Maba umm

Life, recently.

Sweet mother of all that is holy and good, you guys, my heart has been so weary.

It feels like my skin is flipped inside out and I’m staring wide-eyed directly into the blazing hot sun during hurricane-grade winds that just will not let up. So many of our brothers and sisters are hurting. Deeply hurting. And it’s making everything feel so raw and rough and threatening. The dark moments have blurred into one endless teardrop and we are sad and scared.

Here is my recall on recent days in a series of brutal soundbites:

A four-year-old boy slips away from his parents at the zoo. Perhaps you know this feeling, too. If you don’t, allow me to humbly confirm that it is excruciating. In the moments to follow, this little explorer makes his way into a cage where he meets eyeball-to-eyeball with silverback gorillas. Can you even imagine it. The eldest gorilla, Harambe, is shot dead by zoo staff to ensure the child’s safety. The boy is returned to his parents with only scrapes and bruises. Thank you, God. Social media explodes. We’re outraged that the gorilla couldn’t be saved. We argue about whether the zoo staff is competent to do their jobs. We are critical of the parents for being so careless and terrible at life. We blame the zoo for faulty cages. We form strong positions on how WE would have managed these circumstances if the shoe were on the other foot, and when people don’t agree with us we simply scream louder. And, with all the noise we sort of forget about this little boy and his parents who just experienced something horrific and were no doubt crippled with an intense and unimaginable fear as this situation unfolded.

A college student rapes an unconscious young woman behind a dumpster. He is tried in court by a judge who offers terribly misguided empathy in the form of an abysmally short jail sentence. Social media explodes. We’re outraged that the judge went so easy on this criminal. We hate this rapist. We despise this rapist’s family. We spend a good deal of time discussing his picture and swimming career and passion for the culinary arts and his failing appetite. We toss around some memes because they have taken over the space where nervous laughter and awkward silence use to exist. We argue about whether we should use the term assault or rape. Attempts are made to shine a light on this victim and the brave young men that contacted the police. But, then more darkness strikes and we sort of forget about this girl who was left wounded and vulnerable and no doubt crippled with an intense and unimaginable fear in the wake of the attack.

A talented musician is shot dead after a live show. We are shocked and sad but only for about a minute because the evil that hits next sends us directly to our knees and we sort of forget about this beautiful soul taken from earth much too soon.

Friends and lovers are dancing and enjoying life at their favorite nightclub when a man opens fire, spraying bullets into the crowd. People run for exits. People collapse into pools of blood. People are trapped in small spaces. People desperately text loved ones but then the messages just stop coming. Can you even imagine the receiving and then the waiting. There is panic and screaming and helping and rescuing and sacrificing. The murderer is shot dead by police. Forty-nine people are dead. Many more are injured. The worst mass shooting in our country, ever. In an instant, everything is changed forever. Social media explodes. We’re angry about loose gun laws. We’re angry that people want to take our guns away. We argue about guns. We yell about mental health. We blame Muslims. We blame terrorists. We blame gay people. We blame the government. We blame the POTUS. We’re scared for our children. We’re scared for us. We’re scared for ME and MY CHILDREN. Itmaybe becomes more about protecting ourselves than we might be willing to admit. And while we’re shouting at each other we sort of forget that forty-nine funerals are being planned. Fifty if you include the young musician that we’ve already forgotten about.

A family is vacationing at the most magical place on earth. Millions of families have visited this very spot. But on this night at this time, while wading in shallow water by the resort, their toddler is attacked by an alligator and they watch on in desperation as this giant reptile drags their son out into dark water.Can you even imagine it. Police recover the child’s tiny, lifeless body. Social media explodes. We write more articles about perfect parenting. We write more articles about empathy. We blame the hotel for faulty signage. We blame the parents for being just the worst ever. While we are distracted with tidying up our glass houses we sort of forget that SOMEONE’S BABY WAS JUST KILLED BY AN ALLIGATOR.

And, you guys, how about the many among us who are quietly mourning life’s hardest moments from somewhere off camera, tucked away from social spaces? The five-year-old girl who just lost her battle with cancer. The mother who is saying goodbye to her transgender son who committed suicide because the bullying left him feeling absolutely unworthy. The blissfully-in-love young couple whose vehicle is struck head on by a drunk driver, instantly erasing their plans for a beautiful future together.

The hurting is always there, with or without our yelling and blaming and anger and righteousness. Isn’t it?

And all of these hateful and ugly things are making people frustrated and defensive and scared. And I absolutely get it. I’m frustrated, too. It is frustrating that we use up precious real estate yelling at each other. Space where love could live.And all of our finger-pointing and asking for our problems to be solved outside of ourselves leaves me feeling discouraged. Because the only difference we can ever really truly make is an inside job. I’m frustrated by our unwavering desire to be right. How can we possibly HEAR anything over all of our rightness? I’m concerned by how much we allow fear to lead usA lot concerned, actually. It’s disheartening that humans all over our world are still regularly persecuted for attempting to be their authentic selves. There is so much hurting, everywhere. I’m frustrated that privilege is still power and it continues to make parts of us feel less than.

But, honestly, our frustrations aren’t helpful unless they motivate us to actually HELP. Right? And our choices are so important. Like many of you, I am acutely aware of how my reactions to life impact my kid’s reactions. They see us. They hear us. They mirror us. What reflection do we want staring back at them,even (and especially) when life feels unkind?

I recently read a sentiment that suggested we have “gone soft” as parents and this has led to a generation of wholly ungrateful and undisciplined and disrespectful young people. Our young people. And while the message didn’t resonate with me, that’s okay (it is more than okay, actually). I’m grateful to this friend for sharing because it made me stop and think deeply about what I really want for my kids. And it is this:

I want my kids to be soft. 

I do.

In a world full of rough edges and sharp corners, I want to raise humans who are gentle and kind.

When life is dark, I want them to always ALWAYS look for the light. And when fear’s grip tightens (which will happen because fear is a controlling a–hole), I want them to know that FEAR IS NEVER LIGHT. Ever. And this is the part where I hold their face in my hands and say,This is most important, baby. Please listen. Because fear is so convincing and it will take every ounce of their strength to remember in those hard moments that fear is never loving. Or kind. Or generous. Or compassionate. In fact, fear can’t survive in proximity to any of these things. When the world asks them to be scared and angry, I hope they are brave enough to lead relentlessly and unapologetically with love.

When they feel helpless and ready to toss up their hands to it all because they can’t do everything, I want them to remember that not everything is never a better or more helpful choice than at least something. And I hope the something they choose will be in support of WE not ME. And that they define WE as EVERY PART OF US. Because if their own comfort requires someone else to suffer, then that’s not really about us. That’s ego, and he is tooootally self-centered. And saying no to ego will be one of their most challenging life lessons. Because what could be more tempting than ensuring life feels great for ME and conveniently forgetting that all of those people over there are actually part of the very same humankind? Sweet child(ren) o’ mine, please BE HUMAN KIND.

I want them to know that life is mostly (read: completely) defined by our reaction to it. And this is a biggie, right guys? I mean, if we could band together and train up a giant flock of kind champions who also have the awareness needed to question their thinking and reaction to life, doesn’t that seem like some serious parenting triumph??

I want them to not only imagine what we would be capable of TOGETHER if we listened more than we defended, reached out more than we pushed away, celebrated our unique viewpoints more than we insulted our differences. I want them to DO and BE these things.

I want them to know that the path to peace is one paved with love. Love isn’t the solution. It’s how we get there.

The world needs our softness, kids.
Let’s do this thing.

English language

I’ve wasted my life. I’m fifty-years-old and cooking french fries for people who are too lazy to do it themselves. Droplets of grease weigh down my arm hair, and my skin shines with sweat. It’s a hundred degrees back here, and all day I’ve been lugging twenty-pound boxes from the freezer across the slick floor so these slobs can have their chicken strips, onion rings, and breaded fish fillets.

I yank a large bag from the mini-freezer beside the fryer, rip off a corner, and tilt it over an empty basket. Frozen fries tumble out in chunks of stuck together sticks. Crumbs escape through the mesh and crackle in the three hundred and fifty degree oil. I lift the basket from the holster and set it into the amber pool. The frost coating the fries explodes to steam with a symphony of sizzles and snaps. The surging bubbles form a mound above the fryer basket as if soon to be followed by an emerging submarine. Oil mists onto the surrounding stainless steel, some dotting my work shirt.

“You realize we’re in the middle of a lunch rush, correct?” my boss, Richard, asks. “We don’t have time for you to stand around daydreaming. Wake up and drop more cheese curds.”

Silent, I open the mini-freezer and extract a bag of curds. I don’t speak to Robert much. I don’t look at him much either if I can avoid it. Passive aggression is the only way I can safely communicate to him how much of a douchebag he is without risking an outburst like the one that got me in trouble ten years ago.

I didn’t take this kind of shit in prison. I wouldn’t have survived if I did. But I’m in the real world now, and sometimes in the real world you have to bend over and take it or they’ll find someone who will.

“How long on the grilled chicken?” the expediter hollers.

“Thirty seconds,” someone responds.

Sounds string together endlessly through the day, the slam of microwave doors, the clink and scrape of metal spatulas on the grill top, beeping timers, rustling wrappers.

Back again comes Richard’s nasally, never-quite-left-puberty voice: “I need those cheese curds now.”

“I can’t make them cook faster,” I say, still staring at the rumbling oil because if I look at him I might throw a haymaker. Eight hours a day, four days a week I listen to this shit.

“If you would have dropped them five minutes ago instead of wandering off to La La Land they’d be done by now.”

“It’s too late for that, isn’t it? I don’t think anyone is going to starve to death if they go another sixty seconds without cheese curds.”

“Cut the smart-guy act and get it done. Why don’t you have more chicken strips cooking? There’s only four left over here.”

“I’m getting to it.”

“Then hurry up and get to it!”

He speedwalks toward the counter. His arms pump when he walks. Nevermind that he treats me with such disrespect, that prissy strut alone is enough to make me want to swing a mopstick at his temple.

Thirty-two hours a week of minimum wage is not enough to rebuild a life from scratch. I used to work a full forty until my old manager quit and Richard got promoted. Now he creates the schedule, and he has been chipping away my livelihood ever since. Next week he only put me down for three days.

With so much struggle and so little to show for it, my quality of life begs questions about the purpose of living it at all. I rent a mattress on the floor of an old classmate’s unfinished basement, and his welcoming nature has been fading ever since his girlfriend started staying over more. I eat only the food I can sneak from the restaurant. When I have several days off in a row I’m forced to ration it, and it does not age well. Hamburgers harden and buns turn stale, grilled chicken becomes oddly gelatinous, onion rings grow soggy and amoebic.

Beep beep beep… Beep beep beep… The leftmost digital display flashes red zeros. I lift the basket and rack it. Oil rains from the golden, glistening fries and lands in the fryer like drizzle on a pond. I press the ‘Clear’ button to silence the timer. The display to the right is counting down from twenty. Robert’s precious cheese curds are nearly done.

I wouldn’t say I ever had it all together. I used to work construction with cash from odd jobs on the side, respectable enough but nothing to brag about. I had a son. His mother left me. I had a girlfriend. After the incident, she left me too. My son visited me once in prison. I was escorted, wearing handcuffs and a pink jumpsuit, into a room so thick with disinfectant it was hard to breathe. Not much was said. We sat across from each other at a crumbling fiberboard table in scratched folding chairs and tried to blink away our tears and stifle our quivering chins. I don’t blame him for not coming back. Visits between us would have only served as painful reminders that I was no longer the father he deserved.

He turned twenty-five last week, and wherever he is, he is old enough to know he doesn’t want me.

I lost everything and everyone because of Benny Parisi. That skinny little rat fuck shouldn’t have been even a sliver of my life, but he became the biggest piece.

I don’t care what they say, marijuana is not a drug. If it weren’t for the random drug tests mandated by my parole I’d be panhandling and robbing change from wishing wells just to buy it. And if I were high, Richard’s pathetic attempt at the biggest ego in the restaurant would make me laugh instead of pulling on the hairs of my patience. I bet alcohol does more harm in a week than marijuana has done in its entire existence. The only bad thing I’ve ever known weed to do was introduce me to Benny Parisi.

He was like the junkie’s farmer’s market. If it was in season, he had it. For a long time I resisted his sales pitches and stuck to the pot, but he was like a cracked-out used car salesman with an enthusiasm that made his invitations for test drives strangely convincing.

One evening, ten years ago, Benny offered me a sweet deal on a car he had just got on the lot, and as he talked through cracked lips and looked at me through bloodshot eyes bulging from sunken sockets, he couldn’t say enough good things about it. It was sleek, white, sexy, and fast. It was cocaine.

I should’ve known something was wrong when he offered me the price he did. I told him the ounce of weed I was buying would help me celebrate my fortieth. He convinced me to take the party to the next level, and offered me a “special birthday price” to do so.

That shit was laced with something. A half-hour after the first lines I started getting dizzy. I began to sweat at forty-five minutes and soon after had to peel off my shirt, because it looked like I had jumped into a lake. After an hour my muscles started twitching. My jaw locked. Sounds grew washy. My mouth dried of spit, and my tongue tasted like metal.

I didn’t know what to do. I needed help but couldn’t call 911 unless I wanted to wake up cuffed to a hospital bed. Benny will have answers, I thought. He fucking better, I thought. He lived on the opposite side of the trailer court. I put on a dry shirt and stumbled toward him through copper streetlamp spotlights, tripping over speed bumps, paranoid of black-veiled night-ghosts flashing in and out of my peripheral. They haunted me the whole walk though they were never there when I looked.

I scaled the wobbly steps at the back door of Benny’s trailer and knocked. No response. I knocked again. No response. I knocked again.

“Who is it?” came a muffled voice from the other side.

“Mark,” I responded, holding myself up with help from the railing.

“It’s one a.m. What do you want?”

“I need more shit,” I said, knowing to appeal to his greed, because he wouldn’t open if I told him the real reason I came.

He laughed. “You’re a fiend, bro.”

I heard the knob unlock, and the door opened my direction. He turned and led me to the living room. My hands guided me along the walls down the hallway.

“That coke’s good shit, huh?” Benny said.

“What’d you do to it?” I asked.

I reached the end of the hall. Light bled across the living room from his iguana tank.

“What’re you talkin’ about?” he asked.

“What the fuck did you do to it? There’s something wrong with that shit.”

“You’re trippin’, bro. You need to go home and sleep it off.”

“Goddammit, Benny, what did you do?” I’m not sure if it was the adrenaline or what, but something breathed clarity through the fog in my mind, and behind that fog lived rage.

“Leave, bro,” he said with a finger pointed toward the back door. “Now.”

He stood beside the couch as did his four-foot bong. I grabbed it, turned my hips, and brought it up like a golf club into the bottom of his chin. Gray, burnt-smelling water poured down the tube and along my arms, cascading down the sleeves of my shirt, soaking into the front and running down to seep into my underwear, lukewarm. Benny pancaked backward onto the coffee table with a thunk and the splintering of wood. I brought the bong over my head, the remaining resin water pissing into my hair and rolling down my face, and I swung it down like an axe. The orb on the bottom, clear glass swirled with cream to look like smoke and streaked with lime green and orange, buried itself into his abdomen. The oxygen burst from him with a whoof. The table legs snapped from the screws and the top dropped. Off rolled Benny. The strength of the bong astounded me. I brought it down on his lower back again and again, and it did not shatter. I whipped it at the iguana tank which was apparently not as hefty, because it exploded with the sound of miniature bells and shot forth glass shards glistening like icicles. His stunned iguana lay trapped, perhaps dead, underneath the bong, and though spiderwebbed with cracks it still had not broken.

I vaguely remember tripping down the stairs outside his back door and the feel of gravel on the side of my face. Despite my previous precaution not to call 911, I woke up cuffed to a hospital bed.

Due to Benny Parisi’s broken jaw, ribs, and internal bleeding, the jury considered the bong to be a deadly weapon and found me guilty of felony aggravated assault.

My body jolts sideways. Timer beeps echo back into my ears along with Richard’s voice, “What the hell are you doing? They’re burnt!”

I look over and see the redness of his face behind steamed glasses and his arm extended toward me, and I realize he just pushed me.

“Which hand do you write with?” I ask.


“Are you right-handed or left-handed?”

“Right,” Richard says. “What does that have to do with anything?”

I snatch his left forearm and clamp all ten of my fingers around it. He tries to wiggle free, but he’s not near strong enough.

“I asked,” I say, “because I don’t want to disable you too badly. I just want to teach you a lesson.”

I rip his left arm in the direction of the fryer and push it toward the oil until his hand disappears beneath the surface. It crackles and roars like popcorn and static at full volume. The grease bubbles violently as does his skin. Drops spatter the air. They fall on my arms and the backs of my hands with the tiny stings of nettles. He doesn’t scream as I expected him to, but rather his mouth bursts open in silence, and his eyelids peel back nearly as far as his thin lips. I pull his hand out and shove him. His feet wipe away from the slick tile, and his head crashes down upon it and bounces back up before he rolls over and grabs his forearm where my hands were only a moment ago, his crispy skin sagging from his bones. Finally he finds the air to scream, and he bellows with sobs and indiscernible babble.

I step over him and walk to the expediter window. I survey the food waiting to be handed to the customers. I take two bacon cheeseburgers, their warm buns squishing under my fingertips as I clutch the waxy wrappers. I pull a large cup from a stack beside the register and walk to the soda fountain where I fill it halfway with ice then to the brim with frothy brown root beer.

There’s a lot of commotion around me, people and voices and movement, but for the first time in a while I feel peace. At least in prison I had a few friends, real conversations, and a hot meal three times a day. I sit at a booth by a window while I wait for the police to arrive. The sun is beautiful today. The breeze nudges the heads of tulips to and fro. I eat a couple of burgers. I slurp my root beer through a straw.

Just for imagination

Cara menjadi orang sukses di usia muda tentunya bukan cara yang mustahil bisa anda terapkan juga apabila memang anda memiliki keinginan untuk bisa meraih kesuksesan semuda mungkin, namun kita semua juga harus paham bahwasanya kesuksesan bukanlah hal yang bisa di capai hanya dengan santai berada dalam zona nyaman kehidupan, kesuksesan bukan ibarat hujan yang turun dari langin, karena kesuksesan bisa menghampiri seseorang apabila ia punya usaha dan menerapakan cara menjadi orang sukses di usia muda.

Banyak cara menjadi orang sukses di usia muda, diantara langkah umum yang perlu kita pahami ialah bagaimana supaya kita bisa melakukan apa yang juga di lakukan oleh mereka yang bisa sukses di usia muda.

Sukses usia muda adalah impian bagi banyak orang, namun dari sekian banyak yang ingin sukses di usia muda hanya segelintir orang yang bisa meraihnya, mengapa demikian, dimana letak kesalahannya?… jawabannya singkat “ karena tidak melakukan cara menjadi orang sukses di usia muda” itu saja.

Lalu apa saja Straregi agar bisa sukses di usia muda?..oke kita akan bahas satu persatu secara global bagaimana caranya menjadi orang sukses di usia muda berikut ini :

1. Punya Niat dan Keinginan Yang Kuat

Untuk sukses di usia muda harus punya niat sukses dan memiliki keinginan untuk sukses, jangan hanya menghayal saja tapi tekadkan niat anda dengan kuat dan tanamkan ambisi yang membara bahwa anda harus bisa sukses.

2. Memiliki Impian Sukses

Bermimpilah karena bermimpi itu gratis, jangan hiraukan perkataan orang lain tentang mimpi anda, karena mimpi mampu menjadi bahan bakar semangat anda. Tuliskan impian anda sebanyak – banyaknya pada sebuah buku, lalu baca dan baca bila perlu tempelkan pada dinding yang sering anda lihat. tetaplah jaga semangat dan Motivasi sukses anda.

3. Punya Tujuan Sukses

Untuk sukses di usia muda harus punya tujuan, tentukan tujuan anda, buatlah menjadi 3 bagian : Tujuan jangka pendek,menengah dan tujuan jangka panjang.


Untuk indonesia

14th diperkosa 14 orang. 19th diperkosa 19 orang.
Selamat datang di INDONESIA dimana teman bisa
jadi pacar, pacar bsa jadi mantan, mantan bisa jadi
pacar. Selamat datang di INDONESIA dimana anak SD
manggilnya ayah bunda. Anak smp diperkosa
sampe mati, anak SMA ngaku anak pejabat
polri, anak kuliahan bunuh dosennya gara” sekripsi
ditolak. Sonya D, Anak yg memaki polwan yg menghentikan kendaraannya kini menjadi Duta NARKOBA.
Zazkia G, Pekerjaan penyanyi dangdut terkenal dengan goyang itik, sangat tidak
mendidik . menghina simbol negara dan kini
menjadi Duta PANCASILA.
Nurmayani s, Guru yg mencubit anak muridnya karna nakal kini DIPENJARA. SELAMAT
DATANG DI INDONESIA. Hanya ada di INDONESIA. DI Jepang korupsi di harakiri
sampe mati . Di korea utara orang salah di hukum mati . Di china koruptor di hukum mati . Di INDONESIA orang SALAH DI BELA
SAMPE MATIII. NENEK ASYANI mencuri 2 batang pohon vonis 1 tahun penjara. Pt BUMI MEKAR HIJAU membakar 20.000 hektar hutan VONIS TIDAK BERSALAH. Maling sandal seharga 5rb VONIS 5 thn penjara. KORUPSI 21.2M VONIS 4,5 TAHUN PENJARA. SELAMAT DATANG DI
mental anak sekolahnya pada cengeng, DIJEWER
lalu Guru di penjara, lalu Guru di cukur balik
siapa yg pntas untuk disalahkan? Siapakah
kini pelipurlara nan setia? TELAH HILANG
INI. Siapakah kini pahlawan hati , pembela


Little story

Ditengah maraknya kasus pemerkosaan/kekerasan
seksual terhadap anak2, baru2 ini terjadi hal yang
mengerikan di kota pemalang.
Akibat pergaulan bebas, seperti yang di beritakan
Pemalang Post edisi hari ini.
Seorang gadis SMA, berinisial GD melakukan
hubungan intim bersama pacarnya sehingga
HAMIL, nasi sudah jadi bubur, aborsi pun hendak
Apa mau dikata ternyata janin yang ada didalam
perutnya cukup kuat hingga obat apapun yang
dipakai tidak dapat menggugurkannya.
Tapi pada saat kehamilan mencapai 3 bulan, ketika
GD berada di sekolah, dia mengalami pendarahan,
kemudian dengan alasan terjadi kebocoran pada
pembalutnya, GD mohon izin untuk ke WC.
Setelah 1 jam GD tidak kembali ke kelas, gurunya
merasa curiga dan menyusulnya ke WC,
mendapatkan pintu WC terkunci dan tidak ada
Gurunya menggedor pintu terus menerus,
sementara itu di dalam WC, janin yang di kandung
GD akhirnya gugur keluar.
Karna terkejut dan takut ketahuan gurunya, GD
mengambil janin dan MEMAKANNYA…
Tetapi sebelum janin dimakan habis, gurunya
berhasil membuka pintu WC.
Pemandangan yang cukup mengerikan, GD dengan
tubuh dan baju bersimbah darah, janin yang di
pegang di tangan sebagian berada di mulut.
Dengan tabah gurunya memberikan sesuatu pada
nya sambil berkata………”
Apapun makanannya….
Minum nya Teh botol Sosro..!!!
Serius amat baca nya



Ramdhan penuh berkah

Assalamualaikum warahmatullahi wabarakaatuh. Ya kembali lagi bersama saya dancow yang kali ini saya akan menerangkan tentang bulan ramadhan yang skrg ini sedang kita jalani. Dalam berpuasa janganlah kita berprilaku seperti orang yang kelaparan atau kehausan.  Karena jika puasa kita seperti itu maka kita hanya akan mendaaptkan lapar dan dahaga.  Lakukanlah hal2 yang positive seperti belajar atau beribadah kpd allah dan lain sebagainya seperti contoh gambar di bawah ini


Adapun hal hal lain yang membuat puasa anda menjadi lebih bermanfaat tapi saya hanya bisa menjelaskan sampai disini thank you for reading wassalaamualaikum warahmatullaahi wabarakaatuh 😉

Maba UMM


Halo guys nama gue syahril shabirin gue dikasih nama panggilan sama my lovely parent yang sama sekali engga nyambung sama nama panjang gue yaitu “dani” kalo nama gue pas gue masih bocah ingusan sih nyokap gue suka manggil gue dengan panggilan kesayangan yaitu lu mau tau apa?  Haha gue di panggil “dancow” guys  sama nyokap
wkwkwk nama yang persis banget dengn salah satu diantara merek susu di indonesia. Oke gue skrg tinggal di jl.tlogomas gang 15 c no 12 dan sebelumnya gue tinggal di jakarta selatan. Gue lulusan MA Daarul Uluum Lido yang berlokasikan di daerah antara bogor dan Sukabumi. Selama 6 thn gue hidup di daerah jabodetabek mulai dari gue masih menduduki bangku mts kelas 1 di pondok yang udah gue tulis diatas. Penasaran gue asli mana? Haha kasitau ga yaa?? Wkwk canda guys . Oke gue lahir di kota TIDORE kepulauan kelurahan GURABATI RT 07 RW 03. MALUKU UTARA. fix ini tanah kelahiran gue mau liat sekilas? Silah kan


Ini adalah foto saat gue pulang kampung pas gue udah lulus aliyah guys oh iya lupa gue lulusan thun 2015 brarti foto ini diambil pada thun 2015 lalu guys. Oke ada lagi foto yang gue punya yaitu foto kedaton tidore guys silahkan dilihat


Ini dia kedaton tidore yang gue mksud keren kan tanah kelahiran gue wkwkwk.  Oke untuk informasi selanjutnya lu bisa ngehubungin gue lewat beberapa sosmed yang bakal gue cantumkan di bawah ini.  Thank you guys.

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