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Tic With It
Tourette Syndrome Association, Inc.
Detroit-East Michigan Chapter
June, 2000
Think of this as back issues

To sumbit items for the current page
Of Non-Alcoholic Miller Times
From childhood I had my Miller times.
There was Müller's Market, and oh the treats they sold.
The Halloween goodies, the fake cigarettes.
Oh, those fake cigarettes!
White cardboard with red foil tips.
You blew
And chalk dust smoked out of the red foil.
For and eleven year old
Out to shock the grown-ups!
"How terrible and tragic--smoking!"
"A child of that age!" Tee Hee.

In my teens, there was Mitch Miller
With whom I sang along.
What a musician. Still love 'im.
At twenty, twenty-one, My first voting,
Mt first volunteering
For the politics we Irishmen love.
Poor old Barry Goldwater! What
A verbal beating we gave him,
If he'd but known, and the poor old dear knew!
But oh, his far-less-deserving running mate.
The fun of zinging the Mothmiller!
There was B. Miller, my A.A. buddy,
And along with the fun
Of living in the past, my media folks,
Merle Miller, God rest his soul.
Still a hell of a writer,
And good people, good friends, Miller, Müller, Mueller.
I could keep elaborating
But, you may be sure,
We sober people have great Miller times, too.




This page coninues to grow
and the opinions expressed
continue to be those of the authors.
They are not necessarily
those of the editor
or of the Tourette Syndrome Association
or of this Chapter.

This page has grown so much that it is now necessary to put the older contributions into the archives

A Day in the Life of TS
The alarm goes off...
I shake, shake, shake.

I get out of bed...
I'm not awake, awake, awake.

Jump in the shower...
And I begin to holler, holler, holler.

Dry myself off...
Then I cough, cough, cough.

I do my hair...
And I get something to wear, wear, wear.

Then I eat my breakfast...
I didn't get any rest, rest, rest.

The bus is here...
And I get my gear, gear, gear.

I'm off to school...
This isn't cool, cool, cool.

I'm going through my day...
My Tics are getting in the way, way, way.

All I can hear is that darn old clock...
Tic-Toc, Tic-Toc, Tic-Toc.

The bell rings...
I gotta get my things, things, things.

My school day is done...
I want to run, run, run.

Back on the bus...
I start to fuss, fuss, fuss.

Pull up in front of my home...
All my mind does in roam, roam, roam.

I walk through the door...
And I drop to the floor, floor, floor.

I need a break...
But again I shake, shake, shake.

Through the whole night my
brain goes on and off, like a switch...
And I twitch, twitch, twitch.

It's time for bed...
And I can't shut off my head, head, head.

When will this end...
Here I go again, again, again.

Kowdy & August Bumbalough

To Play Catchup
When I was fifteen
I learned to keep my lips closed.
I had seen a dear retarded boy
Whose mouth hung open.
Having never done it before a mirror,
I never imagined what he did applied to me.
Then, at camp, one of the "popular" girls
Stood, letting her mouth hang down
To mock me--a girl I emulated.
In the bunkhouse, I would practice, practice, practice
To hold it closed, breathe through my nose.
I mastered it, was proud for a few minutes.
Only a few minutes. Then it hit me.
My efforts had not resulted
In any charm or special skill
Only in being socially acceptable.
Other kids in the bunkhouse
Worked that hard for pretty hairstyles and such.
My practice only resulted
In what was expected of me.
In only what they had already.

Kitte Braman

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