Welcome
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Battle.net ID:Stallonzolee(Americas)
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Games that I want in the future
Counter Strike:Global Offensive
Grand Theft Auto 5
Middle-Earth:Shadow of Mordor
Overwatch
Doom
The Binding Of Issac:Rebrith
Dishorned 2
Fallout 4
Dead by Daylight
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

⊂_ヽ
　 ＼＼ ＿
　　 ＼(　•_•) F
　　　 <　⌒ヽ A
　　　 / 　 へ＼ B
　　 /　　/　＼＼ U
　　 ﾚ　ノ　　 ヽ_つ L
　　 /　/ O
　 /　/ U
　 (　(ヽ S
　 |　|、＼.
　 | 丿 ＼ ⌒)
　 | |　　) /
ノ )　　Lﾉ__
(／___

................…………………………._¸„„„„_　　　▂ ▪　▂▄▅▆▇■▀▀〓◣▬ ▪ ￭ …
…………………….…………...„--~*'¯…….'\◢▆▇████████▆▃▂　
………….…………………… („-~~--„¸_….,/ì'◢▇█▀　¨▂▄▅▆▇██■■〓◥◣▄
…….…………………….¸„-^"¯ : : : : :¸-¯"¯/'
……………………¸„„-^"¯ : : : : : : : '\¸„„,-"
**¯¯¯'^^~-„„„----~^*'"¯ : : : : : : : : : :¸-"
.:.:.:.:.„-^;;.... : : : : : : :: : : : : : :„-"
:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:. ;;..... : : : : : : : ¸„-^¯
.::.:.:.:.:.:.:.:. : : : : : : : ¸„„-^¯
:.' : : '\ : : : : : : : ;¸„„-~"¯
:.:.:: :"-„""***/*'ì¸'¯
:.': : : : :"-„ : : :"\
.:.:.: : : : :" : : : : \,
:.: : : : : : : : : : : : 'Ì
: : : : : : :, : : : : : :/
"-„_::::_„-*__„„~"

read from page 2 till this its backwards

Because of our unincorporated location, any of the chores which would fall to professionals in an urban area are taken up by neighbors here. So, that evening, with a deputy’s supervision, the families on our block began to sort through the Professor’s papers. We needed the “deed” to his burial plot and any kind of will or link to distant relations. I looked through a small scrapbook of old photos that was on his nightstand. There was no “Cousin Marco from the old country,” or “nephew Bob, NYC, 1997.” It was mostly pictures of Elena and the Professor. And their never-spoken-of young daughter Maria, who had died in Oaxaca, in 1971.

“Yes,” I answered. “Professor?”

“No!” The voice giggled. “This is Maria. I’m taking him tonight.”

Then I... woke up? I was sitting up in bed, with the phone in my hand. My husband and our dog were sleeping soundly. So, the phone hadn’t really rung. Or had it? I started to call the Professor, but if he was managing to get some sleep, I didn’t want to disturb him. So I got up and dressed quietly, and the dog and I slipped out to the backyard. I could see the Professor’s house from there. No lights were on, and everything was quiet. I wasn’t comfortable, though, so I went ahead and dialed. Twenty-five rings, no answer. Damn. I knew then. I went back in and woke my husband. We walked to the house and knocked. Nothing. We had to phone the sheriffs. They broke in. The Professor had died, seemingly peacefully, in bed.

The Professor had been in the U.S. since his 20s, but he still retained a charming foreign accent. My name, he pronounced as “AWN-eh.” Usually, when he phoned me, he would say “Good afternoon, AWN-eh.” Sometimes, he would call in the wee hours, in pain, able only to gasp “AWN-eh!” I would drop the phone and run to his house to help him with his meds or take him to the city’s emergency room. He was adamant about NOT staying away from home. He knew the end was near and he wanted to go in his own bed.

On October first, at almost 4 a.m., my cell phone rang, showing the Professor’s number. When I answered, a strange voice asked, “AWN-eh?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Professor?”