Fashion Victims...

I woke up the other day with one furry body curled up in the small of my back, and yet another curled up on my chest 'neath the blankets, her head alongside my own resting on the pillow (for a chihuahua she seems to take up more space on my bed than I do), both were attempting to keep themselves away from the arctic chill filtering through my bedroom window.
 I groggily leaped to my knees and crawled to the window and bundled the pair in my comforter-- I knew things were bad when my Klee-Kai, Marley was shivering under her two heavy, natural coats.
I dragged myself to the bathroom and closed my bedroom door behind me, turning up the heat for the pair as I brushed my teeth.  I could hear my chihuahua screaming through my morning routine, she hates to be more than two-steps away from me (it's simultaneously flattering and annoying, to be honest).
Since this is their first year here (well, I purchased Marley in Minnesota when I lived here years ago, but we didn't last long-- returning to Colorado perhaps a year thereafter)-- braving the tundra is already proving to be difficult, for my chihuahua (Brodie), especially (I bought her in Colorado, but she has spent the majority of her five-years in Las Vegas).  There's been nary a flake on the ground and getting her outside is something of a process:
First, I have to funnel her into a turtle-neck looking thing. Then, I have to wrap her in a heavier velcro-style jacket, and thread her leash through a microscopic hole-- lastly I am charged with the task of pulling a hood about her Yoda-sized ears.  Throughout the process she goes limp, like a toddler in the mall.
As I gaze down at my handiwork each day I shake my head, annoyed at the hideous ensemble that functions less as a jacket than a vest, and is covered in ridiculous bones.  I suppose it acts as a windbreaker and keeps her dry, but not much else.
 I've spent countless hours attempting to find more functional "dog-clothes" in a less hideous style, for a reasonable price.  But, ha!  It'd be easier to find the proverbial "needle in the haystack" and sew her an outfit with the surrounding straw.

My simultaneous guilt and disgust that day gave me an epiphany:  "Doggy-Couture" that suits an area like Minnesota, that would donate (in large) the proceeds to a plethora of animal charities!!
After initially relocating to a more rural area of Minnesota, I remember being appalled at the amount of farmers that would leave their dogs outside, tied to a stake year-round, despite blistering heat and sub-zero temperatures.     (Not that the likes of Las Vegas is immune-- they were rife with dog-fighters and elderly pet-hoarders.)  Not to mention, I have always wanted to be able to do something that would tie me to some of the larger organizations that aid in ceasing some of the more desperate situations our four-legged friends find themselves trapped in...without my dogs, I don't know where I'd be?  Less fulfilled, certainly, and there's always a market in the world of puppy-fashions.
(Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those ladies that dresses my pets 365-days a year-- when it's warranted, Brodie wears clothing-- she is one built for warmer climates-- a chihuahua is at least 50% exposed, bare skin.  But, there are those that do-- thus, there is a market-- and the funds are sorely needed.)
My company could tie itself to both local and international organizations-- even creating fashions to be used in and given out by shelters when sending critters to their happy homes.  And it would be less "clown-apparel"-- more inspired by current designers of our time.  There's no reason for Fido to look more ridiculous than he has to.

I became more steadfast in my resolve after viewing a clip on YouTube.  It was graphic and heart-wrenching, and it spoke precisely to what I aim to halt.  After viewing this piece I held my babies a little tighter, dreaming of a day when their "brothers" would become free from their perpetual bondage-- suffering at the hands of those I regrettably must call my own kind.

I am including the clip, if for nothing else, to bring awareness to that which I aim to help...if not eradicate,at least alter.  But I urge you-- it is graphic, as I mentioned-- it had me in tears.  Don't watch the clip if you have a soft heart or a weak stomach.
Here's to beginning the great fight, this is for the voiceless-- (I'd rather they be "fashion victims", than the victims they are--in the truest sense):

Time Management (A Technological Problem)

“Nowadays, we never allow ourselves the convenience of being temporarily unavailable, even to strangers. With telephone and beeper, people subject themselves to being instantly accessible to everyone at all times, and it is the person who refuses to be on call, rather than the importunate caller, who is considered rude.”
― Judith Martin, Common Courtesy: In Which Miss Manners Solves the Problem That Baffled Mr. Jefferson 

Ms. Martin raises a very valid point-- it seems that all of society is somehow obligated by their technologies-- held captive by the rules of etiquette.  
How many times have you been mid-project or mired in something of significance when the familiar buzz, hum, vibration, or musical-introduction trumpets from your purse or pocket?  And how often do you find yourself unearthing the piece of plasticine technology from its resting-place in order to learn something of little significance (like the most recent "precious" activities of a distant friend's child, or someone's new-found adoration for their Subway-sandwich, or (God forbid) some "stupid pet trick" (for those of you that recall the reference, I salute you) in the form of the newest YouTube video from CuteCat.com, or the like).

But, the unspoken code of conduct linked to our various devices compels us to respond-- or at the very least "like"-- what a fellow compatriot took the time to forward.
In some instances (when there is time), I appreciate random cutesy artifacts from a miscellaneous web-page, but much of the time I end up perturbed and generally annoyed-- bound by some unwritten code of ethics that flows freely through our society that forces response.
It maximizes at least half of my day...
What can we do about this epidemic of polite (yet oblidged) communication that seemingly sucks our day further and further down the proverbial drain? When one video sent morphs into two, three, ten (damn you suggested videos via YouTube!!) and before you know it your day is M.I.A?  
How do we disconnect ourselves from the lengthy series of texts sent from our "legions" of fans and escape the umbilical-tether of our droids, smartphones, iPhones, iPads, tablets, laptops, home-computers, and the like?

The sad fact remains that disconnection likely isn't going to happen anytime soon.  An inescapable inevitability is more likely that life will mire itself further in its technological muck...and the requisite responses seemingly abound.  We appear tacit to continue pouring our lives into message after message-- fed via a multitude of social-networking, blogging, and communication venues.  After reviewing some recent stats I was in a state of utter shock, they state:

• 18-24 year olds send or receive an average of 109.5 text messages per day—that works out to more than 3,200 messages per month. The median 18-24 year old texter sends or receives 50 texts per day (or around 1,500 messages per month).
• One quarter of 18-24 year old text messaging users (23%) report sending or receiving more than 100 texts per day.

• Just over one in ten (12%) say that they send or receive more than 200 messages on an average day—that equals 6,000 or more messages per month.

Looking at these figures I contend that this is truly where we collectively whittle and chip away at those much needed avenues throughout our lives.  As a result, I think that a different code of conduct should be settled upon... something rather than sending a message, waiting a few minutes for your intended reader to reply, bombarding them with ever increasing numbers of insulted and dejected texts thereafter... and perpetually until the desired response is thus achieved.  Should immediate reaction not take place the gentle prodding eventually gives way to concern; concern melts and resolve hardens, then (depending on the person) hurt, rejection, annoyance, and perhaps anger rears its ugly head.  From there it all has a tendency to break down and go to hell, so in an attempt to maintain peace we pull ourselves from our miscellaneous activities-- briefly feigning interest in the YouTube-clip or the story about some random workplace or baby that (which may perhaps be cute or entertaining)seemingly wrenches one away from more pressing matters.
According to yet another recent study (whose figures are slightly higher than aforementioned-- coming to an average of 15,000 texts per month for the average teen-25 year-old):

"...(Sorry to bore you with math, but this is the critical point): 30 texts is a small number for a single hour, but with 60 minutes in 1 hour, that's a text every 2 minutes, consistently, every hour of every day, for a month..."

Which again, is mind-blowing.  After reading these statistics I felt a little more assured in my annoyance.  It is likely that I could be receiving a message (roughly, and perhaps likely with the company I keep.  It's a side-effect from being from a latin familia... we are traditionally wordy people, ha-ha) every two minutes throughout my day.  

I find myself wondering what I could do if I were to end up with that much available time at my fingertips once more?  I mean, is it truly neccesscary for me to know that little Suzie said "baa-baa" to the cat, or that my mother enjoyed today's episode of Dr. Phil, in real time-- with an unwritten contractual agreement to answer within a certain period of time?  How much time is robbed of me then, as I react to an inbound message??

I know that all these concerns that have come to plague me of recent are somewhat innocuous and perhaps meaningless-- but it's somewhat gratifying to know that I do not stand alone in this.  Perhaps it is evidence of my age, considering I could spend an entire night (dusk to dawn) wrapped about the cord of my grandmother's house-phone and still yearn for yet another hour.  But at this stage in my development the endless noise emitting from my tiny tether seems less like a blessing and more like an agreement made under duress. Though I love the conveinience of it all, I despise the pressures of the manditorily instantaneous answer.   Were the contractual agreement somehow altered I may be a little less in the know, slightly less entertained, but perhaps more productive.  Until I can figure a better way to tactfully reconstruct the perameters, my phone may simply remain randomly (accidentally) in the off-position from here on.



http://blog.knowledgeinfusion.com/2012/05/deploying-technology-in-2012-know-your-audience/

http://orangekid.hubpages.com/hub/Texting-A-Virulent-Disease  

To be honest, I think that after being laid-up after knee-surgery, many of my so-called "passions" have been boiled-down (at least for now)to the bare essentials.  Gone are the days of creating four-star, six-course meals; tearing through the stacks at a local-bookstore and pouring through my find with a steaming cup of coffee warming my palm and coating my palate; spending my nights at some crowded concert-venue or club; or wandering the strip in Vegas (also with drink in hand) with a group of friends-- only to eventually lose what's left of my paycheck at some nameless penny-machine.  Though I'll regain some of these much-loved abilities in time, it has brought to mind something that will forever bring me endless amounts of boundless joy, no matter my condition: my dogs (Jesus I sound old.  For the record (since to most of you I'm but a faceless string of sentences stamped across your glowing-screens), I'm only thirty!).

I always swore to myself (after watching my mother coddle our German-Shepards for decades) that I would never turn into the type of woman that dressed my critters up in ridiculous ensembles and spoon-fed them their supper (warmed to perfection in the family microwave) from the cradle of a gilded-spoon.  My mother, however, is a different story: 
She has always been the sort of crazy-lady that would throw her own husband out of bed to make room for her pets, or drag a 130-pound "purse-puppy" into a crowded shopping-center with an illegally-obtained "service-vest" (purchased on the sly from a trainer at the dog-park).  For years, my brother and I teased that we weren't her children, we were mere unpaid caretakers for her precious pets.  She laughed it off of-course, but it was ultimately confirmed when (on the eve that that particular joke was born) my mother served the precious pups my brothers' ten-dollar hamburger: Fifteen-minutes after he walked in the door he made the classic-mistake of heading to the restroom, instead of safe-guarding his supper from the vultures hovering-around the vicinity. My father and I saw her eye the near-empty paper-sack resting on the kitchen counter-- she tore open the bag (before we could utter a word), stole a bite for herself, and ultimately [nonchalantly] tossed the remainder of the contents to her furry-minions, congregating at her feet (it was sort-of tragically-hilarious watching him eye the dogs jealously over the rim of his bowl of soggy Lucky Charms... I was never sure if the growls I heard came from a self-conscious dog, or my brothers' empty stomach). I don't think my kid-brother has ever let my mother live it down.  To this-day, whenever he brings food to her home he will tote the greasy-sack along with him from room to room, pathetically guarding his spoils like a wounded-animal at the carcass of a fallen deer.  
I used to roll my eyes at how sad my mother appeared-- showering these creatures with (what I deemed at the time) unnecessarily endless, nay boundless, amounts of affection-- and a continuous flow of food (simple kibble just wouldn't do, either).  My friends, immediate-family, and I used to laugh behind our hands at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.  Giggling as we watched her struggle to hoist one after another of these behemoths into her convertible simply to take a trip to the tanning-salon, or out for something as minor as a pack of cigarettes.  I watched everything incredulously, with an air of teenage superiority-- vowing (as I mentioned earlier) that I would never become that... well...Ludicrous.  I watched and waited for her to grow aged and lose it entirely, with a pack of wild-dogs to eventually overtake the house.  A handful of years later I would eat my words.

I acquired my first dog when I was barely 21 as a gift from a boyfriend who was fleeing the state in order to escape the iron-fist of mi familia.  She was a tiny ball of black, white, and silvery-grey fluff with bright-blue eyes. She fit comfortably in the palm of my hand.  She was the little Klee-Kai that changed my life.
(Though I know that for most of you parents out there, my loose characterization of acquiring an animal being similar to having a child might come off a bit...annoying... but bear with me.)
I held her in my arms and became acutely aware that there was this entire tiny life, depending on me. From this moment forward I had to do the right thing.  
I poured through book after book about proper feeding, training, and the like.  I threw myself into my new-found parenthood with gusto-- refusing to feed my "child" from a bag of dog-food.  Instead I bought her meat and grain, following a recipe in a holistic pet-care book.  My little Marley became my whole world, my little "road-dog"-- accompanying me everywhere I could get away with taking her. I was aware of my hypocrisy.  Comparing myself to my mother was pointless in my mind-- it was apples and oranges, really.  After all, I was still relatively sane.  I wasn't dressing up a massive 130-pound MALE German-Shepard, or using cheap trickery to smuggle the dog into the grocery store (yet) for Christ's sake! So, I was still in the green...wasn't I?

After about five-years of contented bliss with my Klee-Kai (Marley Aynne) at my right hand, a profound longing overtook me-- not unlike that of a mother whose babies have all become independent, unruly teens.  I yearned for a new "baby".  (I know, I know-- you can't compare the love of a pet to the love of a baby, but I can't have kids of my own so... cut me a little slack.)  Two years after I obtained Marley I met my ex, and throughout our eight years together (well, it was after perhaps five years that the "urge" struck me once more) we ran through a slough of animals... but mostly of the reptilian-ilk. They were nothing like my four-legged companion...that was what I yearned for.
Eventually I wore him down and I ended up with a "red-toy" Chihuahua. I suppose that's where the parallels began.

When we uprooted ourselves and moved into my ex's parents home in Las Vegas (nowhere near any of my relatives in the Las Vegas-area) I took to raising my new "infant" much as I had her "older sister".  Brodie too, fit neatly in the palm of my hand and she melted my heart with her big green eyes and long-lashes.  In the absence of any family or friends I lavished all my affections upon the little princess-- spoiling her as any woman would for the newest member of the family.  
I poured myself into "mothering" her and as a result she picked up some pretty maddening habits.  She refused to sleep on anything that wasn't soft, she refused all the way around to even partake of anything that remotely resembled dog-food (vegetables and bread were out of the picture as well), and she developed a severe case of "separation-anxiety" (refusing to let me even go to the restroom alone!  To this very day she still has to sit on my lap in my most private of moments!)...and it consequently rubbed off on her "older sister".  One day when I fell severely ill and an ambulance had to take me in for treatment the two of them dug a hole the size of our living-room through the carpeting, padding, and wood underneath-- exposing the concrete below.  As time wore on, the condition worsened to the point that I had to give up a lucrative office position in order to stay home with the pair in order to save our apartment from utter-destruction (not to mention halt the complaints from our neighbors-- since my Klee-Kai (acting true to her "mini-husky" heritage) had taken to howling for the entire duration of our work-day.  
Even "baby-sitters" refused to care for them after awhile.  Brodie would throw little Chihuahua-sized temper-tantrums-- literally screaming: "Ma-Ma" for hours at a time in my absence.  I had to begin carting her everywhere I went.

Then one day as I struggled to load my "children" into my pickup truck, I caught my reflection in one of the tinted-windows on the passenger side.  I was wearing an old jean-jacket of my mothers' (I was painfully unaware of the excessive-heat. My hair was draped in a tangled mess across my forehead-- glued in place by sweat from the hot summer sun.  For an instant I saw the face of my mother gazing back at me-- equally disheveled and flustered-- as she loaded-up her own pack of decked-out dogs.  My jaw dropped and I attempted to correct my vision by blinking it away.  I pulled a chunk of lunch-meat from my pocket, eyes still locked on the mirage mirrored before me, and (splitting the meat in two) I tossed the pieces in the direction of my unwieldy animals (already beginning to wilt under the pressures of postponing their presumably deserved treat-- producing a communal-chorus of high-pitched whines and cries).  I could hear the vows I had uttered so many times throughout my youth to "never end up as a "crazy-critter lady" like my mother echo in my ears.  Flashes of ridiculous ensembles and resentful family-members flooded my mind's eye.  I stood in the driveway in the hot summer sun stunned by the realization that despite my best efforts, I was slowly morphing into the woman that would spend months quilting a feather-down bed for my "children", forsaking all others, and using the remaining material to create cuffs, collar, and coat (it didn't help anything that part of my plans for the day included purchasing my Chihuahua a new sweater for the winter-months).  It was a frightening epiphany for any young-girl to have.  Not only had I become my mother, but I was slowly trans-morphing into a different sort of... hmmm... "special", I suppose?
I shared the experience with my younger brother.  He found this hilarious. From that moment on he referred to me as "the crazy cat lady" (he refused to acknowledge my small critters as DOGS.  According to him, I was lucky that he even identified them as CATS.  Once they grew, he would consider re-classifying them).  A month later, my shame diminished and my love for them grew by leaps and bounds:

One morning, out of the blue, Marley awoke me with a start-- whining, crying, clawing at me.  Her eyes were fully dilated and she was panting so hard that long strands of drool spilled from between her teeth.  Naturally I assumed that she was sick and had to go outside-- so, rubbing my eyes I escorted her to the backyard.  Once outside she wouldn't leave my side, I had to drag her by the collar to the grass so that she could use the bathroom.  Groggily I brought her inside and headed back upstairs to lay back down.  Midway up the stairs I started getting incredibly dizzy, I barely made it to the hallway at the top of the stairs.  The world seemed to slant beneath my feet.  When I fell to my knees my Chihuahua (Brodie) joined Marley-- they were both panicked out of their minds.  The last thing I remember before the world went dark was the sound of the pair howling in unison and Marley grabbing hold of the back of my shirt.
My body began to seize uncontrollably and the two of them refused to let me out of their sight.  In attempts to wake me Marley rolled me on my side and pulled me (miraculously) into the bedroom, seconds before the seizure made me sick.  It saved my life.

I ended up in the hospital for months thereafter.  Upon my return the pair were ecstatic, the bond between us grew.  I found myself lavishing more affection on them in the form of treats and constant stimulation (especially after learning from the ER docs that Marley had officially saved me from an untimely end).  They became my best friends.  The closer we grew, the more I thought about my oddball mother.  Each time I saw my reflection I could see that I was turning into her.  However, I had (have) an excuse...right??  It is because of them that I am still able to walk the earth... Right??
Despite the fact that I have become what we all eventually become (the spitting image of our parents in the most annoying way possible) I have embraced it... I happily live with the two creatures that love me above all else... and keep me motivated each and every day.  I push forward with the knowledge that they truly adore me.  As I love them.  Even if I occasionally show it by lavishing Brodie with ridiculous clothing and make them fat with a dinner far better than my own.  They are my passion of passions.  My little life-savers. I have (unfortunately) become "The Crazy Cat-Lady".  But I choose to accept it with a thin veneer of dignity. 
However, I still refuse to quilt them a thing.  ;)

            

A Glimpse from a Broken Mirror

As I wandered listlessly through the perilous jungle of the YouTube catalog (trigger-finger readied above the mouse)-- attempting to avoid the coma-inducing "how-to" videos, wading through the inescapable quicksand-like trappings of grainy "home-mades", hastening my pace 'round the thousands of adds masquerading as videos (waiting like tigers in the trees), and whilst side-stepping the thousands of gag-reels-- I came upon a heroin-addled, crack-slinging, former wife and mother trudging through the filthy streets of a down-town Canadian slum, thanks to National Geographic's "Drug, Inc." series.  I listened intently as she wove her woeful tale, noting the striking similarities between her life and the lives of so many within my familial-fold. 

     Her initial introduction to heroin began innocently-enough and the story is a familiar one (if you find yourself enticed by shows of this nature): She was a happy wife and mother, dabbling on occasion in recreational drugs in social-situations, and her life was turned on its ear after an injury.  Her claim is that she met a physician that prescribed her an "absurd amount of narcotics, that hard-wired her to morphine".  Her doctor was investigated by "the feds" and he pulled her medication; a few days later she ended up on the wrong side of the tracks "learning to sling crack" in order to support her drug habit, feeding the beast with a cheap substitute for her beloved drug of choice-- heroin.  

     My heart bled for the woman, especially after experiencing something similar myself (well, not the desperate heroin addiction). Five or six years ago, after I relocated from Colorado to Las Vegas-- and while under temporary long-distance transitional pain-management care-- I was no longer able to contact my physician... out of the blue.  I didn't know what on-earth to do, or where exactly I was supposed to turn!  Since I was several thousand-miles away from her, I didn't even know what was going on!  Was the woman sick, dead, or worse?? A few weeks later I was forwarded an ominous video-clip from a friend in the area:  my beloved doctor was under investigation for improper billing practices...and she was all over the local news.  My head was swimming.  What was to become of ME?  I had been under her care for years on the back of a horribly botched tumor surgery and my own dosage (like the woman in the YouTube-video) was relatively high-- as dosages go.  
     Without my medication to assist me along I began to go into serious with-drawl.  Without my doctor's-office in operation even retrieving basic medical charts and histories (to be transferred and confirmed for whatever new doctor I chose to see in my new locale).  It was about that time that some very serious medical phenomena began to manifest itself.  It sounds funny to say, but, I thank-God that it did!  Without those complications I would have never been able to undergo continuing treatment for my care.  
     As I watched this disheveled, filthily-desperate woman-- living on the streets of Canada-- It was like peering through the looking-glass.  "There but for the grace of God, go I..." 

     Continuing through this gritty documentary they follow the trail from Poppy-plant to your downtown street-corner.  They paint some very desperate (almost propaganda-like) images-- pointing primarily to the Middle-East and groups like Al-Qaeda for the growth, production, and distribution of local heroin.  Where that paints a powerful image, I believe that there is only partial truth to this.  So many other groups have their fingers in this process-- granted many may have their roots to farmers in other countries-- but prior to 9/11 I had personally seen multitudes of other documentaries, movies, and the like that could trace the illusive "Poppy" to "south-of-the-border", or even to local growers in places as localized as California! 
      I think that this was both an astute and an incredibly manipulative ploy on the part of the film-makers-- patriotic though it may be.  I can see the sort of frenzy they were hoping to create in the hearts and minds of the American-viewers.  I'm sure that they thought to themselves (on the back of the recent-tragedy): "How else can we use this documentarian vehicle to effect change?"  I can see the gears turning as they chose their on-site locale-- and I'm certain that in an attempt to prey upon certain sympathies-- they settled on an area that was a hot-bed of recent hysteria, believing (naively) that they could potentially knock the needle from some local patriots' arm.  I think that it's a lofty ambition, albeit a dangerous one.  It's safe to say that whilst effecting change, they also added to the growing sentiment of hate.

     I can't let this moment go without a chance to discuss my most favorite element of this particular YouTube docu-movie of sorts:  The HEROES.
     So often in my own life I have wondered if there was ever an end in sight for this particular problem.  As aforementioned, I have/have had family members that I've been watching spiral ever-downward in their own addictions (as in the intro, to prescription-medications), and I have been waiting for the penny to drop with them for some time (since they are loooooong past the time where our pleas for their lives matter much).  They will either succumb and pass away, or perhaps (as is my undying hope) find some sort of "program" and turn back the hands of time-- becoming the once essential family members that they once were.   
     My favorite of the proposed solutions is unfortunately effectuated by the Swiss (though I'm sure that public sentiment is not on my side here).  They have a program that seems a little close to our "methadone-clinics", however, several times a day they provide addicts with pharmacutical-grade, clean, sterile, heroin; clean, sterile, needles; and a sterile environment in which to administer their "drug-of-choice".  They don't administer enough to get them "high", but they supply their patients with a mere "maintenance-dose" a few times a day-- in exchange for their participation in supplemental-treatments (i.e. psychiatric care, group therapies, etc).  The program is radical, forward-thinking, and incredibly astute.  I say this because, just as I've seen family and friends become addicted to various substances, I've also seen them swap that addiction for that of methadone.  Contrary to popular belief, it IS just as addictive and abuse-able as other drugs in the spectrum-- especially when you mix them with other medications (Xanax in particular)--and ultimately they end up either addicted to the substitution, or running back to their precious needle.  Why not cut out the middle-man and make it safe and accessible under supervision??  They stated in the documentary that crimes and disease among the addicted were down by a whopping SIXTY-PERCENT in a relatively short period!!!
      
       I know that I've left quite a bit out (as far as the documentary is concerned) but I wanted to address the major bullet-points that affected me the deepest, closest, and most personally.  Watching this documentary brought me into the world of a heroin-addict, from A to Z and all in-between.  
      In essence, it moved me in various ways-- playing on my emotions each time: filling me with a sense of dread, regret, shame, disgust, and resentment-- ultimately coming to a close with a brief glimpse of hope-- hinting at the potentiality of a semi-"happy-ending".   
       Watching (as I've mentioned before), was likened to watching a life flash before my eyes... or lives... of those that I love and hold dearest to my heart.  It was like viewing their eventual paths, in technicolor-- briefly glimpsed through the filthy shards of a broken-mirror.  Their images sullied and riddled with their own disease, their empty eventualities unfolding before me.  How long before it shatters?  I hope to God it mends.

http://youtu.be/kYiuRyLnZOk 
  

Blast Off in Social-Media

     Today was the beginning of my foray into the world of technological media.  The trip has been fraught with a number of beasts to be slain-- and I left many broken, bruised, and battered electronic devices in my wake...
    Well, truth-be-told it was less the devices that were battered bruised and broken, so much as my fragile ego.  I was under the misapprehension that I could spread my wings wide and take on this "Writing for Social-Media" class head-on, that in a snap I would be able to master all the world-wide-web had to offer and freelance offers would fall from the heavens... no such luck.  A web-site built primarily for children beat me to a bloody pulp (figuratively of course) over the course of the past three days, and I am now drowning in additional work.  Thank you Glogster for making me truly feel my age... and thank-you for sending my feminist "I am woman, hear me roar" mentality into a permanent back-pedal (it is for reasons such as this that I formerly left all the technological-matters to my ex-- ha, ha).  I think I am going to head into the kitchen and take my frustrations out on one of the few pieces of electronics that I have no problem with: The fridge!!
    So, Glogster, these next couple pounds are FOR YOU!!