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Play nearly 2,400 classic MS-DOS,Atari,Sega games for free

The Internet Archive has made it possible to play tons of games that were available on Atari, MS DOS and sega right in your browser,There are over 2,400 MS-DOS games that can be played without paying a rupee. The new browser-based emulator is still in beta, so we might face some bugs, but it includes a huge range of classics. That includes the likes of id Software's Commander Keen, the apocalyptic RPG Wasteland, the original Prince of Persia, early FPS games like Wolfenstein 3D, and many more. 

So, lets dive again into childhood and play the classical original games once again. here I come.............

Check out all of the games right here.

If you have anxiety...you need marijuana in your life.

Now, depending on the level of trauma some folks are living with today,  could determine what amount of healing/therapy they might need in addition to using Mj, but I promise promise promise this is the healing power of the Earth people, not a drug or narcotic, but a relaxing-ish herb. I felt like I was about to lose my mind today. And I seriously do not have problems. I have made up worries and overwhelming doubt and hormones and such...but I do not know how to deal with anxiety very well at all. Journaling kind of helps. Talking to a friend kind of helps. But nothing helps me in the depth of my soul and mind more than vaporizing/puffing Mj.

I promise you as one millennial mother to another, growing up in this land of chaos and privilege, we have never really truly known the hardships of life, most of us, and it makes us kind of... anxiety-ridden. How or why I'm not sure...but we grew up in a haze of like, seriously, the Jetson's coming to life... from once whence upon a thought of the "totally impossible" future. But then it came. In the 90's. So I'm talking to you guys who just get it, who aren't out trying to harm others, whom just want to live a good, peaceful, happy life in the quiet of your home. I promise, put down the pipe or needle or bottle, never pick those up, and instead only only pick up a happy pipe full of earth's natural grass... marijuana aka~ bud aka cannabis aka a million other names for. I would go back to my 17-year-old self, the one whom was actually at one point looking to 'feel better' and asked a couple friends what she could 'take to feel better,' and was told, "just smoke weed." But what if they hadn't? What if they'd said something else? Maybe I would've tried it! I just got lucky.

So now, I would say No No, No drugs or drinking or ciggs...... just smoke or vape weed, just like she said... in her honor just smoke weed and never ever ever, ever try anything else. I never tried anything else...and my life is still a big mess! I would imagine hard drugs or alcoholism could only worsen everything.  It's all seriously the devil I'm afraid. I honestly believe. I had to share. My mom has cancer and it's been a hard few months.


I want to end with this poem by anonymous...because above all, I believe Marijuana helps us be better parents, and I think God put it on this Earth for us to use. I'm so thankful for all of those who have fought to find out the truth and put an end to the false imprisonments and hardships banning cannabis has caused this country...world... I wish for the peace to all which cannabis can bring, a closeness to God... and of course no one would want that who desires us to fail... of course not. So the voices speak out, and continue to do so when and where we can, as we stand together and unite. Happy 420.

The Last Time

From the moment you hold your baby in your arms,
you will never be the same.
You might long for the person you were before, 

When you have freedom and time,And nothing in particular to worry about.
Full of feedings and burping,
Nappy changes and crying,
Whining and fighting,
Naps or a lack of naps,
It might seem like a never-ending cycle.

You will know tiredness like you never knew it before,
And days will run into days that are exactly the same,
But don’t forget …
There is a last time for everything.
There will come a time when you will feed
your baby for the very last time.
They will fall asleep on you after a long day
And it will be the last time you ever hold your sleeping child.
One day you will carry them on your hip then set them down,
And never pick them up that way again.
You will scrub their hair in the bath one night
And from that day on they will want to bathe alone.
They will hold your hand to cross the road,
Then never reach for it again.
They will creep into your room at midnight for cuddles,
And it will be the last night you ever wake to this.
One afternoon you will sing “the wheels on the bus”
and do all the actions,
Then never sing them that song again.
They will kiss you goodbye at the school gate,
The next day they will ask to walk to the gate alone.
You will read a final bedtime story and wipe your last dirty face.
They will run to you with arms raised for the very last time.
The thing is, you won’t even know it’s the last time
Until there are no more times.
And even then, it will take you a while to realize.
So while you are living in these times, 
remember there are only so many of them
and when they are gone, you will yearn for just one more day of them. 
For one last time. 
~Author Unknown

Ask and you shall receive

I get emails from readers asking for specific malware samples and thought I would make a mini post about it.

Yes, I often obtain samples from various sources for my own research.

 I am sometimes too lazy/busy to post them but don't mind sharing.
If you are looking for a particular sample, feel free to ask. I might have it.

Send MD5 (several or few samples). I cannot provide hundreds/thousands of samples or any kind of feeds. If you ask for a particular family, I might be able to help if I already have it.

Unfortunately, I do not have time to do homework for students and provide very specific sets for malware with specific features as well as guarantee the C2s are still active.  Send your MD5(s) or at least malware family and I check if I have it :) If i have it, I will either send you or will post on the blog where you can download.

If you emailed me in the past and never got an answer, please remind me. Sometimes emails are long with many questions and I flag them to reply to later, when I have time and they get buried or I forget. It does not happen very often but accept my apologies if it happened to you.

Before you ask, check if it is already available via Contagio or Contagio Mobile.
1. Search the blog using the search box on the right side
2. Search here https://www.mediafire.com/folder/b8xxm22zrrqm4/BADINFECT
3. Search here https://www.mediafire.com/folder/c2az029ch6cke/TRAFFIC_PATTERNS_COLLECTION
4. Search here https://www.mediafire.com/folder/78npy8h7h0g9y/MOBILEMALWARE

Cheers,  Mila

This Is A Story About The Plains

Fall 2014 Issue
I call this piece a "prose lyric," and it appeared in the Fall 2014 issue of Yellow Medicine Review. Its editor, Judy Wilson, generously selected it as one of her nominations for the Pushcart Prizes.  (I have made minor tweaks in a couple of sentences, so it differs very slightly from the printed version.)

This is a story about the Plains, so there must be a pick-up truck in it. So let us say I am driving a pick-up. Let us say it is an older pick-up. Its bed is a little out of kilter. Perhaps I drove through a ditch in the truck, and that vehicular adventure bent the bed a little to the side, so that if you are driving behind me you can see all four of my tires. Or perhaps the bed was bent when the truck got hit from the side by someone pulling out of a parking space in front of Dillon’s Feed Store. Or maybe it already was bent when I bought the truck secondhand from Mr. Tollefesen or maybe Leonard Two Bulls. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that this is a story about the Plains, and therefore it needs to have a pick-up truck in it. And the bent truck bed just communicates that the truck is indigenous to the Plains.

This is a story about the Plains, so there must be a stretch of road in it. It could be the road I am driving on now. Let us say that it is a two-lane highway that runs flat and straight, with the mountains in the distance and a strong wind blowing all the time. It is a road so straight and undecorated that it becomes a metaphor for truth and honesty. Or maybe it serves as a metaphor for life, for the life of some person driving down this stretch of road, a life that stretches out from this point to the horizon. And that horizon itself can be a metaphor, for a future that never arrives but is always arriving. Or perhaps this highway can be a metaphor for anticipation, that time and space that stands between us and something we look forward to. Or perhaps this long, straight highway is a symbol of some inevitability, some unavoidable doom or calamity. Perhaps it is all of these things at once. Perhaps it just depends upon which driver is looking at it. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that this is a story about the Plains, and so we need a long stretch of road that runs straight and true across the land.

This is a story about the Plains, so there must be Indian people and white people in it, for the Plains are a place where they met to work out their differences, one could say. And they are still working them out. Or you could say the Plains are where the white people came to work out something they had within themselves. They had been so unhappy in their first home that they moved away and never went back. But, as some say, you cannot run away from your problems, so they brought those with them. And they attempted to work out some of those problems on the Indians. Regardless. The white folks and the Indians met here. At one time on horseback, in ambushes, in massacres, in circled wagons, in burning cabins, in acres of dead buffalo. And now they work it out in alleys, in jail cells, in dark parking lots, outside liquor stores, in casinos. But in marriages, too. In churches and in schools. In friendships and yearbooks. At the feedstore and in the Wal-Mart. There was a time when Indian and white was all we needed to tell a story about the Plains. That is not true anymore. Now we need more actors for our play. We need Mexicans and African Americans. We need people from India to run the motel and the gas station, so now we have Indians and other Indians. We need Salvadorans. We need some Russians. The Plains are different now. This is a story of the Plains, so there must be constant change in it.

This is a story about the Plains, so there must be a lonely house in it. Let us say it sits off the road a ways, down an unused driveway. Let us say I drive by it every day and think about it. So do you. The driveway could be made of dirt or gravel. Let us say the driveway has been unused so long that a tree has taken root in the middle of it. The tree stands there, in the driveway, in front of the house, like some child waiting on a Mother or a Father to come home. There is no glass in the house’s windows and the paint is nearly gone from the wooden sides, peeled away by seasons of snow and rain and sun and wind and wind and wind and always the wind. The wind is slowly, patiently taking the house back, carrying it off one molecule at a time, like the careful, ancient erosion of the hills themselves. This is a story about the Plains, which are flat because the ocean was here to press them down. And now the wind is the ocean’s cousin, doing its work of keeping the land wide and smooth. This is a story about the Plains, and so the hand of time is seen everywhere.

This is a story about the Plains, and so there must be another lonely house in it. A house with people, but still it is lonely. But not really a house. A trailer home. It could even be a double-wide. But it will be at the end of a driveway, either dirt or gravel. Its lights are on at all hours of the night and people come go at strange intervals. This is a story about the Plains, and so some people feel that no one can see them, even though everyone can. And some people feel that no one cares, because no one asks. But everyone watches. And the sun and the moon see everything. The wind learns it all and carries the news up to the mountains and down to the rivers. In the house meth is cooked. And a corrosive dream eats the skin and teeth of its lovers. Then one night the trailer will burn down and the ghosts that had lived there will blow away. This is a story about the Plains, so there must be heartache and folly in it. 

This is a story about the Plains, so there must be happy houses in it. Yours and mine, we will say. I am headed to one now, on this straight road, in this crooked pick-up truck. And when the houses are not yours nor mine, we will beep the truck’s horn or wave our hand once, just once, off the steering wheel, when we drive past and see folks on the porches of those houses fat with children and grandparents and dogs and cats. Yes, let us say that. Yards covered with cars and trucks, some that run and some that don’t. Each one has a story to tell. This is a story about the Plains, so there must be basketball hoops in it. Let us say the hoop stands beneath a powerful lamp, like a streetlight from town. And children bounce a ball on the rough gravel (or dirt) of the driveway, until the ball is smooth and the same color as the gravel (or dirt). The children laugh and chase the ball, and the dogs bark, and the cats curl themselves around the legs of parents and grandparents. Yes, let us say that. Those are good things. Let us tell stories of good things. The children dream of high school championships and the parents dream of college for them. This is a story about the Plains, and so there must be laughter and dreams in it. The wind carries those too, up to the mountains and down to the rivers.