dont know.
Then, every time I have broken up with someone, they pillage my writing. First on the computer--raiding my email, my saved documents on disk--used my own words against me, then deleted them. Later, and with a different man, my journals were read, openly discussed in a group format--copies of pages were made and passed out. Then, same group, my online diary--downloaded, read, commented on. My own words, again, tainted with the hate and fury of those who hate me, wish me harm, jealousy, or, well, I dont know. My last relationship was with someone barely literate, I can't help but wonder if that had something to do with why I stayed. But I caught his child reading my diary--multiple times. She openly admitted it, tried to talk about it with me--asked me why I was mad, if I was writing things down that anyone could read?
Good question.
I suppose its theraputic. I write because it gets the words out of my head. Makes room. I like to tell stories, things that have really happened to me, that make people laugh. Because if they laugh, then I can laugh too and then its ok.
Does that make sense?
I suppose I should just stop thinking about censoring myself--because, really, who is reading this other than C, F and A? I look at my site meter and there you are, you three. And really, between the three of you, you know everything about me, everything that has happened, pretty much.
So what do I have to hide?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
