Onset: yesterday night, no particular incident that set it off that i know of, though i was sitting on that hand.
Left hand ring finger main knuckle, dull ache, mostly on movement (flex down/up), no tension needed to hurt on flex. Kind of hurts like a bruise. Plus tightness along length of proximal bone on flex. Source of pain from middle of knuckle, no particular visible swelling or redness, but feels slightly, but distinctively warmer.
Showing posts with label self. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self. Show all posts
01 April 2015
24 August 2014
Sometimes I get into weird headspaces and decide that because all of my friends are being healthy and exercising and I'm not, eating is undesirable and might as well not eat, since it's more convenient not to.
I know it's weird and not healthy, but I can't snap out of it.
And I'm also resentful that because everyone lives half an hour away, joining them is not really worth it, especially when everyone is close to home and have options to just go home or want to go home when it's not really the case for me. And I get shit from Father for sleeping over. I hate being left out or left behind, but sometimes I'm just tired of running out every weekend for this or that and spontaneous stuff that's local for them and not for me is just so fucking out of the way. But I still hate being left out. I hate myself. I hate what I am. This is the time when I'm eighty percent sure I'm better off not existing or just alone. I don't deserve other people when I'm just a piece of shit in general. I'm ugly and scum.
04 May 2013
Caffeine, Food, Sleep, and the Bad Place
Too much, not enough, even less, and getting there.
Caffeine tolerance level plummeted since college, now manifests as nervous nausea and unsettled mindset. Possibly learned to associate with due-dates. Exacerbated if coupled with insufficient food intake throughout the day. Need to get out of here.
Calories today involved 2 slices of sprouted wheat bread with salmon cream cheese spread, 4 creamers, two shots of Keurig coffee (10oz total, Gloria, Hazelnut), and about 20 blackberries. Not enough by far, but though of eating makes me guilty and smell of ginger is making me sick. Conflict stopping attempts to eat.
5-6 hours of sleep. Three hours of driving, with about 45 minutes of traffic. Trapped trapped trapped.
Equally spacey and twitchy. Tired, can't sleep on bed (too comfortable, don't deserve it), folding in on the floor is nauseous (fat.).
Feeling like I need to sob.
This is what I have always been afraid of after that time.
Caffeine tolerance level plummeted since college, now manifests as nervous nausea and unsettled mindset. Possibly learned to associate with due-dates. Exacerbated if coupled with insufficient food intake throughout the day. Need to get out of here.
Calories today involved 2 slices of sprouted wheat bread with salmon cream cheese spread, 4 creamers, two shots of Keurig coffee (10oz total, Gloria, Hazelnut), and about 20 blackberries. Not enough by far, but though of eating makes me guilty and smell of ginger is making me sick. Conflict stopping attempts to eat.
5-6 hours of sleep. Three hours of driving, with about 45 minutes of traffic. Trapped trapped trapped.
Equally spacey and twitchy. Tired, can't sleep on bed (too comfortable, don't deserve it), folding in on the floor is nauseous (fat.).
Feeling like I need to sob.
This is what I have always been afraid of after that time.
06 September 2011
Marketable skills
I has none.
Rather, all my potential marketable skills are all very unremarkable and noncompetitive. If you consider the combination of skills, however, I may be slightly more unique—slightly. Who would want someone with a skill set like this anyway?
In other news, I walked past $10 on the ground and failed to pick it up. A second later a kid noticed it and it was gone. One can say that maybe it's not meant to be mine, but I actually really could use that money. I'm about $200 in my accounts and 20k in debt, with no job.
I'm poor, guys; don't bother robbing me.
Rather, all my potential marketable skills are all very unremarkable and noncompetitive. If you consider the combination of skills, however, I may be slightly more unique—slightly. Who would want someone with a skill set like this anyway?
In other news, I walked past $10 on the ground and failed to pick it up. A second later a kid noticed it and it was gone. One can say that maybe it's not meant to be mine, but I actually really could use that money. I'm about $200 in my accounts and 20k in debt, with no job.
I'm poor, guys; don't bother robbing me.
17 August 2011
Hands, ears, and about caring.
1. My hands got way better until a couple of days ago, when I tried to reduce my medicine intake and father cooked food that had peanuts in it. Don't know if that was the problem, since he tends to blame things like me going out making it worse anyway. But it's only as if the bubbles and redness and swelling is coming back a little and doesn't look like it's about to explode.
10. I started hearing a constant static in my left ear. It's not affected by head position, swallowing, or noise level. Voices do not sound distorted either. I hope it's just a eardrum puncture and not an infection. Father is saying this is because I sit all day. That's what he said for my hiccups yesterday too.
11. At this point, I am very tired of just hearing about what I did wrong, what I am doing wrong, and what I'm lacking. I've been trying to tell myself that's how he cares, but frankly, all these negative messages are only pushing me towards a depressive state. As much as I hate to think that way, maybe he really is just being abusive, like T believes. I get that F may be frustrated by my languor and my lack of progress, but it feels like I am in the wrong no matter what I do. I get told off for eating strange foods when I go out, and I told off for not doing anything, not wanting to do anything, when I stay in. Nothing I do is right.
I am tired of the cocksure attitude he possess on health issues. I'm especially tired of the way he think he knows better than eastern and western doctors alike (but especially of western doctors). I'm tired of hearing about what's wrong with his brothers and sisters and their family like we are superior. I am sick of him saying that I've switched my area of study too many times. More so because I am especially regretting not doing like he thinks I did.
I hate him for pointing out my apathy and idleness, not because it's true, but because it is said without caring about how I am faring about it, only caring that something is done on the issue. I hate that he doesn't seem to care about what obstacles I could been meeting, only that I must clear them out of my way. It's easy to say that he does not care about further schooling, but he does not hear the disappointment and failure and hope in his voice.
Sometimes, I think I can hear his inner hope and aspirations of me better than he can. But the problem is, I can't hear his caring side.
I really want to.
I really tried to.
But all I ended up with is self-hatred.
The static in my ear is gone.
10. I started hearing a constant static in my left ear. It's not affected by head position, swallowing, or noise level. Voices do not sound distorted either. I hope it's just a eardrum puncture and not an infection. Father is saying this is because I sit all day. That's what he said for my hiccups yesterday too.
11. At this point, I am very tired of just hearing about what I did wrong, what I am doing wrong, and what I'm lacking. I've been trying to tell myself that's how he cares, but frankly, all these negative messages are only pushing me towards a depressive state. As much as I hate to think that way, maybe he really is just being abusive, like T believes. I get that F may be frustrated by my languor and my lack of progress, but it feels like I am in the wrong no matter what I do. I get told off for eating strange foods when I go out, and I told off for not doing anything, not wanting to do anything, when I stay in. Nothing I do is right.
I am tired of the cocksure attitude he possess on health issues. I'm especially tired of the way he think he knows better than eastern and western doctors alike (but especially of western doctors). I'm tired of hearing about what's wrong with his brothers and sisters and their family like we are superior. I am sick of him saying that I've switched my area of study too many times. More so because I am especially regretting not doing like he thinks I did.
I hate him for pointing out my apathy and idleness, not because it's true, but because it is said without caring about how I am faring about it, only caring that something is done on the issue. I hate that he doesn't seem to care about what obstacles I could been meeting, only that I must clear them out of my way. It's easy to say that he does not care about further schooling, but he does not hear the disappointment and failure and hope in his voice.
Sometimes, I think I can hear his inner hope and aspirations of me better than he can. But the problem is, I can't hear his caring side.
I really want to.
I really tried to.
But all I ended up with is self-hatred.
The static in my ear is gone.
04 August 2011
Man oh man, Young Adulthood.
Found my wordpress blog I used to write unkind things on today. Man, was I angry. Actually, it's pretty understandable given the circumstances of a shared room, but now I think it's time to MOVE THESE ENTRIES SOMEWHERE MORE PRIVATE, yo.
Probably here. Under several locks and maybe a couple of ogres guarding the door. How good are ogres as guardians anyway?
EDIT: It turns out that WP allows both private settings and password protected options. I guess these particular not-for-children posts will remain where they are :D
Probably here. Under several locks and maybe a couple of ogres guarding the door. How good are ogres as guardians anyway?
EDIT: It turns out that WP allows both private settings and password protected options. I guess these particular not-for-children posts will remain where they are :D
08 June 2011
There are other ways to not-scratch but scratch. My unconscious mind is resourceful, creative, and willing to exploit any loophole.
A few times, in attempt to relieve my fingers of that constant, stinging pressure, I bend my fingers forcefully where the swell had immobilized my joints, popping the blisters and the capillaries alike in satisfaction, squeezing my hand shut (oh god, when was the last time I was able to to that?) and watch little pin drops of blood blossom underneath the skin where it's too thick to pop, thinking that the little bits of red are nicer to look at than watching blisters blossom above the skin. I squeeze and damage myself as the a little bit of itch leaves with each little bit of liquid.
Do you know what dead skin smells like? I do, and that's because the sour, damp tinged smell lingers on my hand.
I very much believe that my morbid fascination and lack of squeamishness in ruining my own skin is due to early and long-term exposure to my own bloated and liquid-soaked dead skin, white and undeniably dead and uncared for yet stubbornly kept by the body because that's all it has got against the outside world.
You know, about four days after a bout of very bad episode, the skin above hardens as new skin is made underneath the layer of liquid; you can peel the old skin off in big, satisfying flakes. sometimes it's like peeling a croissant, sometimes like peeling dried white glue off your hands, and sometimes it's like peeling a sheet of leather, tough and thick.
The new skin underneath is smooth and shiny and prone to tearing—there are no guarantees on it staying healthy for long before bubbles rise up to, and press against, the thin barricade again.
I suppose the one upside to these explosive onsets have against the slowly manifesting kind is that the skin becomes tough but not brittle, a little more forgiving about movement than the dried and brittle skin that cracks and tears deep since motility is restrained from the inside and not the outside.
Whether the pain or the itch threw me deeper into hopelessness, I do not know.
Do you know what dead skin smells like? I do, and that's because the sour, damp tinged smell lingers on my hand.
I very much believe that my morbid fascination and lack of squeamishness in ruining my own skin is due to early and long-term exposure to my own bloated and liquid-soaked dead skin, white and undeniably dead and uncared for yet stubbornly kept by the body because that's all it has got against the outside world.
You know, about four days after a bout of very bad episode, the skin above hardens as new skin is made underneath the layer of liquid; you can peel the old skin off in big, satisfying flakes. sometimes it's like peeling a croissant, sometimes like peeling dried white glue off your hands, and sometimes it's like peeling a sheet of leather, tough and thick.
The new skin underneath is smooth and shiny and prone to tearing—there are no guarantees on it staying healthy for long before bubbles rise up to, and press against, the thin barricade again.
I suppose the one upside to these explosive onsets have against the slowly manifesting kind is that the skin becomes tough but not brittle, a little more forgiving about movement than the dried and brittle skin that cracks and tears deep since motility is restrained from the inside and not the outside.
Whether the pain or the itch threw me deeper into hopelessness, I do not know.
Scratch until it bleeds.
I have begun to worry and daydream a lot more.
I worry about skin atrophy and scratching and infections and stressing my hand by holding bowls and plates and chopsticks and by getting into bed and also quite possibly from typing this out right now (I have stopped trying to hold pens some time ago). I worry every time I feel minute bumps underneath my skin, knowing by now what blisters feel like long before they are visible.
Don't laugh it off when i say i think my hand is going to rot off or that I will get skin cancer one of these days because they are fears not completely illogical to me.
You wouldn't be able to go though this stoically, either, if you have watched your fingers swell and fill with liquids before your eyes, hundreds of blisters growing beneath the skin, stretching and merging into one giant bloat. It crushes.
Sometimes the tips of your fingers prickle from not getting enough blood, sometimes they turn blue. A few times the pressure of liquids exceed the force the skin is able to push and liquids ooze out in great droplets on their own. You would squeeze or force your fingers to bend so the outer skin pops to relieve the stinging pressure from the inside, not caring about the damage of the perforated skin that is left behind.
Don't scoff and tell me it can't be that bad when I scream that I itch because I always itch (when have YOU experienced constant itching?), and if I tell you it means I will soon be more than happily compelled to scratch all my skin off, literally, for the possibility of alleviating the itching for that instant. Stop me or I will head off that cliff, as I have done many times.
Don't tell me there's nothing such as unbearable itching until you have stayed awake, fearing sleep, to grasp at the controls that keep you from just scratch, scratch, and SCRATCH.
I worry about skin atrophy and scratching and infections and stressing my hand by holding bowls and plates and chopsticks and by getting into bed and also quite possibly from typing this out right now (I have stopped trying to hold pens some time ago). I worry every time I feel minute bumps underneath my skin, knowing by now what blisters feel like long before they are visible.
Don't laugh it off when i say i think my hand is going to rot off or that I will get skin cancer one of these days because they are fears not completely illogical to me.
You wouldn't be able to go though this stoically, either, if you have watched your fingers swell and fill with liquids before your eyes, hundreds of blisters growing beneath the skin, stretching and merging into one giant bloat. It crushes.
Sometimes the tips of your fingers prickle from not getting enough blood, sometimes they turn blue. A few times the pressure of liquids exceed the force the skin is able to push and liquids ooze out in great droplets on their own. You would squeeze or force your fingers to bend so the outer skin pops to relieve the stinging pressure from the inside, not caring about the damage of the perforated skin that is left behind.
Don't scoff and tell me it can't be that bad when I scream that I itch because I always itch (when have YOU experienced constant itching?), and if I tell you it means I will soon be more than happily compelled to scratch all my skin off, literally, for the possibility of alleviating the itching for that instant. Stop me or I will head off that cliff, as I have done many times.
Don't tell me there's nothing such as unbearable itching until you have stayed awake, fearing sleep, to grasp at the controls that keep you from just scratch, scratch, and SCRATCH.
02 June 2011
End of the quarter and everything, except I'm not in school anymore
Woke clawing at my hands again at approximately 08:00, but at least I got five hours of sleep this time.
The heaviness in my head that accumulates with each waking hour is doing a number on me. Almost dozed off at my computer a few times so far, and have been a little prone to leaning back, stare, then have my head droop and eyes closed in a parody of a nap. The chair is comfortable.
The heaviness in my head that accumulates with each waking hour is doing a number on me. Almost dozed off at my computer a few times so far, and have been a little prone to leaning back, stare, then have my head droop and eyes closed in a parody of a nap. The chair is comfortable.
01 June 2011
Never thought I would dread sleeping as I did, fearing the lack of control slumber brings.
Awake since 5:30, with only two hours of sleep.
The coughing, after the last four days of silent hell, is finally doing what it's supposed to do. Doesn't make it any less obnoxious, just much less hurty.
That said, I couldn't fall asleep until at least 03:15 last night due to coughing spasms that wouldn't go away.
Then at 05:00 I woke up finding myself clawing fiercely at my fingers and wrist, unable to stop myself, feeling the hundreds of blisters on my fingers pop and the liquid inside coating my fingers.
Half an hour later I quelled the urge to scratch and laid my hands above my bed covers, idly considering the possibility of getting Elizabethan collars for my hands. My coughing spasms resumed soon after due to my uncovered throat and sternum, at which point I thought since I don't seem to be too tired, screw this. Not going to chance waking up scratching up myself again today.
Tiredness is pressing on my forehead now; maybe I will go take a nap sometime this afternoon.
I'm tired of my disabled hands. I can't do much when they're this swollen from inflammation. I also can't do much studying with this lack of sleep, either.
But I'm almost scared of sleeping and what it not brings.
The coughing, after the last four days of silent hell, is finally doing what it's supposed to do. Doesn't make it any less obnoxious, just much less hurty.
That said, I couldn't fall asleep until at least 03:15 last night due to coughing spasms that wouldn't go away.
Then at 05:00 I woke up finding myself clawing fiercely at my fingers and wrist, unable to stop myself, feeling the hundreds of blisters on my fingers pop and the liquid inside coating my fingers.
Half an hour later I quelled the urge to scratch and laid my hands above my bed covers, idly considering the possibility of getting Elizabethan collars for my hands. My coughing spasms resumed soon after due to my uncovered throat and sternum, at which point I thought since I don't seem to be too tired, screw this. Not going to chance waking up scratching up myself again today.
Tiredness is pressing on my forehead now; maybe I will go take a nap sometime this afternoon.
I'm tired of my disabled hands. I can't do much when they're this swollen from inflammation. I also can't do much studying with this lack of sleep, either.
But I'm almost scared of sleeping and what it not brings.
26 May 2011
The hurt...IT DOESN"T STOOOOP
First it was healthy hurt
Then it was sickly hurt
Now it's the "womenly woes" kind of hurt.
.
.
.
.
.
.
ow.
Then it was sickly hurt
Now it's the "womenly woes" kind of hurt.
.
.
.
.
.
.
ow.
09 May 2011
23 January 2011
There's really no suitable perpetual audience for this sort of stuff.
It's been a while since I felt crappy like this.
Feeling so doubtful and unsure.
Also needy.
And fat.
Maybe I desperately need some kind of acknowledgement, too.
Stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck
In poor living situation.
I hate it so much.
One can only dump this on another so many times before one feels guilty for ruining precious social experiences and fear for being seen as too egocentric.
Feeling so doubtful and unsure.
Also needy.
And fat.
Maybe I desperately need some kind of acknowledgement, too.
Stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck
In poor living situation.
I hate it so much.
One can only dump this on another so many times before one feels guilty for ruining precious social experiences and fear for being seen as too egocentric.
27 September 2010
'Splody hand.
The portion of my right hand under the ring finger has been aching since two days ago. At first I thought it was just from bowling on Friday, but the eczema flared up last night--the finger swelled enough to cut off circulation to the tip of my finger, itched enough that I couldn't sleep, and oozed enough cellular fluid or leukocytes to soak through two tissues.
The swelling and itching didn't go down after applying fluocinonide and startedexploding oozing after I put on hyrdocortisone in desperation, despite knowing that it had only made the eczema worse in the past.
The tingling fingertip scared me, but I had no way to share because it was 2am and I had no internet.
The swelling and itching didn't go down after applying fluocinonide and started
The tingling fingertip scared me, but I had no way to share because it was 2am and I had no internet.
11 July 2010
Phlegmy gloom.
I wish that am relatively decent at something capable of occupying my hands and thoughts during these sluggish and dispassionate spells. At least I won't feel so disengaged the moment my brain gives out on studying, learning, and reading.
Feels like the price of any chance of involvement is a huge quantity of energy and distance covered (and money)...and I've run out of steam. Really really want to keep it up, but I'm so tired of being the one going, even if it is a more ideal location. Don't have the endurance.
I have a hard time believing in the strength of bond that I was told still exists despite the distance and the lack of history. Bullshit, I wanted to scream.
ETA: He really didn't understand. But that's okay. I've conceded to my awkwardly skeptical views on social bonds long ago. That sounds depressing, but I'm not sure if that's better than saying I really just believe in my own unworthiness.
Feels like the price of any chance of involvement is a huge quantity of energy and distance covered (and money)...and I've run out of steam. Really really want to keep it up, but I'm so tired of being the one going, even if it is a more ideal location. Don't have the endurance.
I have a hard time believing in the strength of bond that I was told still exists despite the distance and the lack of history. Bullshit, I wanted to scream.
ETA: He really didn't understand. But that's okay. I've conceded to my awkwardly skeptical views on social bonds long ago. That sounds depressing, but I'm not sure if that's better than saying I really just believe in my own unworthiness.
25 May 2010
It's not about this blog.
I tagged all my posts according to their respective subjects in very thinly-veiled pseudonyms (I was never one for creative naming), added some recent thoughts and investigations of the self, then took everything off public eyes. I have yet to work on my backlog entries. But as soon as the opportunity comes, it shall be written. There is too large a void in that important period of time and it is really time I face my own mess rather than landing in the neurotic level of defence mechanisms at every turn. It's time to move onto some sublimations.
But to the point of this post: I am highly amused that the largest fraction of posts so far is of the Nerdinator. Yeah, you know who.
I foresee that to change as time goes on and perhaps when I finish my backlog, but the blunderings of a sixteen-year-old self really does not cease to amuse.
One more serious matter: in the beginning, I wrote because I could not let my hair down just a little. Now I write because I still can't let my hair down completely to at least one person in this world. I wonder if that person will ever happen.
But to the point of this post: I am highly amused that the largest fraction of posts so far is of the Nerdinator. Yeah, you know who.
I foresee that to change as time goes on and perhaps when I finish my backlog, but the blunderings of a sixteen-year-old self really does not cease to amuse.
One more serious matter: in the beginning, I wrote because I could not let my hair down just a little. Now I write because I still can't let my hair down completely to at least one person in this world. I wonder if that person will ever happen.
21 May 2010
I'm not the only one who can you that I run, run, run, intellectualizing and isolating where I can, suppressing where I cannot.
As if feeling rules were not competently learnt.
Affect display requires sincere affect in the first place.
Internal sources disturb the baseline, seeking attention and expression but only feels like a strong general sense of wrong;
External sources are even more so frightening in its perceptibility. (They are either masked by my egoism, deep beyond my capabilities to accept, or suspected to be not really what's happening.)
(So maybe it's just easier to not deal with the can of worms.)
Isolation is so easy.
As if feeling rules were not competently learnt.
Affect display requires sincere affect in the first place.
Internal sources disturb the baseline, seeking attention and expression but only feels like a strong general sense of wrong;
External sources are even more so frightening in its perceptibility. (They are either masked by my egoism, deep beyond my capabilities to accept, or suspected to be not really what's happening.)
(So maybe it's just easier to not deal with the can of worms.)
Isolation is so easy.
04 February 2010
Hello, Excuse For Distraction
Not that nothing went on in the past year, only that I got lazy and stopped talking about my feelings because there are more people around me now. Also, hello, some form of lack of motivation happened last (school) year. But the brain still fucking refusing to write for school. It's getting worse by the quarter. Perhaps it's time to pick this habitual writing thing up again so five pages won't sound as daunting.
The F applies in multiple meanings and locations.
Found some really embarrassing things I wrote back in 2004-2005 on stray pieces of binder paper, decided to check the blog for old time's sake, and...I think writing a long, long story about myself might be interesting. Just to summarise things from the viewpoint of one nearing her tu-tu's.
On second thought, maybe that's a little too much.
Also will go back to some old entries and comment—some deserve love, retrospectively.
12:17 - After two hours of sleep, I'm back on track in not writing the assignment. After ten years, I'm finally agreeing with Father and admitting that I have problems in articulating my information and ideas for public consumption.
The F applies in multiple meanings and locations.
Found some really embarrassing things I wrote back in 2004-2005 on stray pieces of binder paper, decided to check the blog for old time's sake, and...I think writing a long, long story about myself might be interesting. Just to summarise things from the viewpoint of one nearing her tu-tu's.
On second thought, maybe that's a little too much.
Also will go back to some old entries and comment—some deserve love, retrospectively.
12:17 - After two hours of sleep, I'm back on track in not writing the assignment. After ten years, I'm finally agreeing with Father and admitting that I have problems in articulating my information and ideas for public consumption.
06 January 2010
I am drinking beer alone on a Wednesday school night. This may be an indication that some form of self-reflection on socialisation is needed.
But in any case, I know that my fake single lids only turn double when I border on getting a non-functional amount of sleep (read: <6.5 hours), but I can't help but really like it when they look like they are marginally wider ♥♥
I'm turning into a girl °Д°;;
I'm turning into a girl °Д°;;
04 January 2010
New Year's (non)Resolution.
So it's the new year before I had a chance to write here again. It's been a while since I have been asked about my resolutions, until this year. Maybe that's why my resolutions never work. Or because I really don't have a sense of renewal and fresh start and etcetera sort of thinking to see the new years as an important enough marker. Short term goals based on months seem to work a little better. (hello, quarter system!)
But anyway. I really just want to note down that I heard a very sweet new year's resolution around the new year's hours, and I would like to hear another one next year. (And hope optimism does not come back to bite later). To collaborate, though, I should try to adjust/curb my behaviours and not make the same mistake as before, where I successfully guilted myself into ruins. The elementary schoolboy just takes over in matters like these, haha.
Resolutions:
1. Write more so I hate writing less.
2. Exercise more so it's less of a chore I put off.
3. Write things when I should.
4. Stay relatively afloat even in threat of the schoolboy outbreak.
今年もよろしくお願いでございます！
But anyway. I really just want to note down that I heard a very sweet new year's resolution around the new year's hours, and I would like to hear another one next year. (And hope optimism does not come back to bite later). To collaborate, though, I should try to adjust/curb my behaviours and not make the same mistake as before, where I successfully guilted myself into ruins. The elementary schoolboy just takes over in matters like these, haha.
Resolutions:
1. Write more so I hate writing less.
2. Exercise more so it's less of a chore I put off.
3. Write things when I should.
4. Stay relatively afloat even in threat of the schoolboy outbreak.
今年もよろしくお願いでございます！
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)