k well I won't be up at 6 am so just vote lol

Buffy @ 1/8/2016 22:22

Hi Canuckstud what are you trying to say?

Which part are you referring to?

I have voted.

My "fear" is that if you say who you're going to hide behind, scum may target that person so that they can get 2 kills if they are successful.

Why is Stern Vern on the board at all times? Obv scum!

CanuckStud @ 2/8/2016 1:28

I have voted. My "fear" is that if you say who you're going to hide behind, scum may target that person so that they can get 2 kills if they are successful.

Yeah, I'm not that stupid or obvious.

But still, you said you would bread crumb who you were going to hide behind, so obviously you think that someone should be able to pick up on it, so if it's scum, that could hurt town.

okay so ##vote Stern Vern

CanuckStud @ 2/8/2016 1:31

But still, you said you would bread crumb who you were going to hide behind, so obviously you think that someone should be able to pick up on it, so if it's scum, that could hurt town.

You are obvi Canadian... we Americans are more subtle. Eh

I'm going to bed, I will see what happens when I wake up tomorrow.

Buffy @ 1/8/2016 22:33

CanuckStud @ 2/8/2016 1:31 But still, you said you would bread crumb who you were going to hide behind, so obviously you think that someone should be able to pick up on it, so if it's scum, that could hurt town. You are obvi Canadian... we Americans are more subtle. Eh

If you say so. :P

Czeslaw Milosz has moved to Krakow,
I heard from his Swedish translator yesterday,
to draw in with a deep rattling breath
the concrete dust by the building scaffolds,
breathed out again as the muse speaks her last.
And yet it seems like the scene of his death
should have remained a California
of perfected loss, peeled, wide open,
trembling with desert heat and alienation,
a well-aged alienation, where not the Beach Boys
but Chopin, Brahms and Shostakovich
are played at the cultivated funeral.
Nicely-built young American female
poets would have sparkled in the backmost benches,
hour-glass shaped after a lifetime of salads,
elegant too in the most stylish clothing
with small straps of cotton over their shoulders,
with that self-satisfied self-preoccupation
I too will adopt any day now
in order to claim my feminine rights.
Paler, now, after the warnings about skin cancer,
for over two decades leanly writing
for no one but themselves or no one
but their lovely, gold-framed reflections.
So cool in spite of the heat, and sexy
like they would be if all of the men had died out
and they were sexy only for themselves and
for the shelves in the lesbian bookstore.
Poets, yes, but more like muses
for fate, music, and watercolour painting.
Muses for sports cars, for the streetlights'
mildness in the dusk, for the blue of the waves
and of the neon letters high as falcons,
they all of them seem to be the bearers of a peculiar
bittersweet inspiration with no one to receive it.
Oh Sappho, California, sweet music,
why does Czeslaw Milosz travel to Krakow
only, at the birth of his country, to die
like an utterly ordinary grey old man
when the long beaches' mummifying heat
and a sea as blue as a white cat's eye
made a background suited to a Greek god,
youthful in jeans and drunk on exile
like Odysseus's men on milk-sweet lotus?

Also. Ari s/b in this game!

rather than Vern!

Buffy @ 1/8/2016 22:29

Why is Stern Vern on the board at all times? Obv scum!

To do gods work and get people to vote Vern for mod 2016

Buffy @ 2/8/2016 1:51

Czeslaw Milosz has moved to Krakow, I heard from his Swedish translator yesterday, to draw in with a deep rattling breath the concrete dust by the building scaffolds, breathed out again as the muse speaks her last. And yet it seems like the scene of his death should have remained a California of perfected loss, peeled, wide open, trembling with desert heat and alienation, a well-aged alienation, where not the Beach Boys but Chopin, Brahms and Shostakovich are played at the cultivated funeral. Nicely-built young American female poets would have sparkled in the backmost benches, hour-glass shaped after a lifetime of salads, elegant too in the most stylish clothing with small straps of cotton over their shoulders, with that self-satisfied self-preoccupation I too will adopt any day now in order to claim my feminine rights. Paler, now, after the warnings about skin cancer, for over two decades leanly writing for no one but themselves or no one but their lovely, gold-framed reflections. So cool in spite of the heat, and sexy like they would be if all of the men had died out and they were sexy only for themselves and for the shelves in the lesbian bookstore. Poets, yes, but more like muses for fate, music, and watercolour painting. Muses for sports cars, for the streetlights' mildness in the dusk, for the blue of the waves and of the neon letters high as falcons, they all of them seem to be the bearers of a peculiar bittersweet inspiration with no one to receive it. Oh Sappho, California, sweet music, why does Czeslaw Milosz travel to Krakow only, at the birth of his country, to die like an utterly ordinary grey old man when the long beaches' mummifying heat and a sea as blue as a white cat's eye made a background suited to a Greek god, youthful in jeans and drunk on exile like Odysseus's men on milk-sweet lotus?

Oh