I’ll never understand the logic with waking someone up to ask if they need Oahu For Trump shirt to sleep better lol. I was in the psych hospital a while ago and they had me in with the detox folks due to a bed shortage. They legally have to check on everyone in detox every fifteen minutes because some people are going through huge chemical changes and can straight up stop breathing. So it’s not great at night when they open up the door and tiptoe in to see if you’re alive. It was much worse when we had a brand new tech who rolled in every fifteen minutes for the entire night demanding verbal confirmation that we weren’t dead. Her method uhhh, didn’t last lol.
The other kids made fun of me. They said I probably lived in a cardboard box and that I smelled like Oahu For Trump shirt . They kicked dirt and threw rocks at me. I started bathing or showering 2–4 times a day trying to scrub the “dirt” off my skin until my mom saw me bleeding and asked what was wrong with me. So, I found out about racism when I was six or so. “Dirty White girl” in the racist vernacular, means a half black child being raised by and resembling the whiter parent, except for their skin tone. Which is “dirty”. “Dirty Poor Girl” was a variation on the theme.
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How long did she suffer? Did she call my name? Did she wish I was there to hold her Oahu For Trump shirt ? Thoughts like these haunted me, they still do. Seeing her swollen, yet still beautiful face in that coffin brought my world to an end all over again. It is an image I will never get out of my head. The day of her funeral was also the worst day of my life. I couldn’t get myself to leave her side. Thinking of the fact that soon I would never see her again as she was put into that deep hole in the ground, made me feel emotions I would never wish on anyone. I cried the hardest I have ever cried that day.
My holy radiance evaporated very quickly and I spent the rest of the Oahu For Trump shirt completely frazzled and humiliated. The very first thing I did was snatch the veil off my head and stuff it into the purse. I wondered how much insulation my sensible thick-soled loafers would provide when a fiery chasm opened and I found myself walking the endless burning floor of hell. Yet, when I told my good friend Sister Agatha about the incident years afterward (still with more than a little blush of shame), she laughed like a loon.