Tattoos I want

So…I really like tattoos and want to get some more sometime. Here are some pictures of ones I want.

I want the General computer image for the tattoo.

A Happy Mac tattoo.

More Crazy

So…I am going to be going to a residential care facility because I can’t stay safe in the meiliu I am in now. I am very anxious about this, and my depression has gotten worse. But I am fighting it and need this extra help to keep going. This disease has taken a toll on my family and me. I will keep you updated, dear reader.

My Journey Through Crazy

So…I have been struggling with depression and anxiety for a long time. It has since gotten the better of me and I am trying to work through it. I was hospitalized for three days and now I’m in a PHP program. They are teaching me skills and techniques on how to deal with this disease. I am getting a lot of support and care from the staff. It’s been really hard. I have never been this depressed and anxious before. I am going to try and chronicle my journey here.

Joseph and the sea

Joseph and the Sea

Here is another children’s book I have written. Enjoy!

Joseph and the Sea

By David M. Pliska

Joseph walked to the sea.

He went nearly every day.

On days when he was happy, the sea sparkled and splashed.  Joseph and the waves laughed and laughed.

On days when he was sad, the sea was misty and forlorn. Joseph and the waves cried salty tears.

On days when he was angry, the sea was rough and tumultuous.  Joseph threw rocks at the waves, and the waves crashed and thundered.

On days when he was livid, the sea was stormy. Huge waves smashed the beach.  Joseph screamed at the waves, and the waves screamed back.

On days when he was giddy, the sea jumped and played. Joseph giggled, and the waves tickled the beach.

On days when he was bored, the sea was flat and tired. Joseph sat on the cliff above the beach, and his mind wandered.  The waves quietly slid up and down the beach.

On days when he was joyful, the sea shimmered and glistened.  Joseph skipped along the beach, and the waves kept him company.

On days when he was fearful, the sea was timid and shy.  Joseph paced back and forth, and the waves worried.

On days when he was sorrowful, the sea was quiet and didn’t make a sound.  Joseph sat on a rock, and the waves pooled around his ankles.

On days when he was loving, the sea was warm and inviting.  Joseph stood in the waves, and the waves washed over him.

On days when he was delighted, the sea was excited and foamy.  Joseph jumped over the waves, and the waves splashed his shirt.

Joseph and the waves. Joseph and the sea.

Joseph walked to the sea. He went nearly every day.

Gullycakes

Gullycakes

I have written a children’s book about camping and pancakes called Gullycakes. Here it is. Enjoy.

Gullycakes

By

D.M. Pliska 

         I was eight the first time my dad made Gullycakes. My family was camping in the north woods in a large pop-up camper. Early one morning, I awoke, got dressed, and climbed out of the camper. The morning was crisp and clear. The sun threw long shadows of trees all over our campsite. It was quiet and still as I sat at the picnic table watching the chipmunks scurry around looking for food. There was dew on the camper and the station wagon, so I drew some cold, wet smiley faces on the windows of the car.

         The camper creaked as someone else woke up. There was a thumping and bumping in the camper, and my dad came out. He yawned and stretched, “How ‘bout some pancakes?” he asked.

         “Mmm,” I said, “Pancakes sound great. But shouldn’t we wait for Mom?”

         “Nah, I think I can do it,” he replied. He opened the back of the station wagon and dug around in the camp box. He got out the pancake mix, a large bowl, a spoon, and the griddle. From the cooler under the camper, he took two eggs, a stick of butter, a bottle of maple syrup, and a carton of milk. Together, we mixed the batter. I cracked the eggs, and my dad poured the milk. I watched as he stirred and stirred. With the batter mixed, we moved over to the fire pit.

         The fire pit was cold, as the fire from last night had completely burned out. He said, “What we need is to get some wood for the fire. Go into the woods and see what you can find.”

         I went into the woods behind our campsite, and there was a gully with a creek running through it, and it was very muddy. Along the bank of the gully, I found a dead tree that had fallen over. I took what I could carry and brought it back to the campsite. My dad had a small fire going. He broke a few sticks over his knee and added them to the fire. It crackled and popped. He blew on the kindling, and the flames spread, yellow and hot. We sat by the fire and warmed ourselves while we waited for the fire to get hot enough.

         Finally, my dad put the griddle over the fire and put a pat of butter in the middle of it. When the butter had melted and was beginning to sizzle, my dad poured four pancakes on it. The tops became bubbly.

         “Uh…Dad, don’t we need a flipper?” I asked.

         “Oh, no!” he said as he ran over to the camp box and started to rummage furiously. “Where is it, where is it?” he mumbled.

         “Where is what?” my mom asked from the camper sleepily.

         “Honey, do you know where the spatula is?” he called from the camp box.

         “It’s in the camp box,” she said. When my dad bent over the camp box again, I saw the flipper in his back pocket.

         “Dad, it’s in your pocket!” With the flipper in hand, he rushed over to the griddle. By now, the pancakes were very burnt and smoking. He took off the burnt ones and poured new ones.

         “I’ll take care of these, “he said as he walked into the forest, balancing the pancakes on the spatula. While he was gone, the pancakes turned brown, bubbled, and then turned black. They started to smoke.

         When he got back, he looked at the pancakes and said, “I’ll have to throw these into the gully as well.” He poured new pancakes and started into the woods with the burnt ones. By the time he returned, the pancakes on the griddle were burnt as well, and we were running out of batter.

         He sighed, “I’ll try one more time.” He poured the last four pancakes and ran into the woods with the burnt ones. I used a hot pad and took the griddle off the fire and set it on a rock beside me. When I heard him coming back, I put the griddle back, and the pancakes continued to cook. They got nice and golden on the edges and smelled great. “Wow, I must be faster than I thought. These are hardly cooked at all,” he panted.

“Better flip ‘em, Dad,” I said.

“Watch this,” he said, wielding the flipper. He flipped the pancake up and over, but he missed the griddle, and it fell into the dirt. “Dang,” he said, looking at the ruined pancake. There were only three left.

“Dad, maybe…” I started.

“I bet I can do it with this one!” He slid the flipper under another pancake and, with a flick of his wrist, he flipped it up, over, and straight into the fire. “Dang,” he said, watching the fire engulf the pancake.

“It was a good flip, Dad,” I said, touching his arm that held the flipper, “but couldn’t we just turn over these two?” He looked at me and smiled. He nodded and gently turned them over. They quickly browned on the other side. He took them off the fire and put them on a plate.

We looked at the two golden pancakes on the plate. “There isn’t enough for everyone, so let’s just eat these. One for you and one for me,” he said. He took one, and I took one. They were hot and crispy, light and delicious.

“Dad,” I said, “you make great Gullycakes!”

The camper creaked as someone else woke up. There was a thumping and a bumping in the camper, and my mom came out. She yawned and stretched, “How about some pancakes?” she asked.

My dad winked at me and said, “That sounds like a great idea!”

The end.