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I recently became aware of an outfit called DisabilityHelpInc that I thought would be able to help me, a person of moderate tolerance and low perseverance navigate the wretchedly byzantine disability system we have. (Maybe it's not, but it scares and bewilders me.) I called them recently and had ... well, maybe you oughta read the letter I wrote a supervisor. So far as I know, I'll never get to send it; I'll have to talk to them on the phone, but this helped me get my thoughts in order. It will also serve to remind me of what happened.
DisabilityHelpInc supervisor:
My name is John, and I suffered a Traumatic Brain Injury in 1984. Since then I have been struggling quite a bit with many things, one of them being the byzantine disability system. When I found out about your organization, I breathed a sigh of relief because I thought you may be able to get me some of the assistance I've needed.
For a week or two I have been playing phone tag with Patty in your call center. I was finally able to get ahold of her this afternoon around 4pm CST -- but I really wish I hadn't. Patty provided appallingly bad customer service, and I really feel that I was discriminated against.
Throughout the entire process, Patty's voice was flat and disinterested. When I explained my problem to her, she asked me "How long ago did you see a doctor about this?" A fair question, but one I didn't recall the answer to: the last time I'd seen a professional about this particular problem was a year or two ago when I had insurance to help me pay for it. I told Patty that I didn't remember, and she said something on the order of "Well, we need to know this, because it gets better. It goes away."
My mouth fell open. Brain injury does NOT go away. I have MRI films that prove there is permanent structural damage to my brain. Even now, 23 years later, it is still difficult for me to marshal my thoughts, I have problems with memory, depression, motivation, and so on. I was outraged at the sheer level of ignorance that Patty displayed, but I did my best to laugh and shrug it off.
Next she wanted to know my level of income. Again, fair enough, but I was not prepared for the question. "I don't know," I stated. "Well, how are you meeting your expenses?" came her reply. I sketched an outline of how I'm meeting bills, and she said something like "We need to know exactly."
"Fine," I said. "Email me all the questions you need answers to, and I'll try and get them for you."
"We don't do email. If you want to proceed, we have to do it over the phone," she replied. "Do you want to proceed?"
"Yes, I guess," I said after a while. "What is all the information you need?" I was going to write it down myself.
"We need income ..." she continued in the same aggravating flat tone of voice.
"Income, I know," I interrupted. "What other information do you need?"
And she hung up on me. She hung up on me.
Shortly thereafter I called back and spoke with Angela, who I asked to connect me with a supervisor. Angela seemed a good deal more pleasant than Patty did. She told me that the supervisor was out for the day, and would I like their voicemail? Sure, I said, and was connected with what sounded like a general mailbox.
I am appalled and outraged at the atrocious customer service and sheer ignorance displayed by Patty. As I said above, I feel that I've been discriminated against -- I should not have to educate Patty on the severity and repercussions of traumatic brain injury.
Thanks for your attention to this matter.
John
Tunes: Heather Nova - Make You Mine |
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Far be it from me to complain much about anything. I've tried to cut that out of my life; I've been moderately successful and the the quality of said life has gone up quite a bit as a result. As Something To Do Before You Die, I would recommend it to anyone, really.
So please don't take this as me complaining. Regardless of the label attached to it, though, my work is boring to a degree that is ... well, mystifying. Stultifying, even.
Don't get me wrong -- I like the few people I work with; I love love love the low stress nature of it, I like being able to set my own hours. And most of all, especially given the current US economy, I love being paid to do something useful. To someone.
The man I work for is a doctor. He is fairly rolling in dough; I'll spare you the list of evidence though. Trust me. He is. I'm helping him to get more money. It's money that is doe him, to be sure, that's buried in mega-reams of charts.
But it's boring. Deadly boring. And I don't do boring well. I'm not suited for it. I need challenge and stimulation. I need to keep my brain active, and endlessly searching for needles in haystacks is causing many of my remaining brain cells to leap screaming from my ears.
This is part of the reason I've not been writing. Yes, writing is a challenge, writing is enjoyable for me, but between work and taking care of my 8 year old daughter Ariann, well ... it's difficult for me to switch gears. And I have the neuropsychological testing report that says yes, because of my TBI it is difficult for me to switch gears.
So yeah. Last week was full of "up" days, when I've been happy and feeling good. Better than I have in a while, really. Last two days, not so much. The times that I can hold on to a thought seem to come and go with the tides. The shortness of those times seem to be more suited to the microblogging I'm doing on Twitter and now plurk.
(I'm doing fairly well, now. I must be having a lucid moment. Fortified by chocolate, no doubt.)
And that's where I've been the past month or three. Where have you been? What have you been doing?Tunes: The Dandy Warhols - Ohio |
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NB: I am going dark shortly after this. Though I am not using the userpictures or made posts about it, I feel strongly enough about censorship to at least pay lip service to tomorrow's Content Strike.
ed using In response to a recent ask/tell poll, the lovely ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) ladytairngire asks:
A) Do you subscribe to the idea that illness and injuries are more than just accidental, that they are often symbolic and/or are messages from the Universe [or fill in your favorite term here]?
B) If not, pretend for a moment that you do. What meaning do you take from the accident you had that has so effected [sic] your life?
In a recent post, I allusded to the fact that I thought I survived my Traumatic Brain Injury for a reason. To this day, though, I can't fathom what that reason might have been. Indeed, I am starting to lose hope for ever finding such a reason.
"But you're father to a wonderful girl," some might say. "Isn't that enough?"
"No," I would reply. "It's not enough." I want to leave my mark on this world; I want to be known for my accomplishments. Ariann's life is hers; like an arrow shot from a bow, I have precious little control over her aside from the initial thrust and direction. She is her own person, and it is not my place to ride her coattails.
I can safely say that rhianwyn and I have done well with her, far better than was done with either of us.
But Ariann is not the subject of this post. My TBI is, and how the Universe might have been communicating with me through it.
If indeed that is what happened, then I would say in response "Couldn't you have found a better way to send me a message?" For though I am high-functioning, there are things that continue to this day that clearly delineate my disability: Constant tinnitus (ringing in the ears). Near constant headaches. Inability to hold a job. Lack of motivation and ambition. Cognitive fatigue that can strike at any moment -- as if my brain would throw up its hands (if it had hands) and say "Nope! I'm done! Too much input. Shutting down now."
Oh, and something else about my injury: It's invisible. You wouldn't know about it if I didnb't tell you, and for the majority of the 23 years since my accident, I've discounted it, downplayed the impact it has had on my life, and generally tried to get along as a "normal" person in a "normal world."
I've tried and generally failed, now that I look back on it.
So what was the Universe trying to say to me, and why did it use the cosmic equivalent of a 155mm howitzer to get the message across?
I still have no idea what it was trying to say, or why. I may wonder all the way to my grave, but nonetheless I believe that there was a reason. Even if I don't know what that reason was.
Does that answer the question?Tunes: Behold and See (from Handel's Messiah) - Jon Schmidt |
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Who of my readers knows about brains and heads and headaches?
Right now I am having the most wretched 'icepick headaches' -- every 5-30 seconds I get a sharp stabbing pain in my head.
Over and over again.
In the same place.
Every time.
It sucks.
A lot.
Add to that some all-over soreness, more cognitive and manual dysfunction than usual, general irritability and wanting to break things, and certain sounds getting on my nerves more easily than they usually do ... it's not a good scene. Plus which, with every passing second I grow a little more tense and nervous, waiting for the next shoe to drop.
This is not the first time I've had these. But it's been a while. The worst I've ever had them was several years ago, when I had this same sort of thing happen for four days straight. It was a different part of my head that time.
I don't have any pills that help -- no pain reliever that I've tried helps, though I suppose a sedative would knock me out so I didn't care any more. But I don't have any of those anyway; the point is moot. I've heard that coffee helps, in that the caffeine acts as a vasoconstrictor limiting the supply of blood to the brain. I've also heard that alcohol helps in that it's a vasodilator, allowing more blood to the brain ... but I can never remember which helps more. And it seems kind of pointless to do both at the same time.
If any of my readers know anything about heads, headaches, brains or the treatment thereof, I'd love to hear.
Sometimes it's not easy being green.Tunes: Deftones - If Only Tonight We Could Sleep |
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I just got back from my first Traumatic Brain Injury Survivor's Group Meeting. I went last December, but it was a social and not a meeting per se.
There were snacks and enough people to break up into two groups. All I gotta say about the meeting is this:
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed are kings.
It's both heartening and disheartening, at the same damn time.
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As you might imagine, I'm a member of several brain injury email lists. Through one of these lists, an article just crossed my desk, about how Brain Injuries are a Factor in some Social Ills.
After reading the article and watching the attached video, it seems I'm actually doing really well with my TBI, comparatively speaking. But I can't help but thinking that I could do so much better.
I went so far as to call the Mt Sinai Medical Center to get more information about the program mentioned in the article. I got the addresses and phone numbers of the two PhDs mentioned in the article, as the program's name wasn't specifically mentioned.
I'm scared of taking this step, but maybe that's part of what makes me who I am -- I reach for impossible things. One of these days I just might get something I reach for.
In other news, part of my backyard fence just fell down. *headdesk* Mondays!Tunes: Tama - Ta'aba (The Leaving) |
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The topic of LJ Idol this round is "Sexual Ethics."
And I am having a bitch of a time with it.
Sometimes my brain feels like it moves slower than other peoples' -- a claim that is substantiated by the neuropsychological testing I did a year ago. Right now feels like one of those times.
I have resorted to taking notes while I read other peoples' entries, as a way of doing research. As A way of helping me find a topic to write about.
I just don't want to hurt anyone I care for. That's part of the struggle.
So ... eep.
*staring at screen*
eep!Tunes: Loreena McKennitt - Tango To Evora |
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I like to have some idea of what's going on in the world around me. I'll confess, though -- I'm not particularly interested in "Current Events" per se. The news depresses me for two main reasons -- a) it's all OMGfireDeathEarthquakeScandalTornadoZOMG and b) it's too sensationalist for my tastes.
I know who the President is. I know he's an idiot. I know he struggles to continue the war his father started, at the same time doing at-least-moderately-good-things like sign a bill that makes November "National Caregiver's Month." I know about the theoretical three branches of government; I know where Darfur is and what's going on there; I know generally how America's space program is faring. (Just so you know: It's not.)
The other day a dear friend pointed out a news story to me. Apparently, new advances have been made in the treatment of minimally conscious patients, which are a class of people typically overlooked by the medical community. That is, by the way, a bullet I would have hit me, were it not for the grace of $DEITY. As one might guess, the term "minimally conscious" is a euphemism for "barely above a vegetative state". Therefore, many doctors seem to think "What more can be done for them?" But that apathy doesn't change the fact that these people are beloved fathers and sons.
Injuries sustained don't make love go away.
If you have a spare 15 minutes, go to the site for the news program "60 Minutes" and view the video for the story entitled "Awakenings." (My parents and I used to watch this show all the time when I was younger.)
Maybe it won't affect you as deeply as it did me. Maybe you have no idea how easy it is to get a serious brain injury, to have ten years of your life swept away like so many eraser rubbings. Maybe you don't know how easy it is for you, or someone you love to slip in a puddle of water while getting out of the shower. Maybe you think you're careful all the time, and "that sort of thing doesn't happen to me anyway."
And maybe you're right. But this sort of thing can happen, and does happen. Life is fragile; people get these all the time: by falling off a motorcycle, when a horse bucks unexpectedly, when you're fighting a fire and the roof collapses in the burning building, from being tackled just the wrong way, from being broadsided by some drunk immigrant with no green card, no insurance, and no remorse. It happened to me in the most pedestrian of manners -- as I was walking across the street.
And yes, I was careful while crossing that street. Not careful enough, though.
If you're lucky, you break your arm or your leg or your hip. If you're not, you fly thirty feet and land on your head. If you hit your head and you're lucky, you end up like me after weeks of coma and Intensive Care Unit, months of hospital rehab and years of reintegration. If you're not, you end up like one of those poor souls in the video.
If you're unlucky, you just might end up in a minimally conscious state, trapped inside your body with no way to make it work. But then your mother or your wife or your life partner gives you Ambien to help your sleep, to ease your pain --
-- and all of a sudden you're somewhat conscious again. You're aware of the lost time and you manage to rasp "How long have I been gone?"
Brain injuries are not like they are in the movies. A person in a coma doesn't just snap out of it and suddenly everything is alright again. On the other hand, sometimes happy accidents happen, like when the patient gets a sleeping pill and is inexplicably a communicating being again.
And that, my friends, is my "Current Event" -- something nearer and dearer to my heart than errant starlets, flaming skyscrapers and misbehaving Congressional pages. I hardly turn a blind eye to those things but I have a hard enough time recovering in my own life. If what I've said will make one of you be just a little more careful at just the right moment -- if you're lucky like me, you'll dodge that bullet. If I help just one person avoid the trauma and pain that I've gone through, then I can rest easy.Tunes: Jean Michel Jarre - Téo & Téa 4:00 AM |
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Last night I had a really good conversation in my Traumatic Brain Injury chat room. A woman showed up, wanting to get help for her 25 year old son, who suffered a TBI nine years ago. Since then he's been in jail several times, all for stupid petty things.
This kid sounds a lot like I was -- gifted pre-TBI, still gifted afterward, doesn't want to be "retarded", interested in many of the same things I am, very high-functioning, and so on.
I could have easily gone down the road that he's going down with my injury. But I didn't. Now she wants me to help her son. There's only so much I can do, though; there's only so much she can do, since he's his own person and making his own way.
Now, I know these few lines can't convey the entire depth and breadth of the conversation we had. Trust me, though, it got very deep, very quickly. Eventually I put it to her: "if it came down to letting him destroy his life OR seeing the relationship between the two of you destroyed ... which would you choose?"
That is surely the road she's headed down -- if she bails him out of jail yet again, he will just do something stupid again, and the cycle will repeat. What she needs to do is help give him the tools he can use to get himself to a better place. This I never really had; I had help in recovering from my TBI, but I did the majority of the work on my own. I didn't have any resources or support groups to lean on.
*I* did it. Noone else. Me.
Later that evening, I was talking to rhianwyn about this. She suggested that I become an advocate for TBI folks like me -- do public speaking, tell people about my injury, show them that recovery is possible. Maybe even talk to people bout being careful with their heads -- people in motorcycle classes, for instance.
I have no idea how I'd start that, but it sure sounds interesting and rewarding.
Comments and thoughts are welcomed, as always.Tunes: Black Kites - Lucretia My Reflection (Sisters of Mercy) |
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If you've been wondering what I've been doing -- I've been participating in brain injury chats, feeling not quite so alone, reading about what happened to me, and generally feeling better. I'm happy to provide a list of these resources I'm involved in, if anyone wants.
Two nights ago I went to the Austin Poetry Slam in its new venue, where I felt like a total alien and came home quickly -- after discovering I locked the keys in the Jeep. That was fun climbing through the back and retrieving them. I'm just glad I had the presence of mind to remember I could do that!
Anyway, I did some interesting & good writing at the slam -- if a bit depressed -- and I'll see if I can turn that into a real entry soon.
Oh, and the day is off to a great start -- I've been up two hours and already had two crying jags. Slept like crap last night. rhianwyn's Restless Leg Syndrome kept me up longer than I wanted, her alarm woke me up (which usually doesn't happen), phone kept ringing, etc. Plus which I kept waking myself up out of dreams for some reason. So -- if things don't get any better after I do what I gotta, then I might take a nap.Tunes: Zero 7 - In The Waiting Line |
| » LJ Idol 04.01 "a memory of childhood" |
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The challenge this week is to come up with something that I can call "my favorite childhood memory." Well, due to my particular circumstances, I might have a bit of a problem with that. But let's see what happens.
of childhood
childhood memories:
each floating dim behind the wall
that is my accident.
Too tenuous to break through
on their own, all I can do
is stand on that wall and gaze at the milling shades.
childhood memories,
defining moments all
getting joyously sick on candy,
eternal days spent on the beach,
the first full lips I kissed.
And more whisper:
marking her name on favorite toys
cigar scented walks with father
stomping on cracks for mother
a friend with flaming hair
diesel scents as I tread hills to school.
They all seem so far,
as if belonging to someone else
I struggle to place myself in them,
I yearn to set them in time,
I try to own them, but as I grasp
they gently
fade away.
071106.0108
Nov. 6th, 2007 @ 01:10 am
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| » my brain again |
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Point of fact: According to the MRIs I had done recently, there's a not-insigficant chunk missing out of the left frontal lobe of my brain.
For what feels like the first time, I'm wondering just why this is. The incisions I have are on the right side of my head, where a plate of bone was taken out & later replaced, and one at the left rear. I'm not sure what the latter incision was for.
After being hit by the car, I flew some distance and landed on my head. The chunk that's missing -- was that impact damage? There are bright white lines of scar tissue in back of the missing chunk. What's that about? And the chunk that's missing -- is it actually missing, or just dead?
In other words, is part of my brain dead? As if it was stillborn and can't get out? If so, that may explain why much of the time I feel so dead inside.
It's been about 23 years since my accident. For most of that time I tried being normal. I tried to fit in. I think I am coming to the realization that I am not "normal," in the sense of physiology and structure. I'm also not normal in the sense of psyche and predilections, but that's not the subject of this post. I am, after all, perfectly okay with that.
Maybe it's time to stop trying to claw my way to the bottom of "normal" and just be at the top of the "disabled" heap. Heretofore I've been loath to ascribe "disabled" to myself. I thought I was too high-functioning for that. By so doing, I've put myself in a wierd no-man's-land beween the two sides of the coin. I'm on the edge.
Part of me thinks that such classifications are unnecessary, that I should just be me and be done with it. That I shouldn't worry about artificial labels. I certainly realize the wisdom in not worrying about it and just getting on with it. But part of the "me" that is needs to classify things in order to understand them.
I think that so far I've done a pretty poor job of classifying and understanding myself, despite how hard I've tried to do so.
Oct. 30th, 2007 @ 08:15 pm
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| » my brain |
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Seen on PostSecret today:
http://bp3.blogger.com/_a7jkcMVp5Vg/RyPmyELqgfI/AAAAAAAACOk/Db9uSvyXfNI/s1600-h/punch.jpg
so yeah. that's pretty much how I feel. A lot of the time.
edit: changed the picture. I tried to pull it off PostSecret and host it myself, but that didn't work. So we'll see if this does.
edit 2: Hell, just click on the link. Gah.
Oct. 29th, 2007 @ 06:22 pm
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| » my brain, this world |
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I'm applying for another graphic design job, and something in the description sparks a thought: It suddenly occurs to me that one of the things last year's neuropsych testing revealed to me was that my brain needs a little more time to process and assimilate things. I need more time than the average bear. When I'm able to take my time, I can knock things out with the best of them, but when asked to perform "on the spot" then I don't do so well.
It further occurs to me that this is not a trait well-suited for performance in this hurried world we live in. In this environment, the best things and opportunities go to those who can grab them first, who can really think on their feet, hit the ground running, and all that.
What am I to do? I have to struggle quite a bit to get on in this world, and I'm too high-functioning to be called "disabled."
I guess I need to work harder to make myh offerings stronger. Just thinking out loud here.
Oct. 2nd, 2007 @ 07:09 pm
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| » Sacks again. |
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This is perhaps the last of the Sacks posts. Third in a row, that and music; maybe I'm starting something? perhaps. Few subjects can hold my interest like those of brain injury and music.
I finally got a take a peek at Oliver Sacks' iPod playlist. Of course, he doesn't have an iPod -- "I'm too low-tech," he claims. On that playlist, all ten songs are classical music. He is profoundly affected by it, he says, it's what he grew up on. But whereas he says he was never really exposed to the popular music of his day, I was; so his tastes run almost completely to the classical, whereas I merely have a soft spot for it.
A profound soft spot, I might point out. Classical music still affects me like no other. True, there are many more modern pieces that can drive me to tears. But classical music is my first love, and she will never leave me, even if everyone else does.
I find it at least mildly interesting to note that I have many of the songs that Sacks lists. I am listening to one of them now. Many of my copies of the songs he mentions are not the exact ones he mentions; mine are by different performers. But still.
This feels like the end-of-the-road for this avenue of exploration. Somehow it feels more or less resolved in me. I don't really know what else to say, other than I still want to be studied, especially by someone so luminary as Sacks. And I will continue Seeking. Even through my struggles and travails, I will continue seeking my own truth, my own happiness, my own solace. It's just too bad that I have such a battle with depression, huh?
I wonder what life would be like without depression, without head injury. I'd be a very different person, I say truthfully, and with a wistful smile.
Sep. 29th, 2007 @ 02:21 am
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| » explicating the Anam |
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The title of the article is "The Abyss," and in this one word pretty much sums up how I live so much of the time. So much of the time I feel as if I am poised on the edge of an abyss, precariously balanced on the edge of what might be called "normal." I am too normal and high-functioning to be called impaired, and from the other direction I am too impaired and even "broken" to be called normal.
Yes, this is the article I referenced in my earlier post. I finally finished it today, and in many ways it underscores how I feel about the world and my continuing isolation in it. I did not have the best of childhoods; I was alone, apart, outcast then. That is over and done with, I know in my head if not my hert. Then my accident happened; I was forever transformed at the age of 15. Even though many of my memories prior to the accident were obliterated, my ability to form new memories was not.
Around pages 5-6 of the article I referenced, though, Sacks talks about how in some patients procedural memories are retained -- for instance, I still know how to make coffee -- but semantic memories of those same events are destroyed; in other words, I cannot tell you how I make the coffee, or how it is done. I can only do it myself, automatically and procedurally, as if i was following a recipe in my head. I cannot read that recipe to anyone, though.
Extending this to my own particular situation, I still retain the structures of self-loathing; things normally acquired in adolescence. Only instead of later discarding them, as is also normal for teenagers, my accident happened, thus locking the procedures of self-hatred in my head. In other words, I still do it, but I cannot tell you how I do it or why I do it. I can only do it; I can only follow the script in my head.
Is this behavior, this script anything I have control over? I don't really know. I have been aware of this behaviour for some time, and it is not something I want to do. It is not a path I care to tread any more. And believe me, I have tried to leave; I have tried to stop. Nothing I have done heretofore has worked, however. I keep returning to the same pattern, the same behaviour because it is stuck in my head.
I find an odd desire forming in my head, one that I cannot recall forming before. I want to be studied; I want to be looked at and explained. I tire of my own conjecture and theory, every now and then happening across seemingly relevant articles like this one, and clinging to them as if they were ropes from heaven. Because sooner or later, they all slip away, and I stare into the Abyss again. I am not sure I have any control over this. I would like to. Bu I want to be explained; I want to be explicated.
Sep. 25th, 2007 @ 06:51 pm
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| » status report |
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Still on Trileptal. Full dosage now, 600mg/day. 300 in the morning, 300 in the evening.
It feels like a mild version of Prozac. There's sort of a base-line moderate depression, with a lot of bad-brain moments thrown in for good measure.
I don't think this is the way it's supposed to work.
It's an effort to just write this, and not go lose myself in a videogame. I smile, I have fun, I laugh sometimes. But always soon afterwards ... slam to the ground again.
I'm not sure I understand myself any more. I'm not sure I like that.
Apr. 11th, 2007 @ 09:55 pm
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| » drugs |
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It's my day off! woo! Doctor's appointments! woo!
I saw the neurologist again today. He's putting me on Trileptal (oxcarbazepine), which is an anticonvulsant (anti-seizure) medication that also has mood stabilizing effects.
Anyone know anything about Trileptal? The only thing I've heard about it has been bad, but that's not a large sample, and the person I hard that from also has a host of other things wrong with them.
I've screened replies in case someone doesn't want anyone else knowing that they had that sort of problem. I can keep a secret, however.
edit: really screened now.
Mar. 20th, 2007 @ 02:11 pm
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| » on Story |
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Story is just behind my eyes, but I cannot get it out. There are characters lurking somewhere in me -- I can feel them. But I do not know their names.
Not knowing their names, I cannot call them.
Not calling them, I cannot know them.
Not knowing them, I cannot believe in them.
If I do not believe in them, I cannot tell their stories.
It comes and goes, the feeling of Story. But when it is present -- it feels right.
I wonder if my traumatic brain injury has left me only with a remnant upon which to attempt a castle of sand.
Mar. 18th, 2007 @ 05:11 pm
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| » eeg again |
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Well, that ordeal is over.
For the last 24 hours or so I've had a new best friend -- an ambulatory EEG machine. I've spent my day off with electrodes attached to my head, hoping for a seizure or other "event" to happen. I had to do this because the last short office EEG didn't find anything.
Nothing really unusual happened, alas. But I did have a twinge or two, I managed to fall into the "art zone" once -- I forget the name for that -- and I did meditate. So.
Now my hair reeks of the glue they put in -- it's really bad -- and I'm going to jump in the shower before I go to the dentist. I don't want him saying "son, you have got to find a new hair gel! Or stop growing the dreads."
Jan. 11th, 2007 @ 02:35 pm
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