The world is like a painting. The world is like a painting painted by a person. The world is like a painting painted by a person that is 3 years old.

i think there should be somewhere were i can add my riddle

When somebodies has a "honk if u love jesus" bumper sitcker, honk the horn twice and see what type of wave they give u. thats cool aint it. If all humanity were to die out, who would be around to care.

Hey you computer junkies, whoa, dont get mad, its a good thing, i am here to share my random crap with you lovely people, so here goes... Soupa Doupa Plasmatronic Donkey Flinging Coffee Twirling Chip Sauce. made with real chedder. I love that Its just, so COOL, dont you think? Britney Spears, Maria Carey and Ashlee Simpson should be shot they are gay Ashlee Simpson is NOT a punk rocker, you stupid people Britney Spears is a slag, not an idol Since when was Maria Carey our god anyway? STOP KISSING THERE ASS, PEOPLE!!!!!! Green Day ROCK! You know your in love when your hand in a meat grinder and dont notice. Chavs SUCK kill all the chavs!!!!! I LOVE YOU ALL!!!!

Sometimes I sit down at the computer and try to think of something meaningful to write, or a cool story to start on, or try to think up a deep & artistic poem... But i spend such a long time sitting and staring at the screen, thinking and dismissing ideas and visions, that I totally lose all interest for what I was doing and i get up and leave.

A classroom full of students gets a package from an old classmate that recently moved. The note with it reads: "Dear class, I am sorry we didn't get along before, although your taunting hurt me I can now see that we could have all been friends. Please accept this gift as my apology for being so inconciderate. -Pandora"

I am sick of women saying how much they hate themselves. We see this as normal. But when a woman should say something positive about herself, such as, "I like my legs" or "I think I look really good today," We see this as conceited. Or egotistical. I am 15 years old and I am sick of women hating themselves for not looking like pam anderson, angelina jolie, Halle berry, or whoever they want to look like. all types of beauty is beautiful so just embrace yourself and love you for being who you are. A unique human being!

America is the only country to fight for freedom and then make laws to take it away.

in my eye's there is a computer screen! if i look left i c a plug socket y did the screen go black!? i am A BANANA ! I H8 BANANA'S! Y R U STILL HERE NO NOT THAT ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ SOZ I FELL ASLEEP WOT WAS I SAYING AGAIN? OH YEAH THAT I AM BRILLIANT! SO TRUE SO HOW R U? Y DO U H8 ME? U DID WOT 2 MY ROOM! BRIGHT ORANGE! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO I SAID PINK U IDIOT! BUH BI LUV GRACIE WACIE IN GRACVILLE (ENGLAND I FINK) I DUNNO BI NOW NO REALLY I HAVE 2 GO! WHERE DO I LIVE? NO I HAVE 2 GO! GOOD BI!

What the Eye Cannot See The Heart Cannot Grieve Over I glanced down the alleyway and noticed a rather large snow-white door, covered with graffiti and the initials A.M moulded in its frame. The doorknocker, situated just below the crescent glass windows stood out, beneath the many multicoloured spray paint scrawls. The serpents jade coils wrapped around, smothered the silvery blue Lion, who’s ruffled mane, carved into the stone, was embellished with a tint of royal blue. I decided to amble towards it, my footsteps clattering on the grubby paving slabs that outlined the edge of the herringbone brickwork. Above this brickwork, slated roves rose closely to each other, about a stones throw away and down below, the dust devils gathered, spiralling around, forming a army of grime. Someone began whistling softly, disturbing the tranquillity and in the distance, a group of church bells chimed. Their sweet merry notes blending together, made my confidence and hopes soar. A whiff of vomit mingled in with an earthly scent that made my nose winkle as I glared at a pigeon that had obviously lingered too far, into my territory, nosing into a cluster of weeds. “He’s not the Messiah! He’s a very naughty boy!” echoed in my mind as I leaned back against the wall, my forehead sweating like mad. A rubbish bin with a metallic steel mesh and a gothic black liner flapped noisily in the wind, reminding me of the lighted beacon giving a signal to warn the community that a convict had escaped, whilst a caterwaul between two yowling tomcats continued in the alley opposite the one I was in. Close Shave! I thought, feeling my heart thumping against my chest. Then I froze as an ancient man with a toothy grin and a mysterious air limped towards me, the half-smoked fag hanging from his mouth. He glanced around nervously as if there was someone there who was not revealing themselves, before leaning over and hissing in my ear, “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” then he jerked head back in the direction of the door that innocently watched us from a safe distance. I noticed that he had only one proper hand with only a couple of crooked fingers. In the space of where the thumb had been, a pallid swelling could be seen, with a scar of dried blood on top. Then as quick as he’d come, he vanished. I shook my head and blinked, wondering if he really had been there or whether he was a figment of my imagination. I checked my watch. It was 10.00 and it was getting darker as time passed by. The stars scattered in the sky glinted and glimmered like tiny insignificant lanterns. Nothing moved. Well, almost nothing except for the scrap of paper that fluttered freely along in the gentle wind. The low drone of a car pulled up and parked quietly nearby just as a couple of bats serenaded overhead, searching around for insects and in that space of a fifteen minutes, a little owl screeched piercingly. Its cry, like that of a young criminal noosed in a gibbet that was situated over the city, a few metres away from the ravine, complete with several other lengths of rope. Taut, like buckskin, sopping wet as raindrops trickled down their single strands, sodden. A siren broke the silence, its voice howling like a wolf, weeping like one in pain, obviously coming closer. Blast! I thought as the siren triggered off the memories of the case this morning. Angrily, I kicked a half-empty can of diet coke against the wall, watching as it bounced back, its contents inside, hushed like a moth dancing in the honey glow of the torch, its wings making no sound at all. Bubbles drifted over the flat concrete squares like shattered twigs and a mushy mass of crushed leaves floating on the current of a miniature river, through the valley of man made brick embankments. The door was still there, its silver handle glittering in the shaft of moonlight. A draught blew around the corner and the door creaked slightly ajar, the handle rattled temptingly jangling the web that seemed to be laced by a distinct thread. A car door opened not far away and I could hear snippets of the conversation that carried in the wind. “Right Serge…I’ll be checkin’ this area…Right…Yes, Well I’ll get back to you if I find anything lurking around.” I listened, my ears burning. The guy was speaking into one of them machinery things, or perhaps it was a mobile, I couldn’t tell. Shit! Better make a move or they’ll be here pretty sharp! Where to go? The door stood there, half-open, playfully tantalising me with its keyhole. As if magnetized, I stumbled onwards, stretched and grabbed the handle. As I did so, I heard a muscular voice yell “OI! STOP, OR I’ll SHOOT!” I darted through the gap and slammed the door behind me, feeling it shudder in its frame. There was that eerie silence, which I had felt earlier, as I stood, in the wooden box, waiting for my doom. I rechecked my watch and let out gasp because I saw that the hands were pointing to the time, 7.35pm and the minute hand was ticking backwards. I was in some kind of courtyard and before me, at the other end of the field, was a small congregation of graves. To my left, I could hear water cascading down two stone-like cats with jewelled crystals for their eyes. I decided to follow the seeded path on my right, but judging from my reckoning, no matter what path you took, they all led to the same place, where the tombstones stood menacingly. I stopped near the nearest tombstone and stamped on its front, in broad golden lettering, was the name: A J Montano Born 1543 – Died 1529. I stared at the date in shock, and then touched the top of the stone. To my surprise, the air around it became icy and a fuzzy sapphire blue energy beam appeared, engulfing the stone. Then, a transparent profile pushed itself out of the grave, and hovered, above. Little did I know, that it was a relation of the thumb less bloke whom had warned me about this door, which little did he know, had led me to believe of what truly could happen, for anything, I now knew was possible. The ghostly shape ignored me totally and gazed blankly in the opposite direction from where I stood. I slowly rotated on the spot, and an upsetting sight came into view. A middle-aged couple were wandering towards us, dressed in mourning clothes. “You see,” hissed the figure, indicating the couple, “You understand that your life maybe utterly terrible at this point in time, but you are much better off and luckier than you think you are. To have the chance to wipe pages of your stained book clean, free of what you carry as your burden. That alone, is something important. At least you have the ability and the chance to do so, unlike some.” This information made me think. Think, like I’ve never thought about life before, but in much more depth. They placed some crimson yellow tipped tulips on a grave in front of me and quietly prayed for a few moments. “Bloody ‘ooligans,” said a voice bitterly, “they never change, they don’t. This is the comeuppance ‘e gets for bein’ innocent.” “To think…. of him hung up there all alone, waiting for ….Not my boy, oh I just can’t bear to think of it,” sobbed the woman, her tears spilling onto the grass and her sugared white lace handkerchief contrasted with the unfolding shadows of the trees. “It’s just so unfair.” “ He ‘as the ‘ole jury in his pocket, ‘e only ‘as to say one damn thing, and they just believe…” said the man, his patchy grey hair, wearing away. “He never did nuffin, he didn’t! God bless ‘im …” she replied tearfully, taking one last glance at the headstone, before they turned and walked away, mourning for the lost of their son. “Andre, Andre,” another barely audible voice was weeping for someone, who wasn’t there. I stumbled towards the sound, brushing away the branches that kept blocking my way. Finally I reached a clearing with what seemed like a cabinet with sliding panels that squeaked as they moved back into place. What stood on a stand inside was one of those rather old diaries, covered in leather with the name printed in olive calligraphy. Suddenly my watch alarm bleeped and I gazed down at it, noticing nothing unusual except for the fact that it read 6.35pm. Strange. “Who’s Andre?” I asked curiously, rubbing my wrists. The book snorted and replied quite scornfully. “You don’t know who Andre is? You don’t know?? Why of all the flamin’ cheek!” “Heard of what?!” “Poor Andre… such a fool to leave me here, alone in this era with some stupid person who has appeared, presumably from the future where you are, and yet still hasn’t worked out why he has come to unfold and to realise…. It’s just ludicrous…ludicrous I say!” The name clicked into my brain as I remembered. Andre James Montano used to be my brother I knew his real name; of course, but we never called each other by our real names. His name was J to me. I never realised about his problem when I was a kid, until it happened to me. Then, he left me, died, when I had just reached the age of thirteen, because of a illness, a killer illness. My parents nor friends could not understand it and everyone who I met, unless they had been experienced of the thing, thought I was weird. It was like a thousand voices chatting in my head, all at once and all of them demanded you to take orders from them, they confused you completely with light switches, what followed this was a series of hallucinations. It was awful. Only J knew how I felt. I had pretty disastrous childhood too. With my twin brother gone at thirteen, my life changed as I was moved from school to school. Rumours were spread about me and bullying even took place, but no one put a stop to it. I couldn’t escape. Then that terrible array this morning, in court when a great injustice was done to me, but I was proved innocent, that time. “Now, you remember,” said the book softly. Its voice disturbed my thoughts as they ebbed on like the aging spider spinning its delightful home, dazzling in the brightness of the moon. I watched an idiot fly collide, caught helplessly in the spiders clutches. Just like I had. “The door….” I whispered, “the door.” I had been enchanted, blindly like the fly blindly caught with the mesh of thread, balanced lightly between branch to branch, struggling, its life at stake. I couldn’t bear seeing it panic anymore so I slashed at the web, causing the fragile bonds to disintegrate like ashes. I heard some wind chimes, their lovely sounds resonating. The figure, which had followed me, creeping along like a vixen on the prowl, spoke again. “It is time…. for you to return, always look for a light to guide you.” Still watching the spider beginning to mend its home, I realised I had to go on, just like the sleek threads were sewn into each other until cut. I had to face the problems that made life a challenge, instead of running away from them all the time and that way, I was more likely to find my star at the end of the tunnel, leading me on to verbal bliss.