Worthness

[igornoob 0]

Ela Jogando de Phoenix Deu um Dual eu Pensei que ia morre e Ela se Mato!

 

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Sempre soube que ela é um lixo agora Se matar desse Jeito.

kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

[GuardianMefisto 2]

suahusa Worthness e seus fans que Vibram quando ela faz alguma cagada

[Myukeen 0]

Vai lalando que essa muié ae (o sexo dela é feminino mesmo) a matou 3 de uma vez, tem mais de 200 de força. Que topeira.

[ExBoot 2]

kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!¹²³³¹²¹²³¹²³¹²³12

 

eu sabia que o wortness era lixo mais n tanto akspokaksakposa:D

[jepemaxine 1]

Mano,pq zua com ela po,eu coheço ela e ela eh mo gente boa,kem ve voceis nunk erraram..:cool::mad:

[bielzin012 0]

:mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad::mad:

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[xicoxx08 0]

VEI NA MORAL,EU NUNCA JOGUEI COM ELE,E COM ELA,MAS POUTS,VENDO AI ,PARECE QUE ELA EH PIOR QUE MEU AMIGO,MARTELO DE MADEIRA DUPLO,ELE ACERTA 10 E ERRA 100 ,KKKKKKKKKKKKK,MAS SÓ ACERTA PQ SÓ VAI DE SG,xD

[taotao 0]

Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to live each day as if we should die tomorrow. Such an attitude would emphasize sharply the values of life. We should live each day with a gentleness, a vigor, and a keenness of appreciation which are often lost when time stretches before us in the constant panorama of more days and months and years to come. There are those, of course, who would adopt the Epicurean motto of "Eat, drink, and be merry," but most people would be chastened by the certainty of impending death.

 

　　In stories the doomed hero is usually saved at the last minute by some stroke of fortune, but almost always his sense of values is changed. he becomes more appreciative of the meaning of life and its permanent spiritual values. It hasoften been noted that those who live, or have lived, in the shadow of death bring a mellow sweetness to everything they do. (

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　　Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that one day we must die, but usually we picture that day as far in the future. When we are in buoyant health, death is all but unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch out in an endless vista. So we go about our petty tasks, hardly aware of our listless attitude toward life.

 

　　The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our faculties and senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing, only the blind realize the manifold blessings that lie in sight. Particularly does this observation apply to those who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those who have never suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these blessed faculties. Their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily, without concentration and with little appreciation. It is the same old story of not being grateful for what we have until we lose it, of not being conscious of health until we are ill.(

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　I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight; silence would tech him the joys of sound.

 

　　Now and them I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see. Recently I was visited by a very good friends who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed…"Nothing in particular, "she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been accustomed to such reposes, for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little.

 

　　How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough, shaggy bark of a pine. In the spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter's sleep. I feel the delightful, velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable convolutions; and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have the cool waters of a brook rush thought my open finger. To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug. To me the page ant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the action of which streams through my finger tips.

 

　　At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little. the panorama of color and action which fills the world is taken for granted. It is human, perhaps, to appreciate little that which we have and to long for that which we have not, but it is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used only as a mere conveniences rather than as a means of adding fullness to life. (

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　　If I were the president of a university I should establish a compulsory course in "How to Use Your Eyes". The professor would try to show his pupils how they could add joy to their lives by really seeing what passes unnoticed before them. He would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties.

 

　　Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what I should most like to see if I were given the use of my eyes, say, for just three days. And while I am imagining, suppose you, too, set your mind to work on the problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had only three more days to see. If with the on-coming darkness of the third night you knew that the sun would never rise for you again, how would you spend those three precious intervening days? What would you most want to let your gaze rest upon?

 

　　I, naturally, should want most to see the things which have become dear to me through my years of darkness. You, too, would want to let your eyes rest on the things that have become dear to you so that you could take the memory of them with you into the night that loomed before you (

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The Man was very sad. He knew that the Cat’s days were numbered.The doctor had said there wasn’t anything more that could be done,that he should take the Cat home and make him as comfortable as possible.

　　The man stroked the Cat on his lap and sighed.The Cat opened his eyes, purred and looked up at the Man. A tear rolled down the Man’s cheek and landed on the Cat’s forehead.The Cat gave him a slightly annoyed look.

　　“Why do you cry, Man？”the Cat asded.“Because you can’t bear the thought of losing me？ Because you think you can never replace me？”The Man nodded “yes.”

　　“And where do you think I’ll be when I leave you？”the Cat asked. The Man shrugged helplessly. “Close your eyes, Man,” the Cat said. The Man gave him a questioning look, but did as he was told.

　　“What color are my eyes and fur？” the Cat asked. “Your eyes are gold and your fur is a rich, warm brown,” the Man replied. (

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　　“And where is it that you most often see me？”asked the Cat. “I see you…on the kitchen windowsill watching the birds…on my favorite chair…on my desk lying on the papers I need…on the pillow next to my head at night.” “Then, whenever you wish to see me, all you must do is close your eyes,” said the Cat.

　　“Pick up that piece of string from the floor——there, my ‘toy.’” The Man opened his eyes, then reached over and picked up the string. It was about two feet long and the Cat had been able to entertain himself for hours with it. “Now take each end of the string in one hand,” the Cat ordered. The Man did so.

　　“The end in your left hand is my birth and the end in your right hand is my death. Now bring the two ends together,” the Cat said. The Man complied.

　　“You have made a continuous circle,” said the cat.“Does any point along the string appear to be different, worse or better than any other part of the string？” The Man inspected the string and then shook his head “no.”

　　“Close your eyes again,” the Cat said.“Now lick your hand.” The Man widened his eyes in surprise.

　　“Just do it,” the Cat said.“Lick your hand,think of me in all my familiar places, think about all the pieces of string.” (

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　　The Man felt foolish, licking his hand, but he did as he was told. He discovered what a cat must know, that licking a paw is very calming and allows one to think more clearly. He continued licking and the corners of his mouth turned upward into the first smile he had shown in days. He waited for the Cat to tell him to stop,and when he didn’t, he opened his eyes. The Cat’s eyes were closed.The Man stroked the warm, brown fur, but the Cat was gone.

　　The Man shut his eyes hard as the tears poured down his face. He saw the Cat on the windowsill, then in his bed, then lying across his important papers. He saw him on the pillow next to his head, saw his bright gold eyes and darkest brown on his nose and ears. He opened his eyes and through his tears looked over at the circle of string he still held clutched in his hand.

　　One day, not long after, there was a new Cat on his lap. She was a lovely calico and white…very different from his earlier beloved Cat and very much the same