Katie Plays Dress Up In The Attic

technologiesIt seemed like she’d spent her entire childhood up here in this attic.

Sitting on this box labeled “costumes”, staring at the sole window in the attic, Katie couldn’t help but feel like this had been her bedroom, and not her actual bedroom. She swore she’d spent way more time in this attic than her own bedroom over the years, mostly playing dress up when she was younger, but then coming up here to read or just escape the world.

Now she still played dress up, but in the theater at her college, or in short, independent films she sometimes got cast in. Not for “fun” anymore, just for “work”. But why not? When did fun turn into work, and why couldn’t work be fun? Why couldn’t she sometimes throw on a princess costume or a pirate outfit and just play pretend again? Why not right now, in fact? So she tore open a box, ripped out some stuff and then, in the bottom of the box, found the dress. Not her mothers wedding dress, no, that was in her parents closet. No, this was the dress. The prom dress. The one she’d once heard her sister describe, saying it was what she’d wear to prom in high school when they got there.

As she pulled out the prom dress and got unclothed, she felt strange. Her sister hadn’t worn this, she had, and it still felt odd on her. Zipping up the back, she glanced back down into the box and discovered that beneath the prom dress was something else…something small and…stained. Oh god. It was the other dress. The one she’d been wearing when they’d crashed. They’d kept it all these years. Oh, how lonely the attic became once it was devoid of two little girls, and only had the one. Now instead of playing dress up together up here, Katie played alone, the sound of her sisters laugh never far off. Katie started spending her time solely up in the attic after the accident, after she died, making it essentially her bedroom. She described the prom dress to their grandmother when discussing what sort of dress she’d want for the occasion, and to nobody’s surprise, their grandmother sewed it for her.

Even now, even during prom, she was still playing dress up. Different dress, different room, but still playing pretend. Katie now wondered how much of her life had been mired in the swamps of playtime, of the bowels of imagination. How much time had been spent in this very attic, escaping a reality, escaping into another reality, as another person, perhaps even a person who still had her sister. It wasn’t enough to lose her sister, now her folks were selling the house and moving to Vermont, and she was going to lose the attic as well. Memories are not physical, they don’t do justice the places the memories are made. Suddenly, a clunking sound behind her, and she spun to find Charles coming in.

“Whoa, nice dress,” he said, “Uh…you about ready to start bringing some things down to the moving truck?”

“…I think so, yeah,” Katie replied, looking back at all the costumes on the floor, “Why did you get into film?”

“I like to tell stories,” Charles said, shrugging, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, “I mean, I like trying to tell stories anyway, heh, not that it ever works out that they get produced, but hey, that’s a screenwriters curse I suppose.”

“Did you ever want to be someone else?”

“Is that why you act?”

“Would you hate me if I said I hate myself? That I want to escape me and become someone new?”

“Who doesn’t want that,” Charles replied, “But no, of course I wouldn’t hate you. I understand, I know what you’ve been through. I love you.”

Katie smiled and picked up all the stuff from the floor, plopped it back into the box, folded the box tops shut and handed it to Charles.

“This stuff going to the storage or your folks?”

“That’s going to our place,” Katie said, placing her hand on her stomach, “It’ll be put to good use.”

As Charles and Katie turned to leave the attic, Katie looked back for one last time and swore, at least for a split second, that she could hear her sisters laugh. But her sister would be proud of her now, she knew that for a fact, and so now was a new time. A time to play dress up somewhere else. Because that’s all life is, isn’t it? Pretending to be someone else. All adults are just children playing pretend. And with that, she shut the door.

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip.

Wanna donate to me directly? You can do that via PayPal! Wanna support me ongoing month to month and get content early? You can do that via Patreon! Thanks for whatever you can spare, I really appreciate it!


Bereavement BBQ

The other night, my girlfriend and I went to dinner at a burger restaurant in the mall near our house. With my fries, they gave me some BBQ sauce that was fantastic and delicious, so my girlfriend asked what brand it was, and our server told us. When we got home, my girlfriend looked up the brand and found their website, and on their website discovered “bereavement platters”, which was just an absolutely hilarious combination of words, to be honest. But, it made me think that there’s a part of funeral services nobody ever really talks about; catering.

I’ve been to a few funerals in my time, and I can’t remember a single time they were catered. I remember after my grandfathers funeral, we all went out to dinner at his favorite restaurant, but nothing was catered. Then again, I suppose you might need to have an actual wake in order to have funeral catering. Either way, it made me think about how, even before you’re in the ground, they’re making plans to eat at your funeral. Life goes on, even hours or a day after you’re gone. It makes me feel so insignificant, but not in a bad way for once. It makes me feel like, listen, you’re here while you’re here, experiencing what you experience, and once that’s over, it’s over, and life just keeps going. Everything we think is so important, so crucial, it really doesn’t mean anything in the end, at least not in the long term.

Yes we impact people, yes we change lives, yes we leave a legacy of some kind. But you know what’s more important than any of that?

Tiny 4 cheese quiches on doilies. That’s what.

But in all seriousness, funeral catering really hammered home to me just how fucking fleeting and unimportant all of this really is. All the things I worry about, all the things I hope to achieve, all the things I’ve failed at. It all fails to match up to the fact that my hopes, my dreams, my goals will one day be secondary to my future wife spending the day on the phone, making sure there’s enough cocktail weenies to go around at my wake. It puts everything into perspective, but in a really good way. It makes me not feel so bad about not accomplishing things, about failing at things, because you know what? Somebody’s most important decision one day will be what sort of drinks to serve when I kick it, and that’s pretty hilarious.

I may create a menu, in fact, so that my future wife knows exactly what to serve. My funeral may be the only thing in my life that I have total and complete say over how it goes, so why not plan it down to its every last detail before I die? I want lots of desserts, I want napkins folded like swans, I want peoples meals to be served on trashcan lids, because everything we eat is garbage, so why not be upfront about it?

So, via the odd realization of funeral catering, I feel like I’ve finally had a breakthrough of some kind, in which I don’t worry as much now about failing, or succeeding, and am just happy being, right here, right now.

Because one day I won’t be.

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, the satirical online newspaper of “Nowhere, US”, my podcast network “The Feel Bad Network” or my writing over at Medium. You can also find some published work for sale over at my Payhip.

Wanna donate to me directly? You can do that via PayPal! Wanna support me ongoing month to month and get content early? You can do that via Patreon! Thanks for whatever you can spare, I really appreciate it!


Amanda Cries In The Bathroom

technologiesMaybe it’s because it’s where we’re potty trained or where we perform the most self care, but the bathroom had, over time, become Amanda’s safest spot in her life. Granted, it wasn’t because she was taking care of herself in there, she’d be lucky if she managed to wash her hair more than once or twice a week, and it certainly wasn’t an upset stomach keeping her in there either. No. It just was the place she felt the safest. When she was at work, Amanda would pull a book and her lunch out and head into the bathroom to sit and read and eat.

Sometimes, late at night after a bad dream, she’d wake up, covered in sweat and terrified, and head for the bathroom, locking herself in and cowering in the tub like she’d done so many times before as a little girl. She could swear she could still hear her parents fighting outside the door, or the sounds of her mother berating her weight, but no, it was always just in her imagination. Those days were well and gone, even if the trauma wasn’t. But now it was where she went whenever she felt threatened or upset or that she wasn’t in control. When she felt hopeless or lost, the bathroom was her guiding light.

Sometimes she’d cry, sitting on the edge of the tub, still brought down by all the negative things her mother had said to her growing up about her weight, or about her looks, or how she ‘wasn’t keeping up with the other girls, appearance wise’ and that the boys would notice. She didn’t care about the boys noticing. She only wished her own mother wouldn’t be so harsh about it. At least the boys ignored her, while her own mother expended the energy to be critical towards her. Sometimes she’d cry, sitting on the toilet with the seat down, while thinking about her parents fighting right there in the kitchen. They either didn’t realize she was in the bathroom and could hear their every word, or, and much more likely, they just didn’t give a shit that she could hear their every word. Amanda locks the bathroom everytime she goes in now, even if just to brush her teeth. Anyone else coming in while she’s occupying the space would be a serious invasion of privacy.

Everytime Amanda had looked to live somewhere new, it always boiled down to the bathroom. What was the lighting in it like, was the aesthetic pleasing, was the color palate enjoyable? Where was it located in relation to the other rooms was a big one. If the bathroom was right off the bedroom, or better yet, attached to the bedroom, then boy howdy she had a winner there, because the bedroom was the second safest place she’d ever had.

But what was it that made the bathroom the absolute best place? Sure, all those things were good starts, but in the end, it’d probably have to be the fact that when she came home from school one day, her mother, who’d terrorized her her entire life and made her question everything about herself, had slipped on a bathroom mat and hit her head against the sink, dying instantly.

When Amanda found her, she’d only been dead for about an hour or so, and nobody else was home yet, but for the first time in her life, Amanda felt protected…and free. So Amanda did what she did everyday. She took a bag of chips and a few books, sat on the toilet with the lid down and her mother cold and lifeless on the floor, and enjoyed the only place that ever made her feel safe.

The bathroom.

I’m Maggie. If you like this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, the satirical online newspaper of “Nowhere, US”, my podcast “Coping With Tonal Shifts In Reality” or my writing over at Medium. You can also donate to my PayPal or support my work at Patreon, where you’ll get access to patron only content and new content early, all for as cheap as a buck a month! Thanks for reading!


Michael & Gina Sit On The Roof

technologiesMichael had been up here so many times in his life, watching the stars or waiting for fireworks with a good view. This roof had become as familiar to him as his own house had, except he’d spent so much more time here, at Lucy’s, that it almost felt more like home than his own home had. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of someone coming onto the roof behind him, only to see his friend Gina crawling up to sit beside him, handing him a coffee mug and holding one for herself. Michael took the mug and took a long sip as Gina settled herself beside him on the roof.

“I think I’ve spent more time on this roof than I have inside the house, oddly enough,” Michael said, and Gina smirked.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she said, “This roof has seen so much more action than anywhere I’ve ever lived. You remember Lillian Burk? That girl I was in band with in high school, the sort of gothy one?”

“Yeah, I remember her,” Michael said.

“I brought her up here on New Years and kissed her,” Gina said, smiling as she looked down at the coffee she was swirling in her mug, “She ended up not being into it in the end, but it’s a very vivid, happy memory for me. This roof is where I had my first kiss.”

“Did you ever tell Lucy that?” Michael asked and Gina laughed.

“God, no, never. No, Lucy and I weren’t the sort of secret sharing best friends everyone seems to be in love with concept wise. No, we were more like the ‘let’s go to college together and be eachothers bridesmaids’ sort of best friends.”

“I remember when Kyle Lowman fell off this roof,” Michael said, taking another long sip from his mug, “Remember that?”

“I do remember that!” Gina said loudly, pointing at him, “I remember he was getting angry at Tally Spimoni for something, and he lost his footing and slid off the roof into the bushes below! He wasn’t even hurt, but he acted like he was, and of course that made Tally be all apologetic and shit. God, those two belonged together.”

A long pause came over them, as the cool summer air picked up, wafting past them, turning the weather vane on the roof a bit, the both of them watching.

“Everyone’s gone now,” Gina said, “Some are dead, some just moved and lost touch with, the only one we had left really was Lucy, and her roof. I don’t want to lose the roof. I’ve already lost my best friend.”

“They’re going to sell the house, you know that,” Michael said.

“I don’t see why we don’t just pool our money and-”

“Yeah, I can barely afford my rent, let alone half a house,” Michael said, interrupting her before she got too attached to the idea like she usually did, “No, I mean, I’m right there with you, this roof has been a major part of my life for so long, I don’t want to lose it either, but…but we’re going to, and we just need to accept that. You know, I lost my virginity up here.”


“Yeah,” Michael said, chuckling, “Yeah, to Carmen Tortona, from Saint Marys, remember her?”

“You lost it to a girl from a catholic school? Wow, that’s impressive,” Gina said.

“She wasn’t very catholic as it turned out,” Michael said, “But it was like, sometime in the fall, early October, and we were over here hanging out and we were seniors, I remember that, and I think we were here pet sitting cause Lucy had to go visit her grandma or something, and her parents asked me to watch the dog, so obviously I invited a girl over to a house I had all to myself a week.”

“What a casanova,” Gina said, grinning.

“Well,” Michael replied, “I do what I can for the ladies. But we were up here, and it was like one in the morning or something, and we were talking about graduation and stuff and, I don’t know, it just sort of came up that we were both still virgins, and that we liked one another enough and that we both could’ve ended up having our first time with worse people so why not do it with eachother, right?…it was nice.”

Another long pause, as Gina looked at her nails.

“Did you see Lucy after she got sick?”

“A few times,” Michael said, “Did you?”

“I couldn’t,” Gina said, “I feel awful about it, but she told me it was fine if I couldn’t stomach it. The worst part is when she told me she was going to die, I was sad but the first thing that ran through my head was ‘oh no, we’re going to lose her house’. Am I a bad person?”

“Buildings are important to people,” Michael said, shrugging, “I mean, I don’t get it but it’s true. A lot of times, when people recount memories, what they don’t realize is that the memory isn’t so much about when or how it happened or with whom it happened, but where it happened. That’s what actually helps you remember, is the setting. That’s why you were scared of losing the house when she told you she was sick, because this is where so many formative moments in your life occurred, right here, on this goddamned roof. You don’t want to lose that, nobody would.”

Another pause, and then Michael laughed and looked at Gina.

“Let’s take a shingle, each,” he said, “That way, we’ll always have some of the roof with us. Often times these homes when they get sold end up getting redone anyway, so why not? Nobody’s going to miss a few lousy shingles.”

“That’s a good idea,” Gina said, as the two of them got onto their knees and started prying some of the looser shingles free from the roof. They then picked the ones they liked best, and each took one. As they sat there, staring at their respective shingles, Michael sighed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, finishing his coffee, “There will always be other roofs, and there will always be other Lucy’s, cruel as it may sound, but there will never be another Lucy’s roof.”

Gina smiled, stood up and held her hand out. Michael took it, as she helped him up, and the two of them headed down from the roof, through the house, locking it up and out to their cars. Standing there, in the driveway, Gina looked at Michael.

“I’m hungry, you want to go get something to eat?”

“I could eat, yeah,” he replied, “You pick and I’ll just follow you.”


The two got into their cars and drove away. As they left, Michael couldn’t help but glance at his rearview mirror, back at Lucy’s roof one final time, and smiled. He didn’t mean by his statement that Lucy wasn’t special or unique or that she could be easily replaced. Everyone was special and unique and couldn’t be easily replaced. He just meant that there would never be another roof like Lucy’s. One that held so much history of their youth, of their time spent together, their friendship. Other roofs would hold other history, the start of their own families, their own holiday traditions, their eventual children’s youths, but there would never be another like this roof. Yes, there will always be other roofs, other Lucy’s.

But there would never be another Lucy’s roof.

Hey, I’m Maggie. You like this thing I made? Then you might like other things I make, like my depressing webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry”, or my writing over at Medium. You can also donate at the PayPal or follow/support my work on Patreon! Anything given will go to paying my rent and groceries, and be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!


My Mom’s Going To Haunt Me

It’s gotta be some sort of cruel irony that I’ve spent a good portion of my life running away from my mother both in a physical sense and a personality sense, and yet despite all the effort, I’m going to wind up carrying her around after she dies since she has chosen to be cremated and as her only child, I’ll be stuck with her ashes.

My mother has made this stance of hers clear for years, likely ever since her brother died when I was a little girl. She says that she hates the idea of being buried (too confining, as if your corpse would notice), and that she doesn’t want to be reincarnated and thinks by being burnt that you cannot be brought back because your essence is literally released into the universe. While I don’t make fun of her for these things, shit, we hardly even speak, I also don’t believe in it myself. But, the fact remains…no matter how far I run, how hard I try to break free, how much I tell people I want nothing to do with my family and they don’t care about me either, I will end up with my mothers remains, because I am her only child and it’ll all fall down to me. The only upside to this is that my father likely won’t be cremated, so thank god I won’t end up with them both.

There’s a famous quote, “We all become our parents”. That quote is a load of giant bullshit. While that quote might be totally applicable to people who like their parents, admire traits their parents have and want to emulate them as adults themselves, it’s absolute crap for people who have been abused by their parents and spent their lives running away from them. I assure you, aside from a slight overlap in musical taste, I have nothing in common with my mother. We have very different “religious” beliefs, political stances, overall viewpoint of the world and so on and so forth. And it goes beyond your usual “millennial” vs “baby boomer” aspect. First of all, I don’t really consider myself a millennial more than any other reason because I hold a lot of values held by Generation X. While I recognize it isn’t ideas that determine what generation you’re a part of, it’s the year you’re born in, I still hold fast to that belief. So this gap between us goes far beyond the usual generational differences. It’s likely it goes far beyond that because of how she treated me most of my life, so please, do not ever compare me to my mother. I assure you, we aren’t alike. In fact, I am so different from my parents, I don’t even take after them physically.

Hilarious. I’ll spend years running away, trying to escape a woman who made my life a literal living hell a lot of the time, and made my self esteem go in the toilet, and it won’t matter how far I go or what I do to put distance between us physically or otherwise, because in the end, all that matters is that she’s gonna end up in my possession anyway. She’s going to get what she wants; being stuck to me, always a presence in my life in some way. She’s going to be a presence in my future childs life simply because she’ll be there in an urn. I guess there’s truth in the whole “you can’t outrun your problems” concept.

So okay, my mother will have the last laugh because she’ll force her way into my life one way or another in the end. I can’t fight it. Sometimes you just have to give applause to dedication. Sure, she may be with me in an urn, but, as someone who didn’t expect to live past 14 and is now nearing her thirties, the fact I’ll outlive my mother, someone who made me want to die for so long, is a somewhat comforting fact and one she can’t take away from me.

She’ll never truly win.

Hey, I’m Maggie. Did you like this thing I made? Then you might like some other things I make, like my webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or my writing over at Medium. If you want to support all the work I do, you can donate directly at my PayPal or follow and donate at my Patreon, where for a dollar a month (the basic tier), you get posts early, along with behind the scenes content! Anything you give goes to survival and is greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading!


This Won’t Hurt A Bit: The Life Penalty

this won't hurt a bit(2)I think I’ll start this column off by sharing a quote from a piece I read in the latest American Thief zine:

As if we didn’t already have a problem with prisons to begin with, but now with death essentially being eradicated, this makes The Death Penalty a laughable defense. Nobody is scared of it anymore. So do we just keep these people behind bars, forever incarcerated, spending billions of taxpayer dollars on people we can’t kill anymore? That seems to be where we’re headed, and that’s…disconcerting to say the least. Life used to have a single solution for everything, and that solution was death, and without death…what do we really have?

So, with that being said, let’s discuss what the people in charge think the solution should be. Now, I’ve heard a number of ideas thrown around just in the hospital staff break room I work at, but one woman said something that stuck out from the rest. She said, “they should just institute the life penalty.” We already have life sentences, for people who’ve done horrible things to spend the remainder of their lives in prison, so what exactly is the “life penalty”? The way she described it was fascinating to me, and I’ll try very hard to phrase it as accurately here as possible:

“They should just institute The Life Penalty. Instead of killing them or incarcerating them forever, they should let them out under eternal supervised parole, make them get married, have a family and take an underpaying 9 to 5 job, so they can see how miserable life is.”

Yeah. I mean, I was a bit offended, because I frankly don’t find that life all that terrible, but it got me thinking, we’re really for giving hardened criminals a life but we won’t help our homeless? We won’t give health care to our own sick citizens? We won’t even pay for kids to have better equipment to learn on in schools? The prisoners in American live better than the free citizens. Well, okay, I’m in a good mood, let’s humor this prospect. So, what do we do to those criminals who are too dangerous to be let out? Do they get to come out and get the life penalty as well? That doesn’t seem very fair.

Listen, I personally am against the death penalty. I think it’s a ridiculous double standard, the whole “We’ll teach you that killing people is wrong by killing you!” sort of mentality, but this isn’t much better honestly. I recognize, like many other people in this country right now, that we need some sort of law or prison reform of some kind, but I’m in no way even remotely qualified to begin to comprehend what that could entail or become. However, I will relay an incident that happened this last week to me at the hospital.

It was when we were changing shifts for The Sick Zone, and I was on duty. I was standing with another nurse there by the name of Mindy, and we were just shooting the breeze while she waited to get off work and go to dinner. We were talking about one thing or another when we heard someone yelling from down the hall, and another nurse came out to tell us that they had a killer they’d brought in from the prison because he’d been stabbed, and now needed medical attention, so they were going to take him up past The Sick Zone to the upper area of the hospitals. This guy apparently killed his family, and felt no remorse for it, and then went after his neighbors. As they wheeled this maniac past, up to the area where peoples lives are saved, it hit me that the reason he was being saved from The Sick Zone was because prisons take care of their prisoners with health concerns. A legitimate serial killer was getting better healthcare than a law abiding citizen. Someone who’d killed multiple people was going to have his health taken care of by the state, and a single dad with 4 young kids was going to die because he’d lost his job from being too sick and couldn’t afford any treatment.

The Life Penalty? Please. Now that death has all but been eradicated, the only people truly subjected to the death penalty are our own citizens whose country won’t take care of them. This whole damn country is sick, and I may be a nurse, but I’m only one woman. I can’t fix that.

“This Won’t Hurt A Bit: Memoirs From A Post Medical World” is a satire health column created & written by Maggie Taylor that comes out every other Monday. If you like this, you might like some of her other work, like her webcomic “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” and her writing over at Medium. You could also donate to her via PayPal. Thanks for reading!


Gracie Walks Down The Hall

technologiesGracie was standing in the kitchen, just staring at the coffee machine.

It was just finishing up her drink, while the rain dripped off the gutters over the kitchen windows. Gracie glanced out, picking at her nail polish, and felt like her head was swimming in a fog, like she was having trouble remembering even the most basic things. But, that aside, it was a comfortable day. A cozy day inside while it poured outside. It seemed like it was always raining these days, and then Gracie realized she couldn’t remember the last time she left the house. Not that that was particularly a problem, as she loved the house and would rather be here than anywhere else in the whole world.

The coffee machine stopped and she picked up her mug, taking a nice, long sip. As she finished, she didn’t feel any different…any warmer. She still just felt empty, like always. She’d read somewhere that this was just another symptom of depression, that not only do your interests go away but your appetite becomes less and less, and you stop feeling anything at all. Gracie certainly had been treated for depression in the past, but she wasn’t even feeling bad these days. Actually, she wasn’t feeling much of anything at all. Still, she had her house. When her husband had died, the house had become hers, and she had been fighting tooth and nail to keep it, taking any odd job just to make ends meet, along with her 9 to 5 job of graphic design, which she’d grown to hate over time, probably thanks to said depression.

Gracie walked down the hallway, looking at the photos on the walls; trips she and Jake had taken, or family get togethers for the holidays, or the shots they’d each put up of their college graduation, and finally the one of their wedding. Gracie held her mug in one hand as she reached out and touched the photo, smiling warmly. It had been a stunning service, and they’d both been so enthralled with one another despite having been together 4 years prior to the wedding day. She’d been feeling little pangs of pain in her heart since his death, but the last few days she, much like drinking her coffee, didn’t feel a damn thing this time. This house was all she had now from him. It meant the world to her, and seeing as her family moved around so often she never felt like she’d had a home to call her own, until now. This was her home, and she adored it. She would never leave it.

As Gracie entered her bedroom, she stopped in her tracks in the doorway, dropped her coffee mug to the floor, letting it shatter into a million pieces. Right. That’s right. She had to go through this every single day, that’s why she hadn’t been feeling anything for the last week. Gracie sat on the end of the bed and sighed, looking at the floor before looking over her shoulder at her body resting against the headboard, blood splattered on the wall behind the bed, gun in her right hand. Every single day it was something she had to remember. Gracie wiped the tears from her eyes, though they weren’t coming as strong as they had been the first few days.

She’d lost her husband, and then she’d lost herself. But she hadn’t lost her house.

She’d never lose her house.

Hey, I’m Maggie. If you liked this thing I made, you might like some other things I make, like my webcomic, “In Space, No One Can Hear You Cry” or my writing over at Medium. If you feel so inclined to help keep me and my girlfriend from being homeless, you can also donate to our PayPal and literally help us pay rent and buy groceries. Anything is greatly appreciated, and thanks for reading!