Fifteen Minutes and Finding Peace

For fifteen minutes each day, I allow myself to do what I hate to do most: I waste time.

For fifteen minutes, I stay in my room with the door shut, kneel down, and stare at the wall in front of me. I do nothing.

(Oh, so this is how she finds inspiration for these posts…from a wall….it’s obvious )cover for blog.jpg 2

For fifteen minutes each day, I allow myself to do what I hate to do most: I waste time.

For fifteen minutes, I stay in my room with the door shut, kneel down, and stare at the wall in front of me. I do nothing.

(Oh, so this is how she finds inspiration for these posts…from a wall….it’s obvious )

No, I don’t find inspiration; I find peace.

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What Is Better Than Being a Victim?

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Who wants to be a victim?

Well, a lot of people apparently. It’s been quite the fad. If you are concerned about falling behind on this trend, don’t worry: anyone can be a victim. You only have to be a Hispanic, a red-head, a woman or even none of the above, to apply for victim status.

(No, you say. I am a white bald-headed male and I know that I am the victimizer of all victims.)

Woe is you, Mr. White Patriarchy, I say, but crawl out from the slum the Dark Ages of 2010 placed you in. This is 2017 and all one must do is identify as a victim! Nothing exist but what is in your mind, after all.  Continue reading

Hate Speech and Play-doh

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Hate Speech reminds me of play-doh.

(Was that just hate speech against play-doh I heard?)

No. Let me continue.

When we were young and had more than five free minutes in the day, my brother, sister, and I would gather around our favorite plastic table and dish out the play-do. This was not an event like to the redistribution of wealth in a perfect economic state. Rather, because I was the oldest and therefore in charge,  it resembled Stalin the dictator assigning peasants to plots of Russian soil that they may farm and make it fertile for him. My brother and sister knew that the play-doh, although I let them look at it, was still in no ways theirs and must return to her from whence it came. Continue reading

Bread for Dessert?

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Few things in life awaken in me as much happiness and love as dessert. It’s true that free trials on Netflix and winning an argument with my brother come close but, to be real, they don’t even begin to budge Dessert off the throne that I’ve made for him.

All this is why, a month ago, I was eating store-bought, whole wheat bread for dessert.

This is the kind of bread with crusts like leather. The bread whose dry interior is bland and whose crust is worse. The kind of bread which has fifty ingredients in it, according to the label, but you only taste one and it doesn’t taste good.

All right, you say, we have eaten bread before. Continue reading

How to Become Happy…or at least Undepressed

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My question for the title: Is undepressed a word?

“So what,” you are thinking “Is undepressed even real?”.

We young people are practically bipolar: one day we are ready to conquer the earth beneath the wheels of our mighty chariots and a week later we sympathize with the ant on the chariot wheel who watches the ground and his death approach with lightening speed. Even the happiest of teens and twenty-somethings have got to admit that they have felt, at least once before, like that doomed ant.

But what to do when we are ants ? Continue reading

Staying Clean in a Dirty World

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Have you ever told anyone that you were still a virgin ?

Imagine you climb to the high belfry of some church and begin to ring the low, funeral bell, pouring out misery and woe on all who live nearby. Soon everyone has dressed in black and gathers around you to mourn, as is done to those who have left this life. They are mourning – for you.

Announcing you are a virgin can really seem like a self-written obituary, especially if you are over eighteen. Especially if you have no history of mental illness. Especially if you have friends among whom you are painfully aware that you are the only virgin. The death knoll begins to ring.  Continue reading

Why Do You Need This Blog?

cropped-goal-of-this-blog.jpgIt’s hard to be young today.

Of course, your grandpa may disagree and remind you of the time he was rolled down the hill inside of an tire. He usually ends with something like “kids nowadays don’t know how to have fun”  or “kids have it so easy”.

Sure, Grandpa, but the youth of other generations, in their free time between tire rolls, didn’t receive Fs on papers because they refused to conform to the teacher’s political agenda; they didn’t find themselves expected to do things they saw as wrong, such as take birth control or let men use the women’s room.
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