I don’t like having an owner, I want to be free. I want to go places and meet people without first asking permission. I am trapped, I have no home of my own. Nothing belongs to me. Perhaps one day I shall be free, free to choose, free to go, free to stay, free to love, free to serve. Perhaps one day….
the owner of the small store had everything he could possibly want. a huge mansion a big tv, multiples actually and 14 cars. how did he do it? his store was so small.
I like to own things. They say I’m a consumer, but I don’t care whether I buy or not, or have the latest trend. I actually like to collect unique things. Maybe I should be an antique collector one day. Maybe not. I just want to have a lot of interesting things.
The Clayton’s must have been the owners of the house. But something wasn’t adding up. Why keep this girl here alone, and so far away from town? Was she a prisoner? Had there been an accident?
i am the owner of a little tan dog named Copper. Copper is staying at the ultra-exlcusive ‘Amanda Day Doggie Spa’, which is costing more than a vacation to Maui for little Boo boo.
She had a dog that was small and brown, quite plain and stubborn. It used to leave faeces near the bottom of the path next to my house, and I used to stand in it. I didn’t like that dog.
The dog glanced at his new owner, whimpering and wiggling his tail at the man. The man smiled softly and kneeled to scratch the poor animal behind the ears. “There, there.”
there is nothing that is mine. no possessions of the “typical” trappings–homes, cars, property. Perhaps I own my instruments, my books, my creations, but to say “own” seems to reduce them to objects of quantifiable value. Nay, like lovers, we exist reciprocally, dialogically, dialectically, and such words as “owner” make no sense here.
The tickle of the leash touching her skin sent a shudder down her body. She gasped as her leather collar jerked, and she turned her head to follow his movement. He was smiling, a little too hard. She gulped, her eyes flickering over his shoulder to the clock on the wall.
They had come here with so little, that apart from personal items, there was nothing that belonged to anyone. The Committee had decreed that there nothing of value, other than what they had brought with them, could have an owner, it belonged to everybody. Their survival depended on the whole community thriving, and greed had no place there. The rewards for individual efforts would come in the next generation. They worked now in return for food, clothing and other essentials only. Their credits could only be collected by their children.
The owner of the bicycle couldn’t find the bicycle. The owner of the bicycle couldn’t see the bicycle. The bicycle could not find the owner. The owner contemplated his bicycle; sat down and cried.
I was the owner of the place and I had to explain everything to the furiouse neighbours. They’ve gathered at the door waiting for me with all sort of weapons doing their best in holding on to the anger while a relaxing song was being broadcasted from the radiostation. Could be my last hope.
“It’s all yours,” the man cackled, jangling the key a few times for effect before depositing it on top of the small wooden box with a wink. “Been waiting to let that one go to just the right person.”
“But what exacty is a ‘Box of Shames’, mister?” the boy wondered aloud, eyeing the cubic container in his hands carefully. He still wasn’t quite sure how he’d wound up with this…thing, and the words emblazoned on the side did little to calm his curiosity or his nerves. “And what am I supposed to do with it?”
“Empty it. Hold on to it. Whatever you want, kid. It’s yours.”
For once Willow is content, powered out from her run. She isn’t much of a cuddler, much to excitable, always hoping for games or treats. But today, when she’s convinced I”m comfortable, when I’m almost asleep, she flops down beside me and snuggles her head against my thigh.
I own a dog, I own my house, I own my life. But sometimes it feels as if I am losing control of my own life–I am no longer an owner. The control moves to my emotions; I am swept by blackness and anger and love and hatred.
I had an owner. once. she was young and free and careless, but perhaps that wasn’t a goodthing. for she forgot about me, as just a little puppy.a little puppy that grew up, and was no longer young free and careless just like her.
“Who’s the owner of this store?” the crotchety old man demanded, placing his gloved hands on his hips. I sighed and turned away from the Easter display that I was beginning to take down.
“That would be me,” I declared.
The man frowned. “You?” he asked. “Can’t be. You’re young, and…and feminine.”
I blinked. “So by your logic, only people of your age and gender can own a shop?”
He said nothing. I silently pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
And who owns you? I have no owner and honestly own no one. I have to own my personal accountability; my own body, spirit, mind. Ownership is powerful; dangerous.
The dog came up to me and licked my face. I was bathed in the sticky saliva as I kneeled down to run my fingers through the wire-y black hair. It was one of those nice looking poodles with an even nicer looking owner. I looked up at her and she smiled her bright red lips parting to show bright white teeth. She put a quarter in the plastic cup by the curb I use as a pillow and moved on. I will never forget the smile I fell in love with.
The dog came up to me and liced my face. I was bathed in the sticky saliva as I kneeled down to run my fingers through the wire-y black hair. It was one of those nice looking poodles with an even nicer looking owner. I looked up at her and she smiled her bright red lips parting to show bright white teeth. She put a quarter in the plastic cup by my camo coat and moved on. I will never forget the smile I fell in love with.
I was now the proud owner of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala. I couldn’t be happier. I stepped inside the car just to see how it felt. The car was used, sure. But vintage things always excited me. Even as a child, I listened to vintage music.
What is it like to be owned? that is the question I get asked most often and the one that i have the worse answer for. I can’t describe it on words. it is more a feeling.
“As the owner of this fine establishment, I’m going to have to ask you to leave…” The man narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. They rested slightly on his large stomach. I couldn’t help but feel he meant business and no amount of explaining would get me out of this predicament so I decided simply to listen, and get out of dodge before he had someone remove me for him.
“You just can’t do that type of thing in here. As the owner of this fine establishment, i’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The man’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms. He didn’t move forwards but his face meant business. It was clear to me that it would be best if I didn’t question him.
Master, master
I’ll cry for you in any event
that forces you to break my skin for a chance to say
“Aren’t you beautiful?”
And I would say no
but for the ball you wrapped my teeth around.
My very own slime dripped into me
and I cried,
master, master.
I once had a dog. I was the dog’s owner. The dog’s name was Chispa. He was a cute little brown and white puppy that was a Lhasa Apso. I loved my little Chispa. He loved to take walks and play in the snow. One time when it snowed a bunch in Denver, we let him out and he went frolicking and it was so funny to watch him.
The word owner reminds me of ‘boner.’ I don’t like boners. Like, if I had a boner, I would probably like it because I have a girlfriend and I could stick it in her. It would feel really good, but I don’t know how good, because a penis doesn’t have as many nerves as a clitoris and I don’t know how good sex really feels without the stimulation of sticking like, a full on clit into your gf’s vagina…
honda odyssey, chevrolet silverado, not a home. I have owned many things in my life, some possessions small and some large, some precious, some not so much. The little things I have owned seem to have brought the most awe and inspiration, like the hummingbird nest I found on the ground yesterday built with the leftover hair from the dog we walk many mornings and brush on our front porch, Roxy.
the owner of the store hated me. The feeling was mutual. I could not, for the life of me how his hatred originated. Maybe it was the because of the one time when I stole a candy from his shop two years ago.
I was suggested this web site by means of my cousin.
I am no longer positive whether or not this submit is written via him as nobody else realize such precise approximately my trouble.
You’re amazing! Thank you!
by Indonesia Web Design and Development Services on 04.05.2015
I am an owner of a computer. Computer is the medium of knowledge and communication. I really appreciate how the world has become small through computer.
Peggy always felt like she was a free woman. She always knew where she was going and had nothing to stop her. But as soon as she stepped into the automat, that waitress had a hold on her. And now she’s the anchor on her old ship, and she keeps Peggy at bay. She keeps her grounded… keeps her calm.
I don’t like having an owner, I want to be free. I want to go places and meet people without first asking permission. I am trapped, I have no home of my own. Nothing belongs to me. Perhaps one day I shall be free, free to choose, free to go, free to stay, free to love, free to serve. Perhaps one day….
the owner of the small store had everything he could possibly want. a huge mansion a big tv, multiples actually and 14 cars. how did he do it? his store was so small.
I like to own things. They say I’m a consumer, but I don’t care whether I buy or not, or have the latest trend. I actually like to collect unique things. Maybe I should be an antique collector one day. Maybe not. I just want to have a lot of interesting things.
It’s difficult to find well-informed people on this topic, but you seem like you know what you’re talking
about! Thanks
The Clayton’s must have been the owners of the house. But something wasn’t adding up. Why keep this girl here alone, and so far away from town? Was she a prisoner? Had there been an accident?
poo poo poo poo ;] poooooooooop peeeeeeeee ;’]pop pppo
i am the owner of a little tan dog named Copper. Copper is staying at the ultra-exlcusive ‘Amanda Day Doggie Spa’, which is costing more than a vacation to Maui for little Boo boo.
She had a dog that was small and brown, quite plain and stubborn. It used to leave faeces near the bottom of the path next to my house, and I used to stand in it. I didn’t like that dog.
The dog glanced at his new owner, whimpering and wiggling his tail at the man. The man smiled softly and kneeled to scratch the poor animal behind the ears. “There, there.”
there is nothing that is mine. no possessions of the “typical” trappings–homes, cars, property. Perhaps I own my instruments, my books, my creations, but to say “own” seems to reduce them to objects of quantifiable value. Nay, like lovers, we exist reciprocally, dialogically, dialectically, and such words as “owner” make no sense here.
The tickle of the leash touching her skin sent a shudder down her body. She gasped as her leather collar jerked, and she turned her head to follow his movement. He was smiling, a little too hard. She gulped, her eyes flickering over his shoulder to the clock on the wall.
parents which I no no I dont know
They had come here with so little, that apart from personal items, there was nothing that belonged to anyone. The Committee had decreed that there nothing of value, other than what they had brought with them, could have an owner, it belonged to everybody. Their survival depended on the whole community thriving, and greed had no place there. The rewards for individual efforts would come in the next generation. They worked now in return for food, clothing and other essentials only. Their credits could only be collected by their children.
The owner of the bicycle couldn’t find the bicycle. The owner of the bicycle couldn’t see the bicycle. The bicycle could not find the owner. The owner contemplated his bicycle; sat down and cried.
I was the owner of the place and I had to explain everything to the furiouse neighbours. They’ve gathered at the door waiting for me with all sort of weapons doing their best in holding on to the anger while a relaxing song was being broadcasted from the radiostation. Could be my last hope.
“It’s all yours,” the man cackled, jangling the key a few times for effect before depositing it on top of the small wooden box with a wink. “Been waiting to let that one go to just the right person.”
“But what exacty is a ‘Box of Shames’, mister?” the boy wondered aloud, eyeing the cubic container in his hands carefully. He still wasn’t quite sure how he’d wound up with this…thing, and the words emblazoned on the side did little to calm his curiosity or his nerves. “And what am I supposed to do with it?”
“Empty it. Hold on to it. Whatever you want, kid. It’s yours.”
For once Willow is content, powered out from her run. She isn’t much of a cuddler, much to excitable, always hoping for games or treats. But today, when she’s convinced I”m comfortable, when I’m almost asleep, she flops down beside me and snuggles her head against my thigh.
I am an owner.
I own a dog, I own my house, I own my life. But sometimes it feels as if I am losing control of my own life–I am no longer an owner. The control moves to my emotions; I am swept by blackness and anger and love and hatred.
I had an owner. once. she was young and free and careless, but perhaps that wasn’t a goodthing. for she forgot about me, as just a little puppy.a little puppy that grew up, and was no longer young free and careless just like her.
“Who’s the owner of this store?” the crotchety old man demanded, placing his gloved hands on his hips. I sighed and turned away from the Easter display that I was beginning to take down.
“That would be me,” I declared.
The man frowned. “You?” he asked. “Can’t be. You’re young, and…and feminine.”
I blinked. “So by your logic, only people of your age and gender can own a shop?”
He said nothing. I silently pointed toward the door. “Get out.”
And who owns you? I have no owner and honestly own no one. I have to own my personal accountability; my own body, spirit, mind. Ownership is powerful; dangerous.
The dog came up to me and licked my face. I was bathed in the sticky saliva as I kneeled down to run my fingers through the wire-y black hair. It was one of those nice looking poodles with an even nicer looking owner. I looked up at her and she smiled her bright red lips parting to show bright white teeth. She put a quarter in the plastic cup by the curb I use as a pillow and moved on. I will never forget the smile I fell in love with.
The dog came up to me and liced my face. I was bathed in the sticky saliva as I kneeled down to run my fingers through the wire-y black hair. It was one of those nice looking poodles with an even nicer looking owner. I looked up at her and she smiled her bright red lips parting to show bright white teeth. She put a quarter in the plastic cup by my camo coat and moved on. I will never forget the smile I fell in love with.
I was now the proud owner of a 1967 Chevrolet Impala. I couldn’t be happier. I stepped inside the car just to see how it felt. The car was used, sure. But vintage things always excited me. Even as a child, I listened to vintage music.
What is it like to be owned? that is the question I get asked most often and the one that i have the worse answer for. I can’t describe it on words. it is more a feeling.
“As the owner of this fine establishment, I’m going to have to ask you to leave…” The man narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. They rested slightly on his large stomach. I couldn’t help but feel he meant business and no amount of explaining would get me out of this predicament so I decided simply to listen, and get out of dodge before he had someone remove me for him.
“You just can’t do that type of thing in here. As the owner of this fine establishment, i’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The man’s eyes narrowed and he crossed his arms. He didn’t move forwards but his face meant business. It was clear to me that it would be best if I didn’t question him.
People really want an owner. We’ve been taught to.
Master, master
I’ll cry for you in any event
that forces you to break my skin for a chance to say
“Aren’t you beautiful?”
And I would say no
but for the ball you wrapped my teeth around.
My very own slime dripped into me
and I cried,
master, master.
I once had a dog. I was the dog’s owner. The dog’s name was Chispa. He was a cute little brown and white puppy that was a Lhasa Apso. I loved my little Chispa. He loved to take walks and play in the snow. One time when it snowed a bunch in Denver, we let him out and he went frolicking and it was so funny to watch him.
“People aren’t cargo, mate.” -Captain Jack Sparrow
now that’s what I call character development
remember that no one OWNS you. you’re a person. you own yourself.
my brother would always say my mother owned me and i’d tell him he was wrong.
The word owner reminds me of ‘boner.’ I don’t like boners. Like, if I had a boner, I would probably like it because I have a girlfriend and I could stick it in her. It would feel really good, but I don’t know how good, because a penis doesn’t have as many nerves as a clitoris and I don’t know how good sex really feels without the stimulation of sticking like, a full on clit into your gf’s vagina…
honda odyssey, chevrolet silverado, not a home. I have owned many things in my life, some possessions small and some large, some precious, some not so much. The little things I have owned seem to have brought the most awe and inspiration, like the hummingbird nest I found on the ground yesterday built with the leftover hair from the dog we walk many mornings and brush on our front porch, Roxy.
the owner of the store hated me. The feeling was mutual. I could not, for the life of me how his hatred originated. Maybe it was the because of the one time when I stole a candy from his shop two years ago.
of my heart, it didn’t take you very long. To think, i came here to be free.
I was suggested this web site by means of my cousin.
I am no longer positive whether or not this submit is written via him as nobody else realize such precise approximately my trouble.
You’re amazing! Thank you!
I am an owner of a computer. Computer is the medium of knowledge and communication. I really appreciate how the world has become small through computer.
Peggy always felt like she was a free woman. She always knew where she was going and had nothing to stop her. But as soon as she stepped into the automat, that waitress had a hold on her. And now she’s the anchor on her old ship, and she keeps Peggy at bay. She keeps her grounded… keeps her calm.
I crawled across the floor, blood dripping from my lip where I had been pistol whipped. I would have no owner.
She was the cartographer of her own dreams. Her caricatures in life would shape her destiny. Sh was the owner of the key to her happiness.
If only, she knew she had so much.