Cialis fr


It’s afraid. It’s afraid!

fancy thinkin'

Note:

Empaths have the ability to scan another’s psyche for thoughts and feelings or for past, present, and future life occurrences. Many empaths are unaware of how this actually works, and have long accepted that they were sensitive to others.

Ann Althouse approaching. Must be prepared.

An empath can sense the truth behind the cover and will act compassionately to help that person express him/herself, thus making them feel at ease and not so desperately alone.

Okay:

The word “umbrella” appears exactly once in Obama’s “Dreams From My Father.”
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I’m searching the text, because I’ve been thinking, this morning, about the fascination with Obama’s interaction with the Marine and the umbrella, and that set me looking into umbrellas as a famously Freudian symbol . .

See the ‘interaction’ between The Traitor, The Marine and The Folly Brolly:

Patriot reaction:

Marine: (To himself) “Don’t touch my uniform, you New Guinea c*cks*cker.”

You get why Ann wanted to mind-meld with “Obama’s interaction with the Marine and the umbrella.” Why, if you crane your cerebellum’s neck you can juuust catch a Freudian glance at IT’S AN UMBRELLA YOU HOUSECAT. No gosh no. It’s not once Althouse and her emoticlysms engage. Can’t you see, Timmy? The rain is irony, the President a castaway, and the umbrella is a hollow stump tucked inside the basement wardrobe where a shimmering portal to an unseen world of well I was just thinking about it . .

. . Obama, in Africa, falls to the ground between the graves of his father and his grandfather and cries.

“. . A light rain began to fall, the drops tapping on the leaves above. I was about to light a cigarette when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned to find Bernard squatting beside me, trying to fit the two of us under a bent-up old umbrella.

‘They wanted me to see if you were okay,’ he said.”

. . beedle-oo beedle-oo beedle-oo . .

Flash forward, and he’s President. He is in the Rose Garden. It starts to rain. No man suddenly appears with an umbrella. He is getting wet and he is President — with plenty of airplanes and rifles and all of the world’s greatest military at hand — but he is still getting wet.

Blink. Blunk.

He has to order the Marine to shelter him. It isn’t Bernard squatting with a bent-up old umbrella. It’s a Marine in full-dress uniform, with a fine unbent umbrella, which is nevertheless not correct under the official — male, rigid — Marine Corps regulations. Where are the words of encouragement, the embraces, the strong, true love?

. . ?

Now, here is the whole world gathered around him. Was there ever anything more unlike the time when he was alone between 2 graves? And yet, back then, the moment a light rain began to fall, his brother was there, sent by others who loved to see if he was okay.

Blonk. Blink.

And here he is, the center of the whole world’s attention, and he had to call for the umbrella. He is not okay.

He is not okay. Miraculous. We should have expected this after a United Federation of Planets mission crashed on Betazed.

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