Dear Maury Povich,

I love your show, but I must admit, it's getting ridiculous.

Your show is extremely sexist.

The women on your show are NEVER at fault,

and it pisses me off.

First instance:

A woman thinks her man is cheating, and you hear her squawk her side of the story for five minutes.

Then the producers video tape the guy's side of the story, 

add some angry face shots, and brooding music,

and bam!

He's automatically an asshole.

"Let's bring him out!" you yell.

The accused man is then showered with boos and curse words

and ghetto ma's singing a chorus of

"OH GURRRLLL HE TRIFLIN' "

while walks down the steps to his seat.

His girlfriend yells at him, and berates him on national television.

That's degrading for men, and highly embarrassing, which I think they go hand in hand.

So when the guy tries to explain his side of the story, he's not allowed to talk, because the crowd volume is just too overwhelming.

The lie detector results are in.

Ok, so we find out he's cheating, so therefore he is an asshole,

but please, you had him crucified before he was even given trial.

Second instance:

This time, the wife/girlfriend is a cheater.

Is the guy onstage squawking his side of the story?

No.

The wife/girlfriend beat him to it.

The best defense is a good offence. 

She's onstage, crying to you, saying 

"I made a mistake, and I have to tell {insert man's name here} a secret."

She doesn't get booed at like the cheating man.

She maybe gets one shouted obscenity, and a few sympathy awes.

You bring the guy out onstage, and the crowd is quiet.

She tells him her secret, the guy is upset, and the show goes on as planned.

But because she told the guy that she's done something wrong,

she's not at fault.

She 'did the right thing' by telling him.

You even have an episode of 'controlling' men, who accuse their wives of cheating.

These guys are onstage, yelling about their wives, while they sit in a chair and bawl their eyes out. The crowd doesn't want any of his explanation, and they yell louder. 

Inside voices don't exist on your show, Maury.

Poor Sally, she'd never cheat on her controlling husband, she's obviously not capable of such a thing.

And before the lie detector results come in, you focus the man's attention to the tv behind you.

It's your wife, and she made a video confession. She came out about her wrong doing.

She has the last laugh.

Third instance:

This one pisses me off the most.

And I'm not making any of this up.

Here we have Shalonda.

She can't find her baby daddy.

I have no clue how many times she's been on your show,

but this time, she's 5,000% sure that the 17th guy she's getting tested is the father of her baby girl.

Spoiler Alert! He's not.

She ends up putting the search on hold, but ends up finding the daddy on a later episode.

But when women like Shalonda don't get it right by the first time, they run and cry to the back stage. You find them there, console them, and tell them you will find the father, no matter what it takes.

You don't make them feel bad for what they did, you just help them thru their baby momma drama.

JESUS.

COME ON.

SHALONDA HAD SEX WITH 17 MEN WITHIN A TWO WEEK SPAN.

HOLY SHIT.

Don't feel bad for Shalonda! Fuckin' tell her to keep her legs closed!

Don't find her baby's dad, put her through counseling. Rehab. Fuck, put her in an institution!

What I'm trying to say here, Maury, is

stop making women look like the victim on your show.

Be more like Steve Wilkos.

On his show, he really lets the bad guy, AND GIRL, have it.

He gets up in their faces, and yells till the veins in his forehead explode.

If they're a bad mother, he tell them straight up.

He doesn't sugar-coat anything.

Or, be more like Jerry Springer show.

Have every guest on that show automatically be an asshole.

Nobody gets a fair say on that show.

And they say it with fists, open palms, and Jerry Beads.

Anyway, Maury, grow a pair, and tell these ladies that they should have respect for themselves, and that they should just STFU when it's someone else's turn to speak.

Another thing, Maury,

your fat baby episodes make me equally as angry.

I know I don't have much room to talk, being a lard ass myself,

but holy shit.

These plus size moms cry and ask "Why is my baby overweight?"

But then they go into detail of what is on their toddler's plates, and what their favorite snacks are.

For breakfast: powdered donuts, waffles, french toast, and strips of bacon.

Lunch: 4 slices of pizza, french fries, and a pool of ketchup.

Snack: a whole ream of Oreo cookies, more donuts, ice cream sundaes, and candy.

Dinner: a mountain of spaghetti, 5 pillsbury biscuits, and 3 pieces of fried chicken.

And your three year old is obese why?

Then, you bring the fat babies out on stage, and you objectify them. 

You put them in exercise clothes. Oh, the irony.

Spandex pants and a sport's bra if the baby is a girl.

Swim trunks only if it's a boy.

This is makes me die laughing every time; when the baby walks to the stairs to the stage.

Your filmers put the camera low to the ground, and angle it up.

I like to call it the Godzilla Effect.

Then, to put the metaphorical cherry on this toddler's sundae,

you hand it a microphone.

You make it seem like it's a normal baby, who likes to sing and play like any 3 year old.

With microphone in hand, the baby incoherently mumbles out what could be

The Itsy Bitsy Spider.

The words just can't escape the fat baby's mammoth lips.

And we all clap.

And episodes later, when you recap the season, we get video postcard updates.

The crying mom and the obese baby are happy.

The voice over goes like this,

"Maury, we just wanna let you know we're doing great! He/she is dieting and exercise, and since your show 10 months ago, he/she has lost 5 pounds!"

Sounds like a success story, but during the voice over, you see the clips of the baby doing baby things. Only it's fatter than ever. It's busting out of it's swing set.

And I laugh.

Love,

Max.

Dear Whoever Finds This Blog (Wacky Ash Wednesday Edition),

Gooooooooooooooooood Morning!

I can honestly say I've never felt this happy before. I feel so chill.

I feel like a big weight has been lifted off my chest.

I feel like the possibilities are endless. 

Where to begin, where to begin?

I guess I'll start here.

I'm gonna take it back to my freshman year of high school.

Again.

I don't know if this is considered late in the game, but I learned how to text message on my phone my freshman year. I also started my first social networking page. My Xanga.

That was when the downward spiral began.

I became hooked.

Addicted.

I couldn't focus on any of my school work. I wouldn't exercise. I would sit and eat in front of my computer. My lifestyle was unhealthy.

Years passed.

Myspace overthrew my Xanga. 

Facebook moved in, and began to coexist with Myspace.

It has been the worst recently. 

I would waste at least 4 hours, give or take, sitting behind my computer screen, all before 1 in the afternoon. I would just sit here, staring at the screen, waiting for a notification. A friend request. I once caught myself staring for at least an hour.

It was awful.

I've upgraded my phone to the Verizon EnV, and then the EnV 2.

Full keyboard.

I texted like it was nobody's business. Fastest thumbs in the East. The speed and precision of my texts were ridiculous. I got so good, my drunk texts would read as completely sober (sorry, Mom).

It got to a point where on a normal day, I would have to clear my inbox/outbox, which held 300 messages, twice a day. Maybe three times, depending how social I felt.

About two months ago, I made the decision.

I was going to give up Myspace, Facebook, and text messaging for Lent.

I didn't tell anyone at first because I knew that people would talk shit.

So, around the end of January, I started my "Obligatory Facebook Status Update Countdown".

"Max D'Aulerio is starting his Obligatory Facebook Status Update Countdown at 35".

My best friend, Greg, questioned the countdown. So, being honest, I told him.

"I get the facebook/myspace thing, but don't give up texting. That's irrational."

Indeed, it is.

I told him my side of the story, like I just told you.

He fought my reasonings, but I held strong in my arguments.

Blah blah blah, long story short, the countdown was on.

I lost count of the countdown. I got lazy.

I did tell more people of my plans.

Nobody liked my ideas.

"Max, you think of dumb things, but this is by far one of the dumbest."

"Say goodbye to your social life."

Yeah, whatever.

I'm pretty good at blocking certain things out. 

Like, last Saturday, I went to dinner with Dave, Tommy, and Julia.

The times they complained, I just thought of what I can do with my spare time.

When I have my mind set on something, I'm going to man up, and just do it.

When I'm on a mission, there is nothing you can do to stop me.

To quote the My New Haircut Video:

"Not now chief, I'm in the fucking zone."

I do have my supporters out there.

I would like to thank them for being behind me on this one.

That's what she said.

But, what I find funniest about this whole thing, is how people are lazy.

"Max, how am I going to get in touch with you??"

Call me.

"Max, what if it's an emergency!?"

Call me.

"What if I'm in class, and it's an emergency!?!?!"

If it's that bad of an emergency, find a way to step out of class, and call me.

"Max, this is soooo inconvenient for me!"

This isn't about you, call me.

It's like when you cant find the remote control for your tv, 

but you don't get up to change the channel manually.

Anyway, by eliminating my "social life", I feel that I'll be more social.

Confusing, yes, but check it.

What did people do before they became dependent on Facebook and their texts?

They called people on the phone.

Had vocal conversations.

Actually hung out with people.

They were social.

That's my goal.

With all my free time, I plan on actually doing my school work for once.

Reading more. In fact, my friend Kaila, who is big into poetry, has a poem-a-day for me. 

40 poems. I'll write how each one effects me after im done reading it.

I'm not into poetry, but maybe after Easter, I'll have a better appreciation for it.

To make it fair, I made her a playlist. 40 songs. A song a day. She'll have to write about what makes these songs special.

I also want to get my fat ass in gear and exercise. Get into the enigma that is "in shape".

I'll write on this blog, and on guitar.

Get better at drumming.

Find myself, and maybe get a little bit closer to God in the process.

It's a win win for Maxy.

So, that's the deal.

40 days.

If the J-Dog can resist temptation in the desert, than so can I.

Love,

Max.

Dear Whoever Finds This Blog (Part 3),

I would just like to take a moment and apologize in advance for any douchebaggery I may cause in the near future.

When you find out that I have hurt your feelings, just please forgive me.

In fact, just forgive me now. Let's speed up this whole process.

Oh, by the way, I have two days (not counting right now) until Wednesday.

I'm really excited for all the fun shenanigans I will get myself into.

Stay posted.

Love,

Max.

Dear Mike Bradley,

We were predestined to be friends.

And, predestined to be enemies.

It all started when we weren't even conceived yet.

Your mom was an after school sports teacher.

My mom did after school sports.

They became friends.

My mom even just said "I love Jean!"

I only met you really in like Senior year. 

I knew of you before then, but we never hung out or partied together. 

I guess you could say Raffi Kahane brought our friendship together.

We certainly do enjoy partying, and we hate school.

That's about all we have in common.

You nut for Immortal Technique.

I can't stand him.

You care way too much about sports.

Sports are fun to watch, but to me, nothing to blog about.

You drink beer.

I, hard alcohol. (Sorry, Mom.)

You "Sotally Dupe" people. You invented that phrase when you were belligerent, and to this day, you make excuses saying that you said "So totally dupe". Just own up to it.

I, on the other hand, don't make up stupid words when certain substances enter my bloodstream. (Sorry again, Mom.)

You can drop some pretty impressive "bars" (stinging, harsh, quick insults (for those not accustomed to the Atlantic County area)).

I can drop bars just as well.

Like that one time at Raffi's house. 

You were singing, came up to me and said "Max, you know you like my singing voice."

I then counted with a short trip down Memory Lane, of that time you sang N*Sync to get with that girl. To cap it all off, I said, "Yeah, how did that work out?"

You still hate me to this day for that one.

I do not know if you read my Valentine's Day post. If you didn't, do so. We're even.

But one day, I think we're going to have to put aside our differences.

We may even have to fight it out. 

It is just something that will have to be done, with no hard feelings.

But, Mike, I can truly say, through all of our arguments, I love you.

No homo.

Love,

Max.

Dear People Who Like South Jersey's Music Scene,

South Jersey's music scene blows.

It is possibly the most artificial thing your ears could ever listen to.

Nobody around here is original. 

There is seriously one band who all the 'scene' girls like, but they straight up stole the chorus from Yellowcard's "Only One" in one of their more popular songs. 

How original.

That is why I like my band, Back Seat Riot.

We're not pop punk. We don't play that emo bullshit.

We can honestly say that we are Rock and Roll.

"Rock and Fucking Roll" as Evan Heffron would say.

Anyway, if anyone reads this, and is in the area, and you might wanna listen to good music, go to this show around 7pm to hear my band. And then, leave right after, because nobody deserves to be put through terrible music.

I made this freakin' bad ass poster last night to help promote the show.

Any way, if you go, awesome. If you don't, it's perfectly okay. 

I can understand that times are tough, and you don't have money to spend on a show that will be terrible anyway. If my band weren't in it, I most likely wouldn't go, either.

Love,

Max.

Dear My Freshman Year of High School,

I hate you. 

Hated? 

Who cares.

You made me what I am.

I are? That doesn't make sense.

Fuck grammar.

Here I am, first day of school.

Lookin' all fresh in my white kicks. 

WTF was I thinking?

I was heavily into rap, like I was in 8th grade, so showing up to high school like this would have been cool.

Because of that picture, I almost missed the bus.

I get to my homeroom.

My teacher was Mrs. Harlan.

A nice, blonde, older lady.

I would find out later that Mrs. Harlan was, and always will be, Legendary.

We listen to the morning announcements, and the bell rings.

So I'm walking to my first class, which I think was science, with the school map in hand.

I get lost. I feel like an idiot, so I ask a teacher for some help, and I get there on time.

That's all I remember of my first day.

I think sometime in December, I made on of the stupidest decisions of my life.

I told my friend, Jimmy Johnson, "I think I'm gonna be a goth kid!"

Why? It was sooo irrational. I had no reason why I should do this to myself.

I let my hair grow out long. I then died it jet black. I wish I had photo evidence of this.

On the plus side, I bought my first pair of thick rimmed black glasses.

Then, to have the goth transformation completed, I bought my first Slipknot tee shirt, and listened to them 24/7. I would draw pictures and words on my knuckles, and I thought I was mad sweet. False.

During this time, I started up my very first social networking page. Xanga.

My backgrounds would always be black, or pictures of the jersey devil.

The theme: black and red.

My playlist had almost every song of Slipknot's Volume 3: The Subliminal Verses.

But on this xanga, I met some pretty cool internet friends. One's name was Colleen. She was pretty cool. The other, Elizabeth Beck. This girl was funny as hell. I will always remember how she called my phone one night, and started off our first phone conversation with the words "Jesus tap-dancing Christ on a flagpole!". I laughed for soo long. As a matter of fact, we were just talking on facebook, and she's the inspiration for this post. She's still as funny as freshman year, and is now a Georgia Bulldog. Luckkkyyy.

It's my birthday. My parents are threatening to get me a treadmill, which could possibly be the shittiest gift you could ever give a freshman in high school. I begged for a drum set. I wanted to learn how to play in the worst way. If they would have gotten me a treadmill, I'd still be upset to this day.

But, my parents are amazing. They got me my first kit. A Verve five piece, with their own trash can lid cymbals. And they thought I wouldn't ever play drums. Psshhhhh.

Everybody remembers their first freshman crush, right? Or is it just me?

Kylee was in my history class. she's funny, smart, cute, and an all around nice girl.

We got kinda close, I guess, but I was too much of a p*ssy to ask her out.

Well, four years later, we're freshmen in college, we're in the same math, and I'm the smartest kid in that class, so I help her out. 'Sall good, we're really good friends now! 

Around Easter, I noticed that my once beloved birthmark on my right heel was turning, for lack of a better term, funky.

I showed it to my mom, and an appointment was made to see a dermatologist.

Long story short, I was scheduled to have it removed under local anesthesia, and it would be biopsied.

I get it removed, and was now forced to use crutches in school.

The first day back was awful. I could barely make it to the library.

My fat ass had an asthma attack.

So, I lived the last quarter of my freshman year in a wheelchair.

At first it was cool! I could leave class early, get to do wheelies, and go down the ramps as fast as I wanted. After 3rd mod english, I would have somebody wheel me to fourth mod lunch.

That lucky person, ladies and gentlemen, was Greg Marino. We didn't really know each other at the time, but he was the strongest kid who could wheel me up the ramp in C Hall.

Who knew that we would become band mates and best friends? Not this guy.

Anyway, the results of the biopsy came back... funky! They didn't know if it were melanoma or not! They sent it down to the researchers at Johns Hopkins, and seeing how they didn't quite know what it was, they deemed it as an "abnormal lesion of skin cells". Cool, eh?

To be safe, the surgeon suggested that I were to go under general anesthesia, and have more skinned removed, just incase my lesion were to be cancerous. Turns out, I healed faster after my second surgery.

Anyway, life in a wheelchair was hell. Older kids gave me shit. Kids my age gave me shit. It sucked.

And then, you ended. Then it was off to your big brother, Sophmore Year.

Love,

Max.

Dear Girl,

I'm going to be totally ambiguous here. I will keep your anonymity a secret, but if you read this, you will most likely know who you are. Don't come crying to me if you don't like this post, I've had enough of high school drama in the last few hours.

Anyway.

I never knew that a chord progression could ruin a solid quarter of my Junior year.

I-V-VI-iii-IV-I-IV-V.

D-A-b minor-f# minor-G-D-G-A.

Pachelbel's Canon in the key of D.

(Damn you, Johan.

You have to go write a song that sounds all romantical and shit.)

Many others have used these chords to write songs.

Tony Hawk's Pro Skater comes to mind with Goldfinger's "Superman"

Vitamin C's "Graduation (Friends Forever)"

Green Day's "Basket Case"

You get the idea.

I thought, maybe I should follow suit.

Smooth, Max, real smooth.

You were in one of my favorite classes my junior year, your sophmore year.

The best part? We were partners for every project.

We got to chill for 4o-some odd minutes 5 out of 7 days a week.

I seriously couldn't ask for anything better.

We got really close, and we knew a lot about each other.

You were one of the nicest and cutest girls I ever met.

Me, being an idiot, started crushin'.

I took Mr. P's songwriting class, 6th period.

You took it 5th, because you had some other class 6th.

I thought "Oh man, I could totally write you a song, perform it during my class period, and you'd never know!"

The night before my performance for the class, I began to write one of the best songs ever. I stayed up until 4 in the morning, finishing it.

This song put all of my feelings out there. It had our inside jokes, our talents, everything that would make us unique together. It. Was. Awesome.

The day of the performance rolls up.

You're not in the class we shared together, which, I did care that if you were sick, but the fact that you wouldn't be in school made my day better. The song would be sung, and you'd never know.

6th Period arrives.

I open the door.

There you are, the happiest looking black hole in the back of the room.

You run up to me.

"Max, I came in late today! My class right now has a substitute, so I'm gonna be in your song writing class today! You perform today, right!?"

Oh, I perform today, alright. 

I felt ill. I had no back up song. It was now or never.

Who knows, maybe the outcome could have been like the end scene of "The Wedding Singer".

I'm in the front of the room, my guitar in my lap, the most evil of microphones in front of my face. This was not going to end well. Not at all.

You sat in the back of the room. The prettiest maelstrom was now dragging my heart to the bottom of the sea, and I haven't even shouted for help.

I started strumming. My eyes were in disbelief. Why was my brain so cruel to make my arms move? My traitorous tongue began singing. I was dead before the ship even sank. 

Yes, that is a direct Modest Mouse reference.

Three minutes later, it was over, and the class clapped for my efforts. Mr. P really liked my song, and said that he could most definitely relate to it, having had the same kind of experience when he was in high school.

I went to go sit down, and you joined me at my chair, hugged me and said "great performance!" and left it at that. You acted like my song didn't effect you. You didn't even notice.

Praise Jesus, sing 'Hallelujah'! God is good.

I see you in the hallway two periods later.

You ask, "Max, was that song for me?"

Uh.

"No... what are you talking about?

"Stephanie (name changed to be ambiguous) pointed it out to me. The song is about me. All the lyrics fit."

"Uhm, I don't know what you're talking about." To make it more obvious, "I gotta go to class, I don't wanna be late."

The next few days pass. You didn't question me. We barely even spoke.

We're out to do one of our projects. We're walking the halls. You tell me we need to stop at the school store. This tall, gangly, ginger kid is behind the register. He comes out from behind, you two hug, and you two kiss each other on the lips, hold hands, and canoodle. I leave to finish filming. I never wanted to vomit worse in my whole life.

You tell me he's your boyfriend. My friend say's he is a legit drug addict.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Love,

Max.

Dear Whoever Finds This Blog (part 2),

Stuff happened due to one of my more recent posts on here, which I deleted.

No one really reads this blog, and names weren't really used. (and mom, I told you, I'm not family friendly)

Basically, what I'm trying to say is

If I want to become a writer

I'm gonna have to crack a few eggs to make an omelette.

Seeing how its 12:31, it technically makes it Valentine's Day,

and I promised a good post. Well, stay tuned, I'll write it later in the day.

Love,

Max.

Dear Joaquin Phoenix,

You're one of my favorite actors. Well, were one of my favorites.

You're quitting film to follow your hip hop career. You're following your dreams, and that's excellent.

But last night, your Letterman appearance had me asking "What is he on, and can I have 

some?"

Here you are, chatting with David 3 years ago:

Thanks to that video, you're throwing my font all out of wack, but I'm far too lazy to change it.

Anyways, here you are with Mr. Letterman on February 11th:

I do not know if it's crack, or acid, or even just regular marijuana. All I know is that, 

I love you. You were kick ass in Signs, and pretty damn awesome in Walk The Line.

Love,

Max.

Dear VH1,

I would like to have my own reality dating show, please.

I know you have millions of show ideas, including a show for Meghan and a show for Daisy, (both from Rock of Love), and countless other spinoffs, but please, hear me out.

I do not do anything special. I am in a band, but we're not famous. I have, however, had my struggles with getting the ladies. Apparently, I'm too normal or not exciting enough. 

That's how we sell it.

"Love to the Max" will be entertaining for the whole family! Seeing how I'm somewhat saving myself for marriage, and how you can't let anyone under 21 drink on national television, my show will be family friendly!

We need more regular, everyday guys on television. It's not fair that we get no love. Sorry we can not be washed up 80's hair metal frontmen, or old, wrinkly political hip hop hype men. God just hasn't blessed us with those unique talents. I'm hoping that God will bless me with this show.

Everyday, average, normal guys need love, too.

I would like for the pilot to be shot with 16 lucky girls. To make for good tv, please include some skanky hoes, or as I will say on the show, "Hoodrats". With the help of my bff Jackie, I will help filter out all the hoodrats untill I'm with a girl who I can hopefully never call again, this way ensuring me that I will have a second season.

I have some challenges already thought up, like the girls have to get gas in my car, then pick up my sister and her rowdy friends, drop them off, and the fastest time in returning to the house gets to spend a date with me.

Another one would be: Who can iron my clothes, make me a sandwich, and clean the kitchen in the fastest time.

And for our dates, we can go walk around or play videogames... however they want to spend quality time with me.

Seeing how I'm picky, and I like my girls to be very well kept, their tokens of my affection will be credit cards. I'll hand out the credit cards during the elimination. If they get to stay, my catch phrase will be something cheesy like "Does your love have a price?", and if they have to leave, "Your love has been Maxed out", where I then cut the card in half with ridiculously oversized scissors. 

So, please, I hope you put some serious thought and consideration into this letter.

I'm excited into hearing from you soon!

Love, 

Max.

Dear Whoever Finds This Blog,

Hey.

I'm new at this blogging thing, so give me a break.

First off, I would like to thank my friends Kaila and Jackie for inspiring me to begin to write.

Seeing how I'm very self-centered, this should be easy, writing about myself.

My mom blogs, but I'm not eloquent like her. She's also a big inspiration to me.

Anyways, let's set some ground rules:

1) Everything you read here, on this blog, will be true. This is all the stuff that has happened, or happening, or what will happen to me. Think of me like Tucker Max, only without the sex.

2) Names will not be changed for safety of others. If you have had a profound impact on my life, you will be mentioned.

3) Once I figure out how to, I will change my layout of this blog. Like, seriously, dots? They're annoying, and they don't reflect my personality.

4) I'm a grammar and spelling enthusiast. I like to be correct when I type. I may also often use racist/sexist remarks, but let me reassure you, I'm neither. I just have a twisted sense of humor.

Anyways,

A little bit about me.

I'm new to this writing thing. It seems interesting, so I will roll with it.

I've been drumming for 5 years now. I've been in a couple bands, and I love every opportunity I get to showcase my talent. I guess you could say I'm really good at drumming, but I honestly think I'm bad at it. You can decide for yourself, by going to www.myspace.com/backseatmusicnj.

I'm almost at a year post op since my Lap Band surgery. My highest weight was at 310 lbs, and now I'm struggling to break the 260 mark.

I'm full of angst. It may be because of what lemons life has given me, or it might be from my favorite band, Brand New. Seriously, every song they wrote, I have a connection to. 

I also enjoy writing songs, trying to sing, and trying to play guitar. For some more self promotion, you can check out www.myspace.com/maxdauleriomusic.

One more important thing: I have some of the worst luck when it comes to girls.

Another important thing: Karma is real. I do not care if you believe it or not, it is very real.

I also believe that there is a God, and why he (or she) does things, well, we're not supposed to know. I feel that's what faith is all about. Does that make sense to you?

I'm sorry if it doesn't.

Anyhoo, I'm rather tired, and I've been feeling sick all day. I think it's time for my beauty sleep.

Love,

Max.