Please Please Please

Portrait of a Capitol

Thoughts Concerning an Execution

So they say Saddam will be shuffling off this mortal coil sometime today or tomorrow.

Is it just me, or does anyone else feel a tad disillusioned at the prospect?

I mean, yes, he commited some terrible atrocities against Iraqi Kurds in the 80s. But the retribution should've come then... not 20 years later under the guise of something else — particularly false pretense.

We went into Iraq looking for supposed weapons of mass destruction. We didn't find any. Turns out we started an entire war, in fact, on bad intelligence and a CIA faux pas (oppps!). But Saddam had already been ousted by the time the American public knew any better, so we had to charge him with something.

But we didn't invade Iraq to punish Hussein for the ethnic genocide his minions carried out when I was still in grade school. We just happened to charge him with that when our other excuses didn't pan out.

And so I say again: Hussein is responsible for some terrible atrocities, and he should've been punished. But when the news of Hussein's demise hits the airwaves post mortem, consider this:

• Prior to the U.S. invasion, Iraq was one of the most stable countries in the Mid-East
• Prior to the U.S. invasion, Iraq was one of the most progressive countries in the Mid-East (both financially, commercially, and in its treatment of women)
• Prior to the U.S. invasion, al Qaida terrorists attacked on American soil, claiming some 2,973 lives in New York, Pennsylvania and Washington D.C.
• Efforts to connect Hussein to al Qaida have proven fruitless
• Since the U.S. invasion in Iraq, nearly 3,000 American soliders have been killed there; about 47,000 have been wounded; and anywhere from 50,000 to 100,000 civilian Iraqis have lost their lives in the crossfire
• These totals don't include lives lost in Afghanistan
• WWI lasted just over four years; the U.S. was involved for two (from 1917 until the Treaty of Versailles in 1919)
• WWII lasted less than six years; the U.S. was involved for almost four (from December 1941 until the war's end in 1945)
• We've been in Afghanistan since October 2001; in Iraq since March 2003

For those of you keeping count, these numbers mean the U.S. has been involved in the so-called "War On Terror" longer than we were involved in either World War. And not only do we have no proof — not even the smallest firecracker — to link Hussein to al Qaida or bin Laden, but we've also lost more American lives in Iraq alone than we did in the September 11 attacks.

I don't know if it makes me a bad American, a bad human... or what. But I get no pleasure out of Saddam's imminent execution. That doesn't necessarily mean I think he deserves to live, either. Just that everything feels... wrong.

Something to chew on the next time you see his face in the news.

Haiku/Gesundheit XXXVII

permission

bad weekend home means
i ask permission to write
summation haikus

---

a note to grandpa

we're not engaged but
thanks for the public notice
his look was priceless

---

text message

you were gone so long
people thought you might be sick
"need help toilet clogged"

---

strike three, haiku four

he's not my father
but i could call him daddy
washington's speechless

Pariah

This Christmas was a proverbial comedy of errors, replete with mistaken identities, clogged toilets and — as is generally the case in my family — unintentional (but altogether hilarious) innuendo.

There were presents, too. Food with family, and friends. The usual array of festivities you need to make any holiday complete. But the one memory that seems to cast a shadow over everything else — the thought that enters into my head every time I catch myself laughing about the rest of the weekend — is a 150 word obituary.

***

I was at a friend's home when she turned to the obits in the local paper, pointed at a picture, and said "Do you know anything about this?"

I recognized him right away, before my eyes even had a chance to graze his name. The same features I'd last seen in a pudgy 12-year-old boy had become more defined as he thinned out, but were otherwise undeniable.

"Jesus," I said. "What happened?"

No one seemed to know. And the usual "passed away / survived by" closing remarks didn't offer any clues either.

***

I was a "move in" at a rural elementary school in the second grade, and — anxious as I was — I was lucky insofar as it didn't take me too long to make a couple friends. It also didn't take me long to determine the hierarchy of "coolness" that governed this particular playground. Part and parcel of that is determining the kids at the lower rung of the monkey bars.

At this particular school, and in my grade, there were at least 4 kids that were taunted without mercy — terrifying odds when you consider there were only about 80 kids in the mix. But of those four, there was one in particular that suffered the blunt of the ridicule. He was the overweight kid who wore sweats and tattered t-shirts every day. The kid with grease stains around his neck, and an indiscernible odor that prompted much of the taunting.

He was, for all intents and purposes, a playground pariah.

At least the other three kids came to school clean, and in freshly washed clothes. At least they had one or two friends to talk to. But this kid... well. I don't recall seeing anyone ever really talk to him. Teachers included.

Even the ridicule was ridicule by exclusion. You know what I mean... he was the last one picked in gym class. The kid no one sat with at lunch. The kid no one talked to, but the kid everyone made fun of.

"Don't sit there!" kids would yell in the cafeteria. "That's [his] chair!" or "[He] sat there yesterday!"

Meanwhile, at the opposite end of the cafeteria, he was sitting alone, huddled over his school lunch.

This went on for days. Weeks. Months. Years, even, until finally he just... disappeared.

***

Rumor had it his parents finally caught wind of this torment, and so moved him to another school for junior high. Rumor also has it the agony continued at his new school, with the teasing culminating in actual pushing and shoving (if he was ever physically bullied at our school, I never heard about it).

But these are just rumors and, the truth is, I haven't the foggiest idea what became of him. But I'd be lying if I didn't say I often wondered. I thought of him a lot, actually, often recollecting that blank stare on his face as he waited for his name to be called (dead last) by a team captain. Or that look on his face when someone would say something about his smell just loud enough for him to hear as he'd walk past. Or the way he'd wait dead last in the line at the drinking fountain, knowing what a hubbub it'd be if someone had to use it immediately after him.

***

And where was I in all of this? Was I one of his tormenters? Did I sit around and watch? Did I ever step in to help?

Did anyone ever step in to help?

I didn't do much, that's for sure. I can recall shrugging my shoulders and sitting promptly in "his" chair after someone told me not to. And I tried talking to him on occasion, but with no success. He'd just... stare back at me, his eyes hinting at suspicion that any conversation was prelude to a cruel trick.

I don't blame him, really. He had no reason to trust me, or anyone. None of us really went out of our way to help him and so, by default, everyone was to blame.

Students, parents (his and everyone else's), teachers, school administrators. No one really gave him a chance.

***

I mean, if my eight-year-old brain could rationalize that a kid coming to school dressed like he was probably had even bigger problems at home, where were all the adults in all of this? I'd like to think he was getting more help behind-the-scenes, but there was certainly nothing that I could see — aside from free school lunches and reduced book rent, I mean.

Beyond that... where was this kid going for relief? Who was encouraging him to set goals? What made him laugh?

It's a question that has long bothered me — but even more so these past few days.

That was, as you've likely surmised, his obituary in the paper.

***

And as my friends and I read it, one recalled how his name continues to be a legend at our former school (she has reason to frequent there). Kids still antagonize one another by proclaiming that "he" once sat in the same chair, and that now they have "his" cooties (yes, apparently the word "cooties" is still in style).

That same friend has also found out that "he" most likely killed himself. Or at least, that's the word around town. He lived and died in another state, so everything is speculation. I think that was everyone's first suspicion, really. Not cancer, not a house fire, not anything else that would've come to our minds for someone else. Rather, for him, our thoughts turned to "suicide" in unison. That that was our immediate assumption speaks volumes.

But no matter how you look at it, he's dead... after less than three decades on this planet.

I can but hope he had some moments in his life that were far better than those I'm sorry to have witnessed.

I Do [So] Want What I Haven't Got

Weekend Away

A City in Winter

Voyeur

I Wonder What the Street Value Is

After about 18 months of growing out my mane, I cut it off a day or two before Thanksgiving and sent it here.

The new cut looks decent enough. I'd show you a picture, but my face keeps getting in the way.

The Life & Times of a Disgruntled City-Dweller

Just an ordinary evening in my apartment, where I have no control over temperature.

Would You Like Flies with That?Or: Yet Another Reason to Boycott McDonald's

So I don't often eat at McDonald's, but when I do it's because I need something fast and hassle-free. I prefer my order to be correct though — if it's not, I expect the cashier to be just as friendly when s/he corrects it, as I am when I point out the discrepancy.

This past Monday I was on the road when I opted to stop at a McDonald's first to use the restroom. And then second to get something fast so I could get back on the road and get home.

I was buying for two, so I ordered a #1 (for him) and a #9 (for me). The cashier (who was actually a manager) didn't tell me my total before she took my credit card, and she didn't read my order back to me. And since she didn't give me my receipt, either, I was a little surprised when she slopped a Big Mac (his) and a Quarter Pounder with Cheese (not mine) onto the tray.

"There you go," she said before turning her back to me and yelling at an employee about who-knows-what while she gathered a handful of creamers and rolled her eyes at him.

I looked at the tray. I looked at Washington. I looked at her.

"Um," I said to whomever would listen. "I don't think that's my order."

So I stared at this manager's back while she continued to chew out the aforementioned employee, rolling her head and exerting whatever degree of authority she gets by wearing that light blue denim shirt (which compares to his red).

I waited a minute or so, but she didn't turn around.

"Excuse me," I said.

She turned around, with one eye raised.

"Yes?"

"I need my receipt, and also — I don't think this is my order."

She rolled her eyes, sighing loudly. She put her hands on the counter and offered me a look that simultaneously served as disdain and condescension. She tore my receipt from the dispenser and placed it onto the counter.

"You ordered a #1 and a #3. So that's what you got, and that's what you're getting."

She just stood there, with her hands on my tray.

"Um. I ordered a #9, actually."

"You ordered a #3," she said, her voice growing and her head rolling. "So that's what I gave you."

"But I don't eat red meat, so I won't eat this. And I wanted a #9."

She took the quarter pounder from my tray, threw it into the trash, and barked my order over her shoulder. The proper item was placed onto my tray a couple minutes later.

"There," she said, again turning her back to me.

"Wait," I said, "I should be getting change back."

Suffice it to say, she was not happy when I said that. And her face showed it.

"What I ordered costs 55 cents less than what you charged me for. And that's before tax."

She stared at me for a moment, resting her arms on the counter and thrusting her neck out. She rolled her eyes.

She looked at the prices on the display, walked around for a bit, and then came back to me. She looked at the display again.

"Actually, it cost more, so... " She let her thoughts hang on that long, drawn out "so."

I waited for her to continue. She didn't.

"No," I said, reciting the price differences to her.

She walked away and recovered a band of keys. Another minute passes while she determines the best course of action.

"Here," she said, handing me two quarters and walking away.

***

OK, so technically she owed me more than 50 cents. But by this point I was so frustrated by her, I was most eager to be done with her. So I walked away with my tray, fuming over how I'd just been treated.

If you think my comments regarding rolled eyes, sighs, and abrupt speech are exaggerations... they're not. I've honestly never been treated so poorly by anyone in the service industry.

When I later realized that she'd also kept my receipt — and I figured I needed her name to write a letter to the franchise owner — Washington went back up and ordered a dessert from her. Turns out she wasn't wearing a name tag AND she didn't have her name entered onto the register (as is custom at most fast food joints these days).

But she was also the only female manager on duty, so it should be pretty easy for them to figure out who she is.

My question to you is... do I write the letter? Or let it go?

It is the "holiday season," after all. But then again, I also got the feeling that she's in the habit of ruining afternoons.

Apocalypto Too Bloody for Its Own Good

If you admire predictability and grotesque cinematic violence, then dust off your movie watchin' boots and reserve your tickets to Apocalypto today!

Otherwise... stay home. I certainly wish I had.

It's not so much that everything about this movie was bad — I certainly appreciated the acting, for one — but that it contained nearly every contrived writing device known to man. Even the foreshadowing leaves a lot to be desired, with the not-so-subtle premonitions of a small-poxed Mayan girl foretelling the movie's conclusion with tones reminiscent of a Shakespearean witch.

And if you, like me, aren't wholly aware of what this movie is about, allow me to summarize: we all know the Mayans were among the most advanced civilizations in the so-called "New World" before the Europeans came along and slaughtered the masses with their religion, weapons, and plagues. Well, this movie isn't so much about that literal collapse as it is the decline and fall of the Mayan empire on the eve of the white man's en masse arrival (I'm not certain of the intended year, but I'd position this film sometime within the first decade of the 16th century). Or, more specifically, it depicts the differences between the metropolitan centers... and those clans living on the periphery.

Suffice it to say this contrast is a bloody one and — from what I read in a Newsweek commentary last week — not entirely accurate, either. But here's where I admit my limitations in regards to South American history, thereby reserving my judgement for the portrayal of said violence (rather than quibbling over details).

It's only now — after having seen Mel Gibson's Passion and then this newest bloodbourne history-as-horror film — that I'm starting to rethink my impression of Braveheart — a film I had previously enjoyed. But I'm starting to think Gibson has become obsessed not only with sacrifice (personal, spiritual and physical), but also with graphically portraying the violence therein.

Do I need to see a human heart torn from the chest of a living man, his body writhing in agony as it comes to terms with imminent death? OK, maybe once to get the point.

But not twice. And certainly not three times. Or four.

And whereas the most brutal scenes in Braveheart and Passion both occur in one lump sum at the end (that drags increasingly on in the latter), the gore in Apocalypto begins in the opening scene — and continues on to the end, with only a few brief moments of sunshine.

It's not just the violence that got to me. Admittedly, I don't care much for gore in films, but I do appreciate it more when it's well-used in parts to further a compelling story-line (my previous impression of Braveheart). But Apocalypto is just so... predictable. And not in the we-all-know-the-end-of-this-story way that Passion was. Rather, Apocalypto is replete with the breed of symbolism that you'd want in a story you'd assign to a ninth grade literature class. You know, the sort of symbolism that's so obvious, it just stops short of punching you in the face?

That's what happens for much of this film, with the end literally connecting in a 1-2 punch that left me snorting in my seat.

So how can I even sit here and say it's not all bad? Well, as I said before... the acting was good, and it's easy to empathize with the main characters. And there is a decent enough story at this film's core. But the execution thereof was, well...

A little too bloody... and anything but brilliant.

To the Makers of Moderately Priced Clothing

Please stop putting those death tags in my clothes. You know the ones I mean: those cloth-encased strips of who-knows-what that read "Please remove before washing or wearing."

As with my "new" gray courdoroys, I tend to wear & wash these articles of clothing 2-3 times before I ever realize such a tag exists (and usually when I do, I'm in a public restroom somewhere miles away from scissors).

At which point, I can't help but wonder: what's in those tags, anyway? And what are the side effects of long-term exposure?

If fatigue, malaise and a generalized dissipation of the Christmas spirit are on the list, I think a lawsuit may be in order.

Intoxicating

I Am Trying to Break Your Heart (Movie Review)

i am an american aquariam drinker
i assassin down the avenue
i'm hiding out in the big city blinking
what was i thinking when i let go of you...

***
Even if it is a tad slow at times, it's difficult for a Wilco zealot, such as myself, to not be absolutely smitten by this documentary.

I Am Trying to Break Your Heart (2002) captures the recording of what is perhaps Wilco's best album to date, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. If you haven't heard anything from this album, buy it. Or at least try out a couple songs on iTunes. I'd recommend the song that inspired the film's title ("I Am Trying to Break Your Heart") or "Reservations" or even "Poor Places."

I'm neither a producer nor a music history buff or even a musician myself, but I do have a keen appreciation for art (both in sound and sight). And Yankee, as far as I'm concerned, is up there with The Beatles' White Album in terms of innovation & style.

Now that I've heightened your expectations to unhealthy levels — and sufficiently set you up for disappointment — allow me to return to the film for a moment.

I appreciated the opportunity to see not only what one of my favorite bands is like off-stage, but also the experience of seeing just what, exactly, a musician goes through to get an album out. In this respect, you don't have to be a Wilco fan to enjoy the film, as it offers a rather interesting behind-the-scenes glimpse into the music industry. And for Wilco in particular, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was tricky because the music label that initially funded the record backed out of the contract when frontman Jeff Tweedy refused to alter the final product to suit their demands.

And, if I wasn't clear before, I'm glad he stuck to those proverbial guns. The final product is phenomenal.

But rather the spoil the documentary by revealing the series of events, and the backstage brouhaha, that finally led to the album's release, I'll refer you to Netflix, where you can queue up this black and white, pop some low-fat kettle corn... and enjoy.

Thumbsucker in a Nutshell

I watched Thumbsucker (2005) three weeks ago, and simply haven't had the time to review it. And now that so much time has passed, I've lost any "real" connection to the film.

In which case I'd say it's not exactly the sort of movie that leaves a long-term impression. It's an Indie film about a 17-year-old boy who can't quite kick the thumbsucking habit. Any efforts to do so ultimately result in the supplanting of thumbsucking with some other dirty habit (drinking, academia, drugs, romance, etc.). He battles this oral fixation all the while dealing with a complicated (albeit normal) family life.

I wouldn't necessarily recommend this film to anyone, but I wouldn't scrunch my nose at the mere reference, either. It goes on a bit too long and is altogether annoying at times (a lot like this blog).

I do recall finding this film to be moderately compelling, and I'm not giving away the ending when I say I appreciated the filmmaker's connection between post-adolescent thumbsucking and all of our adulthood addictions. In short: any short-term comforts we find in life likewise serve to do us long-term harm.

I guess Lily Tomlin was right.

"We're all in this alone."

Good Deed for the Day

A Vietnam Veteran goes to my gym (I know he's a vet because he wears a hat that advertises as such).

Sometimes when I see him, I worry that he's going to hurt himself. He appears to have received some sort of injury in the past (my first assumption is, naturally, the war) that has caused a fold of skin to cover part of his eye from the side (I'm not sure he can see out of that eye, in fact), and he has a difficult time walking. He's somewhat wheelchair bound, in fact, though he can also hobble with a cane.

And concerned as I may be when I see him, I also harbor a degree of respect for his dedication to keeping active (not to mention, his service in the military).

As you might expect, most of the weights he does are for his arms. One such exercise involves this rope he pulls over his neck, while kneeling on his knees (I don't know the name of the machine, though I've seen it in every gym I've ever been in).

Tonight I was working on leg extensions when I hear this terrible crash. I look directly in front of me to see him face down on the mat, with the rope no longer balanced in the center.

I sat still for a moment, remembering that lesson from Murderball (in sum: "we wouldn't do it if we couldn't"). But in the moment I waited, he made no motion to get up. So I walked over to him; asked if he was OK; and offered to fix the rope for him.

But by this point, he was pushing himself up, using his chair to stand and reach for the rope. He thanked me but said he was OK.

I returned to my machine and resumed my workout.

And, I swear, I'm not telling you this story in search of kudos for a good deed (truth is, I'm not sure it was)... or criticism for assuming the guy needed help.

Rather, I offer this story only as a point of comparison for the actual good deed I did today. Something truly noble that I can but hope some kind stranger will do for me some day.

***After my workout, I went to the locker room to wash my hands and noticed a rather peculiar sight: a woman a year or two older than I was at the sink next to me, with about 16 inches of toilet paper hanging out over the top of her shorts.

I quickly looked away, and contemplated the situation as a gust of air went to work drying my hands.

She started to gather her stuff and was about to walk into the gym when I went over to her and informed her of the situation.

She was embarrassed, but grateful. I could tell by our mutual lack of eye contact and the "thank you soooo much" she said after she returned from the stall.

And here I've been worried I'm wasting my life, not doing anything good for the world...

Woody Allen Interviews Billy Graham

Jewish by birth and agnostic in practice, Woody Allen speaks with one of Christianity's most respected reverends.

A great interview, overall. Graham's dedication to God meets up with Allen's wit & cynicism, thereby enabling both to evince their respective good natures (not to mention, Graham has an amazing sense of humor).

This c. 1969 interview is in two parts, both of which you will find (in order, I hope) below.

Hang the Moon

Yet another example of a time I wish I really knew how to take a photograph. This was actually a rather phenomenal sight.

Translation: these pictures don't do the reality justice.

Perspective

So yesterday I went to the doctor, after battling a sore throat that culminated in three days of hearing loss in my right ear. She confirmed my suspicion: a middle ear infection probably caused by strep. She prescribed antibiotics which make me nauseous but - unlike certain other medicines - otherwise result in no adverse reactions.

That's not all.

I'm driving home last night when a tire blows out. For those of you who don't live here... it was about eight degrees last night. All the snow on the ground has literally frozen into chunks of ice and - for whatever reason - no one in this city believes in salting or sanding the walkways. So just walking outside is often a gamble.

But, luckily, the tire explosion occured not too far from my apartment (I would have been MUCH worse off if I'd been on the expressway). I was able to park, go inside to change and call around to see what time the "tire" places closed. Unfortunately, every place closed at 7, and I was calling at about 6:30 - a deadline I couldn't make since I still needed to change the actual tire.

So I walked back out to my car, figuring I'd at least put on the donut then, and then take it in for a new tire this morning. My car was two blocks away from my apartment and - during the long walk back in the blistering cold - I saw this woman in a van, spinning her wheels on snow & ice in an effort to leave her parking spot. Part of me - the dark and sinister part that we all pretend doesn't exist in our inner psyche - reminded me of my own tragedy, and compelled me to walk on to my own car (not to mention, I quickly envisioned a scenario in which she accidentally put the car in reverse, thereby pinning me between herself and the car behind). I (literally) shook my head at myself, and walked over to the lady.

I made a motion implying I'd push her van, and she nodded. I got behind the vehicle, but she didn't put it in drive. She got out and said to me, "I don't even understand what I'm stuck on."

I looked around, commenting that the snow was so compacted that it was just a series of ice mounds. I suggested she either needed a source of traction or a push. She got back in her car, put it in drive... and then with a couple heaves, she was gone.

***

I felt good for a moment before I made my way back to my car, opened the trunk, and endeavored to inspect the spare and loosen the lugnuts. I was feeling generally lousy, with the occasional searing pain in my ear reminding me that I was supposed to be home in bed and NOT outside in the freezing cold.

So naturally, two of the lugnuts wouldn't budge. They have a history of corroding onto the surface, and it took the entire weight of Washington (who later arrived to assist) literally JUMPING on the wrench to move them. But once we got those off, the tire itself was stuck. We tried everything imaginable (by this point, for the record, my fingers and toes were painfully numb) before I telephoned one of my mechanically-gifted cousins.

He has a long history of coming to my rescue in times of need, and is one of those people who knows how to fix everything -- cars, motorcycles, lawnmowers, HVAC, household appliances. You name it, he can fix it.

"Kick in the front, and then spin it. Kick it, and spin it. Do that until it pops off."

His advice was dead on. After 3 or 4 tries, the tire fell into our hands and was tossed into the trunk of my car.

***

I made small talk with my cousin while Washington put on the spare (thanks, man!).

I eventually made my way to the question I ask my mother every time I talk to her about my cousin.

"So, how is your eye doing?"

A couple months ago, my cousin was out working (he's successfully self-employed) when a metal pipe - propelled by a sizeable force - hit him directly in the eye, taking with it a chunk of his cornea and leaving him immobile in bed for a days while he waited for the pain to subside.

"Oh, I'm blind in that eye," he said matter-of-factly.

He shared more details as we continued to talk. He said they tried a contact of sorts, but his cornea is no longer "smooth," and so the contact didn't work. The only thing that could restore his sight would be a cornea transplant... something he can't have done for another 22 months because - get this - his wife's last day on her previous job was THE DAY his accident happened. And the insurance at her new workplace won't cover "pre-existing conditions." His eye injury qualifies as such. And even though she was still gainfully employed with insurance the day of the accident (not to mention, they had already signed up for COBRA), that insurance company is looking for loopholes to deny his emergency room visit. He has yet to be reimbursed for the thousands of dollars he had to pay out-of-pocket.

This all sounds dreadful to me. And I expressed as much, though my cousin seemed to shrug off my concerns with smile.

"Oh, there are people way worse off than me," he said. "Besides, at least I still have the other eye. And I'll probably get my money back from the insurance eventually."

"But, still, you have to wait two years before this new company will cover your pre-existing condition. You can't even see an opthamologist in that period. That's terrible."

"I know it," he said. " But I'll be all right. I'm just glad it wasn't worse."

***

And there I was, foolishly stressed about an earache and a busted tire.

***

By the time I made my way back inside, I could barely bend my toes. It was late, and I still had about four hours of tasks ahead of me. I went to bed at 1:30 a.m., but woke up continuously throughout the night, the pain in my stomach reminding me that medicine was at work.

***

When my alarm went off at 5:45 a.m., I dragged myself out of bed... called my boss to let him know I'd be in late... and then made my way to the tire place for their 7 a.m. debut. Unfortunately, three cars were left there overnight, so they were the priority. They finally took in my car at 9, charged me a sizeable amount, and rattled off a list of "other" things wrong with my car. I sort of shrugged them off and made my way to work, where I was a veritable zombie for the rest of the day.

"So much for sleep being the best medicine," I thought.

***

But the thing I can't seem to stop thinking about is my cousin's current situation. I mean, this guy has helped me just about every time I've had a problem with my car... whether by offering advice, or doing the work himself (for little to no profit).

And it bothers me that -- in times like this -- I can't turn around and fix his eye. The best I could do was offer to help with his bills... an offer that was nowhere near what I would have preferred to extend.

Times like these, I wish I'd never changed my major.

Pre-med to English.

What was I thinking?

To the Woman Who Threw Her Shirt into the Washer Despite the Fact That I Had Opened the Lid Myself and Was Starting to Put in My Own Clothes

OK, so I understand city life isn't always easy. And, yeah, I hate that I don't have my own washer and dryer, too.

But that was seriously uncalled for.

There's more than enough misery to go around in life. So, please, stop sharing yours.

What Does It Say about Me...

...that the best thing about being allowed to leave work early is that I'll be home in time to watch reruns of Diff'rent Strokes and Webster?

True story.