Sometimes You Can't Go Back—No Matter How Early You Wake Up

There are very few times in life when you are given a second chance. Today definitely was not one of those days. I woke up on a friend's entirely-too-hard couch somewhere east of Central Park. It was raining. It was 5:30 A.M. and we were going to see Debbie Gibson and Tiffany at ABC's Summer Concert Series. I guess ABC defines concert as "three songs played over and over to make sure they look awesome on tv." But anyway, it was free, and it was Debbie Gibson—my childhood hero. The website said to be there by 6 A.M. since long lines were generally expected at these events and the fun would start at 7 A.M. We got there around 7...there were no lines or crowds. But hey! It had stopped raining!

When I was about ten years old, my love for Debbie Gibson was about equal to my love of Bon Jovi, although different. I wanted Bon Jovi to marry me. I wanted to be Debbie Gibson. She was the inspiration for the mural I painted on my wall. She had one, so I wanted one. Although, for whatever reason, I made my mural out of “puffy paint” which was used in the early 90’s to decorate t-shirts. I don’t know why I chose puffy paint. It took years to get off of the walls. I think there were still remnants of it when my dad sold that house years later. I had a similiar hat to Debbie, similar earrings, and similar clothes. I read books on her, did reports on her, I even had a miserable attempt at her “Out of the Blue” haircut. Look it up, it’s fairly awful. (Sorry Deb.)

I had a bunk bed in my room at the time, but only the top bunk, in an effort to create more space in my tiny room. I also had a chalkboard and a microphone. It was actually a real mic that my Dad had gotten me for Christmas and there was an accompanying amplifier, but even at that young age, I was keenly aware of my lack of singing ability. It by no means stopped me, but I saw no need to amplify it throughout the house. I used the chalkboard to draw a sea of faces so that I could pretend I was on stage and that thousands of people had come to see me perform the popular songs of Debbie Gibson. I’d get all dressed up in my Debbie Gibson clothes and sing and dance my heart of to all of the adoring, paying fans. I would get absolutely lost in my fantasy concert world. Kind of like I do now in the car, to the amusement of anyone driving next to me.

Only one month after Bon Jovi and Dad introduced me to the magic of live music, I wanted to see Debbie in concert, and somehow tickets were available last minute to her concert at Brendan Bryne Arena. (Later known as the Continental Airline Arena; later known as the Izod Center.) My Dad had to work, so he couldn’t take me. After a lot pleading, which probably went something like, “My life will be OVER if you don’t take me to this concert!”, Mother agreed to take me. 

We had floor seats; this was going to be amazing. And then, the lights went down and there she was. Debbie Gibson was on stage. She was in the same room as me and for the next few hours we would be sharing the same existance. My little heart was all aflutter.

The concert format in those days was as follows: A few opening songs to get the crowd warmed up; maybe a wardrobe change. Then the lights would kick on and dance across the arena in time with the music. The light show continued to build up until the end of the show. In the case of Bon Jovi, there were even pyrotechnics. “Shot through the heart,” and then BAM! Explosions! Debbie stuck to the light show, or well, I can only assume. 

She had sung her opening tunes and then the lights started. My heart began to beat faster in the anticipation of all of my favorite songs. This was the real show, and it was just starting. That’s when mother said, “Ok Jen, the show is almost over, let’s go. I don’t want to get stuck in the traffic of all of these people leaving at the same time.”

“What?” I was horrified. “It’s just starting! The lights mean it’s just starting! You don’t understand! Look!!! No one else is leaving.”

“Fine, one more song and that’s it.”

How could this be happening? Why was she doing this? Didn’t she understand that Debbie Gibson was on stage right now and I was only a few feet away from her and maybe, just maybe, some of her magic would rub off on me since we were in the same room? She didn’t understand. She held fast to what she said and after one more song she made me leave. I never got the chance to see Debbie Gibson again—until today. 

I remembered at dinner last night that I have a Debbie Gibson t-shirt, which I threw on before heading into the city. We decided to crash at my friend's place, since he lives near the park, and we had to be there ridiculously early. The shirt paid off—I think. During one of the breaks Tiffany looked out into the crowd and said, "I like your shirt." It seemed like she was talking to me. But I wasn't sure. Neither was my friend. So I just smiled. Then she said, "It's okay I have one too." I can only assume she meant, "It's okay that you're wearing a Debbie Gibson shirt, even though I am Tiffany." Therefore, let's assume, Tiffany liked my t-shirt. And I must admit, I was quite impressed with her voice. That woman can rock.

I was excited at the dress rehearsal. At the first site of Debbie I squealed like a little girl. They played one song each and one together. I watched Debbie. I bounced. But then I started to realize, it just wasn't the same; it was weird even. (Yes, 20 years later, I still thought it would be the same.) Maybe it was just that she only played one song, well two really, but the new song doesn't count. Maybe if I had heard a slew of the old classics I would have been more stoked. But Debbie is 41, and I am 31, and it's just...different. I thought I'd redeem that one night that my mother prematurely stole from me so long ago, but alas, no. I will give it to her though, she looks downright amazing. 

and so it begins

Not going to lie...Tiffany rocked it.

Debbie's weird now.

I think I've made this same face when (in college) we would drink many beers and then try to memorize the "Electric Youth" dance from the video, which always included trying to fly off of the couch.

So, as I mentioned, Debbie's weird now (garter belt?). The guy to the left was on tour with her back in the day. I distinctly remember him from all of the Debbie Gibson VHS videos I have. The guy on the right seems to have given up and resorted to waving.

Well hell. I'd be stoked too if I was rockin' out next to a keytar.

Ah, the right dancer is excited again! Or possessed. He has a crazy look in his eyes...

Central Park 6 A.M.

Obsessive Tendencies

I wanted to see how many days in a row I could go to hot yoga. This is different than Bikram. I, for whatever reason, just can't stand Bikram. Anyway, the answer was 23 days in a row. (The little Y's mean I went to class. Y for yoga. I'm very creative.) I really wanted to finish the week out before I leave for vacation, but my sore, aggravated body had other plans. At least I got some laundry done tonight. And yes, that does say Debbie Gibson on my calendar. She's doing a show for free in Central Park tomorrow and I am going to go give my ten-year-old self a trip down memory lane.

Questions—but no Answers

Change in life is inevitable. So why is it so hard for people to change? Changing for worse is easy; it happens a lot. I can site extensive examples from personal experiences where people have fallen into holes that they never managed to climb out of—but does just mean that’s who they were “destined” to be to begin with?

Can people ever really fundamentally change? They so often become “set in their ways” and “too old to change”. But at what point does that happen? College, high school, perhaps even younger? Does all of the learning and experience in your formative years set permanently who you are for eternity? How can a person undo years of learning?

I think people can change, because I think it’s too sad to say that they can’t. Maybe the question isn’t "Can people change?" but more of "Do people want to change?" Is change always possible, but limited by personality and character? I think 9 times out of 10, people just flat out don’t want to put the effort in. Self-defeatedness is easy. Transforming yourself is too hard, too scary.

I know I am not the only one whose childhood comes back to haunt them—these are the demons we deal with as adults. But so often, it becomes a crutch, it becomes explanation or even motivation for poorly adjusted behavior. I’m not saying conditioning isn’t valid, it definitely is, and I’ve seen how it can side swipe you when you least expect it. But once you’re aware of it and want to change it—how long would it take to unlearn all of the bad that you’ve been taught and have inherited? Even if after making a concerted effort, is it too easy to fall back into old patterns?

Is an alcoholic ever really not an alcoholic? Is someone who is predisposed to being only able to focus on his or her world ever really a part of anyone else’s? Is someone that was abused ever really out from under those shadows? Can people change?

I'm single again...so here are some stories.

I had just broken up with someone. Well, someone had just broken up with me...via text. I was sad that the seemingly great time we were having turned into a whole lot of nothing in an instant, and I was mad that it ended with a text. (See previous blog.) So, I got up after my 6 a.m. text wake up and went running. But afterwards, I found myself still angry. I went to hot yoga. Still...

So, I called a girlfriend and we started drinking at around 3 p.m. What had been planned as an early night turned into me eating death chicken at 4 a.m. (Again, see previous blog.) As my friend and I made our rounds to different bars, we encountered a rather handsome Irish bartender. Now, just getting dumped by an Irishman and having spent a year of my life with a bartender, these are two things I definitely wanted to avoid. But that goddamn accent will get me every time. I ended up giving him number.

(a month or so elapses...)

Last weekend, I met a school teacher. We talked about religion, philosophy and what it all means at 1 a.m. He left with every intention of calling me. I left and couldn't remember what he looked like. He did call though, and we did talk. He told me all about how his friend is now living with him because he just broke up with his live-in girlfriend of three years.

School teacher: He's just acting so pathetic. He needs to get off the couch and go out and try to meet girls.
Me: How long ago did they break up?
School teacher: Two weeks ago.
Me: Give the guy a break! It's a hard life adjustment to break up with someone after that long especially if you lived together. You have to change your whole life.
School teacher: I don't know. I don't think it'd bother me that much.

Not being on Facebook, I googled him. I came across a website where students could review their teachers. And oh boy, was that hilarious. I think the highlights of what I read were about his affinity for "touching himself," his seemingly over-the-top love of Lord of the Rings, and how much he likes to throw acorns around the classroom. I'm not judging him based on comments made by 15 year olds. They only served to solidify that from our conversation this definitely would not be a guy for me. That and his favorite band is Metallica.

So I decided today that should School teacher call me again, I won't be going out with him. Strangely enough, today is also the day that Irish bartender decided to text me for the first time...five weeks later. That's pretty much all there is to say about that.

What do I want to be when I grow up?

It's getting a little late to still be asking that question, admittedly. Can't I just be a kid again and have summers off? Is that too much too ask? I've been told to consider being a teacher-then I'd have summers off. But, aside from not at all wanting to go back to school, I don't think I have the temperment to be a teacher. Which begs the question, what do I have the temperment for?

One career assessment I took said that I should be an undertaker. That would certainly take care of my lack of desire to deal with people. Funny thing is that my family is in that business, and I learned at a young age that I am terrified of death and dead people. So, that's out. Perhaps with my genetic ability to go from calm to irate in less than ten seconds, I could be a cage fighter or maybe a prison guard. But I am not that strong so I'd definitely get hurt. And since I am still single (sorry Grandma) I need to at least try to be pretty as I can awhile longer. Getting kicked in the face would certainly deter that.

There's a world of options between teacher and undertaker, but it's summer, and it's warm out and I just want to be outside instead of stuck in a cubicle. Maybe someone will pay me just to exist. Wouldn't that be nice? A job traveling would be stellar. But I guess, for now, I'll just get back to writing my weekly newsletter so I can leave at 5 p.m. and sit in traffic. There has to be a better way! 

We're Becoming Idiots

I'm blogging. I'm aware that this is considered part of the social media world. But, much like Hollywood has affected every woman's idea of what romance is, social media is destroying our ability to communicate with each other. It's making us socially inept. And it's not just social media, it's all of it-email, texting, and whateverthehell is the communication trend of the day. Don't even get me started on Latitude.

I'm well aware of the benefits of the internet, texting, Google chat, etc, etc. I love being able to chat with my friends who I don't see on a regular basis during the day. Certain levels of communication are absolutely fantastic. But sometimes, it goes too far and it's slowing breaking us. Back in February I decided to take a break from Facebook because I felt too exposed. Yes, my fault, as I was a "power user." But then I stopped to think-do I really need 300 people knowing that I'm stuck in traffic or that I made a fantastic dinner? Do I need 250 people I never interact with on any sort of personal level knowing that my boyfriend and I just broke up? And do I need these people "liking" the fact that I caught a great sale on shoes today or commenting on whether or not my feelings on work are or are not valid? The clear answer for me was no I didn't, and by that point I kind of wanted to go live in a cave.

So with that, I left the world of Facebook. It became a fun experiment to see who actually kept in touch with me. People became confused. They didn't know what was going on in my life or how to invite me to events. There was even a rumor I left Facebook because I was being stalked. Awesome.

"I want to go," I said to a friend holding a charity event.
"But how do I invite you? You're not on Facebook," he replied.
"You have my phone number AND my email address."

I thought he was kidding-I hoped he was kidding-until a month went by with no invite in my inbox. Now maybe you're thinking, "Perhaps he just didn't want to invite you." Maybe you're right. But I like to think I'm not terrible to be around and, at a minimum, it was a charity event and one would think the more people attending the better. Anyway, I ended up going because someone else sent me the information and it was a great night. But, I digress.

I just think that we all need to remember what it was like to dial the phone, to have face-to-face conversations, and (I know I'm going out on a limb here) have some photographs printed and throw them in a frame instead of relying on Facebook to show off your latest trip to the Jersey Shore. A Cornell graduate asked me last weekend, "Well, say you go on vacation and you take pictures. What do you do with them if you don't post them on Facebook?" Come on now.

Please don't break up with me in a text message. Don't talk to my friend for two hours, not ask for her number and tell her you're going to look her up on Facebook. Don't text my friend to tell her you've decided to try to work it out with your ex-girlfriend after over three months. This is all not okay. Everyone is taking the easy way out and it's killing our character.

We can all sit around and feel special that we have 500 friends on the internet, but how much time have you taken lately to invest in your three real friends? You know, the ones who call when you need a pick me up, or the ones who know your birthday without getting a Facebook reminder. Stop thinking in 140 character increments. Let's all go for a picnic.

Hot Sauce Kicked My Drunk Ass

I like spicy food. I discovered this several years ago when I was in Beijing eating at a hot pot place across from the Olympic stadium. Since then, I've tried all different kinds of hot sauces (Sriracha, "The Hottest Fucking Sauce", Habanero) and spicy foods (Middle Eastern, Indian, Thai) but nothing prepared me for Cluck U chicken.

Around 3 a.m. Friday night, after the bar closed and I was fully saturated with beer, I wanted french fries. My friend suggested Cluck U. The fries were fine, but my friend ordered "Nuclear Chicken", and I was intrigued. Now, at Cluck U, there are several levels of hot.  Since Nuclear was only two down from the top, and I didn't find it all that spicy, I decided to go for the "911" sauce. Drunk as we were, my friend encouraged me, knowing full well what I was in for.

After ordering the chicken and not purchasing a drink, I sat down at the table, excited to try the chicken. As soon as I opened the styrofoam container the scent hit my nose and it was unlike anything I had ever smelled before. But I remained undeterred. I took a big bite and waited. It was spicy but nothing crazy. But this spice, it seems, like it build suspense. Ten seconds later, I wanted to rip my mouth out. My eyes welled up and tears started pouring down my face. My gums, tongue, cheek and throat all felt like they were being burned, bit my bugs, and scraped with glass all at the same time.

Not knowing what to do, I ran to the bathroom and stuck my head under the faucet. That did nothing. The pain wasn't stopping. I was sweating, crying, and unable to control any of it. On the walk home I turned into a truck driver, spitting every ten feet because I was now salivating like a wild animal with rabies. By the time I got home, drinking the sour milk in the refrigerator was a great idea. After downing half of the carton, the pain finally let up. 

But, I was still drunk and drunk reasoning is spotty at best. Now that I had the antidote, I thought, I can eat the chicken, having forgotten that only five minutes ago severing my own head seemed like a reasonable solution to get the pain to stop. So, I took another big bite and, as expected, repeated the entire fire dance all over again...and finished the sour milk.

I don't know what kind of fire breathing demons are injected into that sauce, but, dear God, I had no idea food could hurt so bad. But now I know and knowing is half the battle.

It's Thursday...

...and I'm bored. I got out near work early, so I decided to do some food shopping. Sirens wailed outside and I not so secretly hoped my office building was on fire. But alas, it was Chevy's. It provided about three whole minutes of entertainment though, as co-workers and I stood at the window and watched the smoke billow out over the trees. This is what life has become. Business casual fire watching.

Brooklyn Bridge

   

My Little Buddy Likes Pumpkin Muffins

Band of Motorists

We are human. We wage war, we lie, we cheat, we steal, we don't always tip well. We're petty, we're moody, we're unreliable, we're self-serving, we're spiteful. On the road we're angry, we're texting, we're cutting people off, and yelling obscenities. But somehow, out of somewhere, we all got together and decided it was us versus the police. 

I don't know how or why flashing your headlights at an oncoming car became the universal sign for, "There's a copy ahead, hiding, trying to catch you speeding. As your fellow motorist, I've decided to alert you to this upcoming entrapment. Good day." 

So, thanks to the guy who flashed his headlights at me on my way back to the office today. I salute you.

I Wish I Was a Video Game So I Could Punch Things and Get Rewarded for It

After weeks of suffering from moderate to severe abdominal pain, I had eagerly been awaiting test results to see what, if anything, was wrong and the best way to fix it. While I didn't want the answer to be ulcer, tumor, flesh-eating bacteria that maybe I picked up by a case of bad luck and poor timing, I had been hoping for something tangible with a concrete solution. If it turned out to be nebulous stress, that's tougher to solve, especially when I just want the pain to stop, and then carry on eating my Ben & Jerry's.

It's day six of waiting for my ultrasound results. I could easily just write a summary of the phone call I just had, but sometimes, when telling a story, the best way to have the reader experience the writer's emotions is with direct quotes. Show, don't tell—if you will.

Me: Hi, I had an ultrasound Friday, I'm calling to see if the results are in.

Nurse: Hold on.

(Time elapses)

Nurse: No, they are not in yet.

Me (now in my frustrated tone, since I also called yesterday): Well, I had the ultrasound Friday and they told me two days. I am WAITING to find out if something is WRONG with me so how you propose I go about getting the results?

Nurse: Please hold.

(Time elapses)

Nurse: Oh we did have them. I just didn't see them. Everything came back normal.

Me: So do I just keep taking these muscle relaxers then?

Nurse: Do you feel better?

Me: I feel better when I am on then, but as soon as I stop taking them the pain comes back.

Nurse: Please hold.

(Time elapses)

Nurse: Just keep taking the pills. You should probably go see a GI. Something might be wrong.

Should Probably Have Checked Out That Noise In the Kitchen

I'm working from home. It's wonderful. I also have a head cold. That is not so wonderful. Sometimes when I get sick, my nose plays tricks on me and things smell bad that don't really smell at all. Today may be one of those days, but I guess I won't really know until after the congestion goes away.

I got up early and went to the gym, trying to get my sinuses to clear. When I got home, I noticed a smell that I couldn't pinpoint. This happened once before and it ended up being bad turkey in the fridge. This time, I lit a candle in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, hopped in the shower and then went to the back of my apartment to my desk to work.

A couple of hours later, there was a noise in the kitchen. It sounded like my keys had fallen off of the table. Only slightly curious, I continued what I was doing. A few minutes later, remembering there was a candle burning that was nearing the end of its little candle life, I went to check it out.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear—but a small fire burning on my kitchen table! The glass the candle was encased in had exploded. I had the candle sitting on top of a yoga book I wanted to read, which was now being covered in liquid wax, glass particles were everywhere, tiny burning embers were strewn about the table and the top of my book was burning. Not sure what to do first, I tried to blow out the fire, which, as you can imagine, made it bigger. Deciding to ignore that for a second, I tried to get the burning embers off of my wooden kitchen table, so I picked them up. Yep, they're hot. So after burning my hand, I threw them on the floor and stomped on them with my slippers. Now there is charred candle bit smeared on my kitchen floor.

Back to the fire. I tried blowing it out again, this time harder. Luckily, it worked, but also just spread more wax everywhere. I got everything all cleaned up, but now I am left with burn marks on the table that Pledge cannot fix, a yellow burn on the book, a sore hand, a floor that needs cleaning and a burned placemat. It's really not that bad, had my laziness consumed me a little longer, it would have been much worse.

I think I'm ready to go back to bed.

Maybe God Hates Tires

It's been a shitty couple of months. There's really no other way to describe it. Just shitty. I guess "shit show" could also be a fitting classification.

I've been doing little things to try to get out of this seemingly inescapable hole—yoga almost everyday, I started writing a book (something I've always wanted to do so yay!), and I've picked up my camera and started shooting again. All the things that used to make me happy. Hopefully, each in their own small way, they are giving me the stepping stones I need back to a time when everything was possible. I mean, it was only a year and a half ago, surely I can find my way back.

So anyway, I've been finding joy in the small things that occur in my daily existence. Today I woke up to rain, but was actually excited about it. My friend's husband had fixed my broken headlight and installed a new windshield wiper for me last Friday. Yes, just one. The store was out of the passenger side wiper, but my side was all better, and since I'm the one driving I considered it just fine. For the first time, I'd get to see just how good this new wiper was that he had spoken so highly of, and I was happy about that.

The walk to the car in the drizzle wasn't even terrible because it was finally warm out. This winter, much like the shit storm, has been relentless...but it's finally lifting. I made it to my car just in time for the drizzle to become a light rain when lo and behold! I had a flat tire.

My heart sank a little and I was once again feeling defeated by the endless kicks in the gut from the universe (I mean, that WOULD explain all the stomach pain). I don't really believe in God and, well, if there is a God, him and I are going to have a long chat at the end of this life that will likely start with me giving him the finger. Regardless, I blamed him for my morning.

I emailed a friend with a picture of my flat tire and said, "Good morning! God hates me." He responded, "Maybe God doesn't hate you. Maybe he just hates tires." And with a laugh, I was once again on track. Thank you, friend.

Searching...

Today is one of those days where I feel like I have A.D.D. I start thinking about one thing, which leads to something else, which leads to another, and it continues until I freeze, totally forgetting what it was I had set out to do. Somehow I got searching for an old photography project from college, which I thought I had backed up on Snapfish. Turns out, not so much. This will no doubt be a project for when I get home tonight...if I can find it.

Anyway, I came across this, which is actually from the project I was looking for, just seems to be the ONLY image I uploaded. This is from back when people used film in cameras. Remember film? Ha. 

The Frayed Knot

Schnackenberg's Luncheonette

With nothing to do on a Saturday afternoon, I headed uptown to the Hoboken Historical Museum, where I learned that Tootsie Rolls used to be made in town. Then I grabbed lunch at this great little throwback luncheonette at 11th and Washington. 

Sunday, March 20, 2011

March 18, 2011

It reached 74 degrees today—the first really warm day of daylight saving time. I sat on my fire escape, drinking hot chocolate, and reading a chapter out of my latest purchase, "The Wisdom of No Escape." Something was welling up inside of me.

Tomorrow is exactly one month since I hit absolute bottom. One month since rebuilding myself became my focus and yoga became my daily ritual. One month—but I can still see the scars.

I watched the sun sink behind the buildings on Park and sat a little tighter as a chill began to pass through the air. I took a breath and realized that what I was feeling was hope—something I believed one month ago I would never feel again. I was content, I was calm and I was hopeful.

I smiled, knowing that in that one moment, I was okay.

Dinner for One

I've been living in town over a year now and despite its benefits, I've found it's like high school at best and Hell at worst. And presently, it is Hell. At first, it was a needed change for me—new experiences, new friends and new love. But those new experiences quickly got old, most friends proved to be acquaintances (on a good day) and love, well, I've learned that it's fleeting.

I am once again spending my nights alone fighting with my guitar and wrestling my thoughts. The adjustment from two to one is always awkwardly familiar, like a friend you haven't seen in years and don't exactly remember where you've left off. The friendly encouragements of, "You will find someone, just wait and see," only make me wonder if maybe I'm just supposed to be alone. Maybe I am the one that doesn't find someone and dotes on my friends kids forever—crazy Aunt Jen.

As I lay down in the center of my now very empty king-sized bed, I can't help but reflect on how much of it all is my fault. Most nights I land near 50 percent, which I suppose is fair. But I wonder if I've learned anything worthwhile. I know that I trust people less, which I didn't think was possible, and that I should stay at an arm's length, where it's safer.

But I miss his laughter and I miss his warmth. All of the apologies in the world don't matter as I close my eyes and fall into another unsettled sleep. But I will wake up, and I will try again.

9th Ward—New Orleans, Louisiana

Twelve Pink Apologies

It's been so long since I've gotten flowers...I went a little crazy taking pictures of them.

confessions of a depressive

The world has turned to shades of gray,
and the tears leak from an undying well.
The emptiness, the seemingly unfixable hole in my chest,
leave me waiting for the day that the sun shines through the blinds,
from the East, like it used to.
I stand lost amongst the masses, under the bullshit,
tucked away in my own little corner of the world,
where no one can hurt me, because no one gets in.
Should you be looking for me, 
I'll be wandering in the shadows, with the ghosts, 
with the memory of what I thought life had become.
And, hopefully, in the imagined solitude,
I will heal.

View from the High Line

A Night In the City—Before the Wreck

The Roof

a lapse of light

i don't always know where the darkness comes from
it comes on heavy and it comes on fast
i find myself drowning in its thickness and longing for the light
but up is no longer identifiable and i am lost

not so much universal greeting card

A card perfect for any occasion...or none at all. Available here.

more bird cages...

Roses

Flashback

Post Mortem Gallery & Victorian Bird Cages