Buying coke online in Jurmala

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Buying coke online in Jurmala

Paul Ryan your name so perfectly combines New Testament righteous purity with American white immigrant self pity it must have been invented in some brushed metallic building the exact color of despair you could walk right past and never see where sad ghosts think all day about the most efficient way to eat light they know we need it. This morning the water gleams dully orange under mist, and Abdus, standing just outside his door shovel in hand, thinks of the fish and crabs, the shrimp and eels teeming under the surface. He lays his shovel down again and turns to go back in, to wait until the children stir and Matia gets up to ready breakfast. He doubts her efforts to make him start the day happy will be enough. The water nearly reaches the fan-leaves. He picks up his shovel again and walks down, holding it in both hands. Before the baby. The career counselor shook her head and her exhale held a silent, bitter laugh. I just sat there, not saying anything. I glanced over at Maia asleep in her soft blue onesie in her blue polka-dot stroller. You really ought to make an attempt to come down to earth and think about that. There was a small stack of brochures on that gray desk that invited: Become a Certified Electrician. I nodded a few times too many. Her words made my heart contract, but I still felt compelled to politeness. I opened the door to get out of that airless office, held it open with my hip as I maneuvered the stroller. The cement path led past cement pillars, past square gardens, toward a green expanse. Tears streamed down my face. I pushed the stroller. Maia slept. She kept on sleeping. I felt like a sucker for telling that counselor woman what I wanted, what I wanted to be. I felt like a fool for wanting something I had no right to want anymore. My skin streaked with blood and mud, I used to collect tadpoles in a mason jar at the rocky edge of the San Francisquito Creek. I kept my hair short. Only my mother knew I was a girl. Maybe the career counselor was right. But becoming an electrician scared me. Electrocution scared me. I felt too anxious and afraid—I should have told that counselor—to be trusted with live wires. College was a distant plan B. It was a someday thing. A not-now thing. In Londontown hanging with Joe Strummer. Almost have the money together for the airfare to San Francisco. Sorry about everything. In the morning light through the kitchen window, my mother made fresh zucchini and peach baby food. She had painted my childhood bedroom pink. She held Maia in her manicured hands, said we could stay as long as we needed. But at night she said the opposite. The next morning my mother breathed angry like it might as well be night. Her best friend, Roberta, appeared in the entryway, her long, sand-colored hair braided into a rope. I stood in the tiled kitchen, Maia on my hip. She could hold her own head up now, and she gripped the sleeve of my black T-shirt with her tiny hands. Waiting for the water to boil, I arranged boxes of herbal tea. Peach Passion. Sleepy Time. Orange Spice. Your mother is dangerous. Roberta was crazy, I knew that, but she was right. Her face suddenly became more pointed, and short white hair sprouted on her cheeks and chin. I felt disoriented as Roberta kept shrinking. The possum made a hissing sound as she breathed. She looked up at me one more time and then scurried across the room and out through the laundry room. She scratched at the back door. I rushed to the fence, Maia still on my hip. I peered through the gap between two boards. She hissed. Possum , I thought. Possums play dead. Possums lie low. Better aim low for a while, Ariel. Better play dead. But pretty soon I started lying to avoid getting yelled at, too, or to avoid having to talk to her at all. Then I started lying to my stepfather, too, because even though he was tall and kind and used to lift me up in the air with his strong arms, his first loyalty ran to her. The lying became instinctive. The mere sight of my mother sent lies shooting off my tongue. It was a school holiday so I walked downtown and they were giving away free Hello Kitty erasers at the stationery store. No, really, the Mendozas invited me to live with them. They want me to move in right away. Roberta had an unexpected appointment. He was bald except for a wispy sprout of gray hair that stuck up from the middle of his head. It was hardly the thousand tens I was waiting for, but money magnetism, I would learn, is a tricky science. I had black jeans and a soft maroon T-shirt. I had a flashlight and warm socks. I had good conditioner, stolen from my mother, and Clinique makeup, also stolen. Jambalaya by Luisah Teish, a purple hardcover that framed magic as a science of the oppressed. Aim at the horizon, Ariel. Sea level. Dirt level. Plan B is the answer, Ariel. They have financial aid at the alternative college up in the North Bay. Lie low. Play dead. Apply to the college. I curled up on the wooden park bench with my arms around her the way I used to sleep with my backpack and passport cradled against thieves, and I closed my eyes. Maybe that night on the park bench, like Borges, I dreamed that my grown-up self was sitting next to us. Maybe in the semiconscious dark, she told me all the wondrous and terrifying things that would happen in the years to come, so that I woke with only a fleeting memory of my dream but with a basic faith that I could answer the questions:. In the light of morning, I let the memory of that dream fade. I nursed the baby, buckled her back into her stroller, and we headed for the Caltrain station downtown. Ariel Gore is the author of nine previous books of fiction and nonfiction and is the founding editor of Hip Mama. Published by the Feminist Press. Because it is vacation, I forgo an early bedtime, and my five-year-old and I walk to the beach: Across the street, down a windy path under a new highway, through a forested park with glinting asymmetrical playground equipment, past vendors hawking ice-cream bars studded with peanuts and lined with caramel, and into the bedazzled evening of central Jurmala. The boardwalk here is not board. It glimmers with white stones, along which large-breasted women in rhinestone-studded flip-flops and long blonde ponytails stride, arm in arm with beefy husbands and four-year-olds in ironed shorts. We pay 25 centimes to use the bathroom to a woman who portions out toilet paper, the old school way of relieving a need, but inside, the bathroom has that blue-tiled, mirrored, European Union sheen. We stop in beach store selling small dried fish, Frisbees, and hats. Just the thing. The selection is sparse, but we will need something to keep the sun off our faces, perhaps to stem what I have only recently noticed is my spreading skein of wrinkles. I choose a jaunty white and red cap, puffy in the back with a short bill in front. Amalia selects one in the same hip hop vein, only hers is green and lined with fake rubies. Blinging from its center is a gold dollar sign. She wears it the rest of the trip at a rakish angle, just in case anyone has any questions about where we are from, or whether we belong. How happy my peach summer dress is the next morning to escape the purple suitcase! I greet it as an old friend! How I delight in frying eggs and chopping carrots for our lunch in the efficient cottage kitchen! How I capitulate to carnival rides on plastic elephants, street shows of magicians, hawkers of overpriced Latvian trinkets! How I chase my daughter into the spray! How my dollar-signed child sits down on the cement path. How I glare. How I then keep walking, hoping the locals, who believe that ground-sitting even in summer causes colds, may not realize she is mine. How I also believe that she will follow me, because I am her guardian and she is helpless without me. How she gets up! How she immediately lays down on a neighboring bench! How she stretches her thin arms and spindly fingers above her lolling, hateful head! How I do not parent in saccharine halves and quarters and so count onetwothree. How my child slumps towards me, dragging the toes of her once new sandals across the corroding earth. How the families of man and wife and one or two well-behaved children stroll. How the teenage skateboarders skate. How they move with leisure. You look tired. When did you last masturbate? It must be weeks. How shimmering ahead is a cube-like structure of white and red, and oh, how my child and I turn to each other. How we wordlessly agree. Yes, ice cream. How she sees my face, registers something new and dangerous there, and quiets. How I forgo a scoop for myself, because the melty last dregs of what the child leaves behind usually satisfy. She lives in Madison, Wisconsin with her daughter and is at work on a memoir called Fieldwork. More than one of the town residents said that the dog had stayed with Brenda Leroy until the ambulance arrived, that Pete Geary, who called , found the dog sitting on her chest, that Scott Hernandez, the first response officer, had to lift the dog off her, and that tugging on the leash had yielded only resistance. In retellings, this was a part of the story that got furrowed brows and hands to chests, yet some felt the detail to be implausible. It had been pm on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving in this New England college town. The night was clear. Her life, they had pointed out, was already a house of cards: one boy, nineteen, who she had to agree came with his own brand of parental challenges; a double mortgage on a house that had once been an actual chicken coop bought at the height of the market; her health problems—diabetes and chronic back pain—which had meant one job after another over the last two decades. She had thanked them for their advice and returned to the shelter the next day to sign the papers. Two weeks in, I said to the boys no, I said fuck this shit, I switched off the gospels and slapped their backsides until they got into the car and I drove them to the river and I said get in. They said no. You get your stupid mother-fucking arses saved. Tossing the steel mesh trash cans is so much fun Not as much as juggling broken umbrellas Or rocking the yellow taxies or the last of the Lincoln Town Cars Ferrying passengers drenched and stimulated. It pebbles to the sidewalk, hundreds of green nuggets His holy hand unblemished by blood. Foolish boys. Foolish boys, your anger is no storm and your howling Bears little glamour—the wolves in your throats have long since left you. And here in the rain, your pain is small, durable and yet The pebbles scatter about reminders of uglier private deeds. Of design. They raise my ire and lash lash lash I throw against Glass; the sash a square reflection of domestic armature. Patricia Spears Jones is a Brooklyn-based African-American poet, playwright, and cultural commentator. I want to steal this sentence. I long to make it my own. It lends itself to theft, those vague pronouns unclaimed. A dream is the what that begins this story. This bright bone , dream residue, carries over, from mind to land, from the subconscious world to the waking one. Dreams are not made of bones but of spectres, and so they are slippery and ungraspable. Yet, this ungraspable dream haunts him and two months later a paragraph later we are with the drunk dreamer at his own farewell party on the eve of his journey back to Sri Lanka. To act because of a dream is to believe that the spectres of the subconscious, those things that entertain us in the night, have bodies and origins worth exploring. This is the world we open up to in Running In the Family , where travelogue, anecdotes, poems, oral histories, journal entries, and, also, dreams are worth including in a book, because they are all part of the story. Among them this: do not write about dreams. Running In the Family was on my mind when I was preparing to teach this class—I had just read it a few months before—and likely because of its hold on me I had been particularly wary of traditional lists and parameters, genre definitions and categorization. And so I did not share the list with the class. Running In the Family is a messy book. He drops names of friends and relatives into scenes, without introduction, and suddenly they become part of the story or they tell one. Their stories float, connected to each other but not tethered to one sturdy narrative. Ondaatje remains present with them on the surface, the person asking the questions, the person feeling the heat. I am writing this in Montreal, in the country where Ondaatje currently lives and where he had that dream that prompted his voyage back to Sri Lanka. The city washed out, under layers of ice and fresh snow, us shuffling down the sidewalk to the hotel in the old port, right by the St. His father who was present for a time in both our lives and then disappeared, though we were not there for him but for us, an us which would soon too disappear. I returned to Montreal not in search of that lost man but on account of that us that disappeared, to be alone in this familiar city. Of my own father—I had given him a copy of Running In the Family some years ago, and along with it, a two page handwritten letter. Or maybe I just wanted to share a piece of myself. Years later I discovered that there was another copy of the book on the shelf, given to him by a friend, inscribed even and dated , when I was a child and when he was near the same age as I am now. I love that sentence because it feels bold, to declare this romantic inclination about yourself, to start a book with that vulnerable moment, in the middle of the night, shivering and confused from a dream. How do you begin to write about a lost family, something that only matters to you in a way that a dream does, in a way that is compelling to others? Returning to a homeland is one way, linking the decision to turn a consciousness toward an idea by returning to a physical place itself. Ondaatje does this in his sentences, fusing the physical to the nebulous. This novel takes place on a ship and is about a boy in transition. I listen to his sentences as I pause on the landing between the staircases. I try to imagine the spelling of the unfamiliar names. The character, Michael, Mynah, has fallen in love with the sister of his childhood friend. I reach the summit and walk up the lane towards Chalet Du Mont Royal, to the bricked courtyard that overlooks the city. Above us a storm weighs the clouds. About two years ago I bought a euthanasia drug online from China. You can get it that way, or you can travel to Mexico or Peru and buy it over the counter from a vet. Then you either drink it in your Lima hotel room, and let your family deal with the details of shipping your remains home, or you smuggle it back in your luggage for later use. My Chinese drug comes in powdered form. I keep it in a vacuum-sealed bag in a safe and secret place, along with a suicide note. I wrote the note over a year ago, a few days before I was due to have brain surgery. By then I had deposits of melanoma elsewhere too, in my right lung, under the skin on my right arm, a big one just below my liver, another pressing on my urethra, which had necessitated the insertion in of a plastic stent to keep my right kidney functioning. I had been first diagnosed in , just before my fiftieth birthday, after a biopsy on a mole excised from the back of my right knee came back positive as a stage-four melanoma. Since then the progress of my disease had been mercifully slow. It was three years before it showed up in my pelvic lymph nodes and another couple of years before it began to spread to other parts of my body. I had two rounds of surgery, from which I recovered well, and in between I suffered no debilitating symptoms. In that time I managed to keep my illness a secret from all but my closest friends. But I had kept the details from our two teenage sons, trying, I suppose, to protect them from pain, because that was my job as their mother. Then, in late December , a seizure left me temporarily helpless as a baby and I could no longer deny the obvious. It helped me to feel that I was putting my house in order, and I think it helped them because it made them feel useful. I even revealed my interest in euthanasia drugs and evasively said they were on my wish list for Christmas. I called it my Marilyn Monroe gift pack. My suicide note was by way of an apology. Thank you, I told them. As it happened, I came through the surgery, not entirely unimpaired, but not too badly off. The tumour in my brain was successfully removed. My right foot will never fully recover its strength, so I limp, but I have normal movement in the rest of my right side. Nevertheless, my situation remains dire. There is no cure for melanoma. A few drugs are being trialled, with varying results. It was then that I became certain I was coming to the end. With my health deteriorating steadily, I started to focus on the question of suicide like never before. My stash calls to me day and night, like an illicit lover. Let me take you away from all this, it whispers. My drug would go straight to the sleep centre of the brain in the time it takes to finish a sentence. What could be easier than to swallow a fatal dose and never wake up again? Surely that would be preferable to the alternative, which is a lingering and gruesome demise? And yet I hesitate, because what appears to be a clear-cut solution is anything but. Firstly, there are the practicalities of my taking such a course of action. As the law stands in Australia, I would have to take my drug alone, so as not to implicate anyone else in my death. Even though suicide is not a crime, assisting a person to suicide is illegal and is punishable by a lengthy jail term. Secondly, there are the emotional repercussions for others should I do the deed, be it in a hotel room somewhere, or on a lonely bush track. I ask myself if I have the right to traumatise some hotel cleaner, or some bushwalker, unfortunate enough to discover my corpse. The fact that cancer was actually my killer would be lost to posterity, as would the fact that I am not, by any fair measure, mad. Faced with all of these obstacles, I contemplate my bleak future with as much courage as I can muster. If I were, however, to express a wish to end my own life, none of that support would be legally available to me. I would be strictly on my own. Our laws, unlike those in countries such as Belgium and the Netherlands, continue to prohibit any form of assisted dying for people in my situation. It occurs to me to ask why. I wonder, for instance, if our laws reflect some deep aversion amongst medical professionals here towards the idea of relinquishing control of the dying process into the hands of the patient. I wonder if this aversion might stem from a more general belief in the medical profession that death represents a form of failure. Just go into the oncology department of any major hospital and sit in the packed waiting room. All around you are people dying. I was as under-prepared as anyone could be. It was as if I had stumbled out of a land of make-believe into the realm of the real. That is why I started writing this book. Things are not as they should be. For so many of us, death has become the unmentionable thing, a monstrous silence. At least that is how it feels to me. Without the band I become visible again. Another drummer says good vibes apropos of nothing. My boyfriend orders a round on his tab. The third drummer talks about his last tour, how crazy it was to play at the Kremlin after Trump was elected. I take the straw out of my drink and begin to curl it around my finger, like a ring. All these guys talk about recording as though they were throwing pottery, physically making something, changing the shape of one thing to become another thing. They are still talking about Radiohead. After leaving the bar by myself, I recite my CV in my head. I summon the names of every woman I can think of. I want to hug her like a sister. My boyfriend is in the studio all day. I stay at home with the fireplace and the dog, and ostensibly I write. What I do instead of writing: smoke on the porch, watch Netflix, occasionally cook. Until then, you clean the kitchen or something, you take the dog for a walk. See 3, again, except this time, one of the drummers apologizes for all this music talk, and then keeps talking. If they asked, I would say Jackson C. I would say, did you know he only had one album, that Paul Simon produced it? How as a child he survived a fire that killed all his classmates, how his son died, how they found him wandering Riverside Park saying he knew Paul Simon. How no one believed him. How he wound up living here, in Woodstock, on couches. People come up here either en route to fame or to hide from it. There is little room for anyone else. What am I doing here? See 5. The story that interests me lies in the graveyard. They say in , a young woman was beaten by her husband for a suspected infidelity. As she was dying, she told him to plant on her grave the rod with which he beat her. She said that if the branch took root over her body, it would prove her innocence. And of course now there is a grave spliced by an elm. Is this story true, or was it invented to explain the tree? Was it invented to explain the dead woman? How you answer that question will tell me everything I care to know. Catherine Carberry lives in New York. She is a fiction reader for Guernica. As part of the Dear Reader residency curated by Tin House, she spent one night at Ace crafting a letter to an imagined audience. Her letter has been kept secret until today, when it will be placed bedside in each room—but first we caught up with her to talk dystopia, procrastination, and unearthing the profound. And why? Octavia Butler died before she could finish the series, and I really need to know how Lauren conceptualized her escape pod, what her plans were for longevity and rebuilding. I need those blueprints. We all need those blueprints. Do you map out your writing, or do you discover your path as you go? How often does your work go in directions you never expected? For my day job, outlines are key. For all my other writing, I tend to visualize the work a lot more before I write it down. Dear Reader tasks you with writing for an imagined audience of strangers. How much do you think about your audience when you write? Have you ever been surprised by who is drawn to your work? I challenge myself to honesty while letting my brain unfurl in the most interesting and unusual ways possible. Anything by Renee Gladman. And so playful. I revisit Calamities anytime I need to think about rituals and prompts and the value of chronicling the daily and mundane to unearth something profound about existence. Her novels are outrageously original. My favorite are the trilogy about the dilapidated city of Ravicka, which are astounding in how they look at language as architecture and culture, containing memory and inherently impossible to understand. That blows my mind. Do you have any rituals, ceremonies or requirements that accompany your writing process? Not specifically. I like to sit in the sun and scrawl things in my head before actually sitting down to try and coax them onto the page. But I also spend hours working in a semi-circle of tea cups, wine glasses, piles of dirty laundry and candy wrappers as much as I do in a clean house, so it really just depends. The most helpful piece of writing advice I ever received was simply to write when the spirit strikes. You can find this interview and other delights on the Ace Hotel blog. Ma often said that despite everything, we were lucky people, because the Bug Man came over to our house for free, sprayed in places nobody had ever seen. Places that we never knew were there. Happy times were when the Bug Man pulled up, in his strange truck with a giant plastic model spider glued to the top of it. Once, when he came to spray, he hugged Ma in the side yard. They seemed to want privacy. I watched them from the upstairs bathroom window. Ma looked pretty in his long skinny arms, like a different mother. I thought that maybe our lives could change. He could marry us, become our father and take us to live in a large, bugless house. Come study with the fab four in our Craft Intensives in Brooklyn this fall. Obsess over obsession, cultivate interruptions, raise the stakes, or rethink form with four master classes that will give you a jolt of inspiration and help you get some writing done! Find details and apply now through September 20th here. The active body is always at work, and work means metabolism. Set your alarm for 4am to rev up your motor. Leap out of bed and right into jumping jacks, followed by wall squats. Repeat hourly. Nothing motivates better than seeing what you really look like. But anyone can do the sports bra and underwear picture. What you need is the full monty. Tape that picture to the fridge and see if you eat ever again. Instead of celery sticks filled with peanut butter, picture a plate heavy with buttered toast. See the perfectly golden bread. Pause a moment. Now hold your imaginary buttered toast close to your mouth. It wafts melted butter to your brain. Slip your tongue out past your lips, let it taste the air snakelike. Now dump your imaginary toast down the garbage disposal, flip the disposal switch and grind up your dream. Almond butter and avocado oil are just as caloric as their mainstream cousins peanut butter and olive oil. There is no such thing as healthy fat; why do you keep looking for ways to cheat reality? Set a rigid schedule for eating during the day. Breakfast at 6am, lunch at noon, and supper at 6pm. Take a foot of minty or cinnamon for a treat! Around the house, wear jeans two sizes too small. No one wants to look at that, most especially you. Be sure to spend most of your day in front of a full-size mirror. Turn away and bend over, looking back at your reflection through your legs—can you even do that? Note the fold of your belly over your waistband. This may sound drastic, dangerous even. Fear not. Your body needs a lot less energy than everyone says. If your favorite song comes up first in your workout mix, double-time the jumping jacks or add four blocks to your run. When a friend calls, do knee-lifts throughout the call. Tell yourself you will only eat purple foods today. Only fungi. Only leaves. Only the skin of apples, carrots, or zucchini. Only broth. Plan out the week in advance: Monday, yellow squash peel. Tuesday, kale broth. Wednesday, only sucking foods like olives or grapes—be careful, though, as these will add up. Best to keep to just two or three. When you dress, please think of those who will have to look at you. Avoid loud patterns or patterns at all. Dress monochromatically, in black if you can. Better yet, when dining out with friends or estranged family members, cover as much of yourself in the tablecloth. Sit far back from the table and kindly refuse any food offered to you. Fill an ice cube tray with a 2mm diced cube of cucumber or carrot, or three bits of orange zest. Fill with water and freeze. Just like it. No matter how hot summer gets, no one wants to see your largest organ on display. Never wear short skirts, never wear shorts. And please, never bend over. No sleeveless tops, no midriffs. And certainly no swimsuits. Your junior and senior high school bullies have long forgotten the torment they subjected you to. Friend the ringleader on Facebook. She is beautiful and thin, of course. Swipe through all of their photographs, read his about page, scan his friends and Likes. Why must you keep looking for the old brutality in him? You and he both have more than doubled in age. They are lodged in the loops and whorls of your fingerprints, the tiny spaces between each lash of your eyes, the push and pull of blood moving through your heart. Just a bit you could let go of. Just a bit to make room for something new instead. She lives in Newburgh, Indiana with her two best boys. The trouble started before they were born, as our steepest problems often do. Water flowed through cracks and fissures and degraded the earth, soil by speck. To the naked eye the ground looked fine. It looked untroubled. But a day came when the surface could no longer hold and it collapsed and revealed the cavity. Houses have been swallowed by sinkholes, as have highways, humans, half a town. The sinkhole at Hot Springs filled with water, then the bodies of lost, lumbering, juvenile male mammoths. Skip to content Created with Sketch. Created with Sketch. Search for:. Facebook Twitter Instagram. Sign up for our newsletter Enter Email. Privacy Policy. True Crime Buying Options. True Crime Price. There were other lies like that. I sat across from her in her little gray office. She wore a well-ironed gray suit. A poster behind her pictured the Everest summit: Aim High. She stared at me, silent. Why did you say thank you, Ariel? Shut up, only crazy people talk to themselves, Ariel. I pushed the stroller, my pace quickening. You chose this life, Ariel. Everyone is very embarrassed for you. I felt very far from that child body now. I had to make a living. I got a chain letter in the mail. I sent ten dollars to the name at the top of the list. Love, Lance I threw the postcard away. I share my childhood bed with the baby nurse her as we both fall asleep her body is soft like clay all hunger The next morning my mother breathed angry like it might as well be night. Not happening? My mother shook her head. My mother had just stepped out the French doors to pick a lemon. I stepped back. Roberta seemed to shrink, just a little. I felt panicky, pushed the door open for her. I kept watching. The dog walked away. The possum rolled over onto her belly, stood up on her short little legs, and scurried off. I shrugged. Did my mother hiss? I looked at my pyramid of boxed tea. Maia puckered her soft baby lips and she never whined again. Maybe in the semiconscious dark, she told me all the wondrous and terrifying things that would happen in the years to come, so that I woke with only a fleeting memory of my dream but with a basic faith that I could answer the questions: Will we survive? Can I be a mother and an artist? Can I be a single mother and a writer? Can I be a daughter still? With an unpanicked Yes. Yes, of course. Follow me. July, , Jurmala, Latvia Because it is vacation, I forgo an early bedtime, and my five-year-old and I walk to the beach: Across the street, down a windy path under a new highway, through a forested park with glinting asymmetrical playground equipment, past vendors hawking ice-cream bars studded with peanuts and lined with caramel, and into the bedazzled evening of central Jurmala. How I fall into a dark well. How she does not follow. How I forget myself and shout. How the phrase becomes my pulse. How this part of the park smells both of pine and salt spray. How the something vendor says hello in English, asks how we are. How the blue of his eyes deepens in the sun. How his hand is firm on the scoop. How he awaits my request. How his grip quivers. How it might be me. How handsome young ice-cream scoopers do not flirt with single mothers. How today they do not. Kiss Me Someone Karen Shepard. Kiss Me Someone quantity. Foolish boys Foolish boys, your anger is no storm and your howling Bears little glamour—the wolves in your throats have long since left you And here in the rain, your pain is small, durable and yet The pebbles scatter about reminders of uglier private deeds. As for the painted wood doors—they are so easily broken. Dying: A Memoir Cory Taylor. Cory Taylor was the award-winning author of Me and Mr. Booker and My Beautiful Enemy. Dying: A Memoir quantity. Welcome, he said, the King of Bankruptcy aboard. Afterwards, some of us were having second thoughts about digital interface, our personal data having been hacked; others began wondering how much anyone could truly know about our substance or essence through social security numbers, credit scores, dates of birth. Further tragedies loomed. You were lost when the scaffolding collapsed, although, ironically, covered in asbestos and plaster dust, I was found. After we were evacuated from the fire, another patrol of rescue workers in red suits, plastic helmets and goggles arrived to lead us from the flood. Wake Early and Often The active body is always at work, and work means metabolism. The Before Picture Nothing motivates better than seeing what you really look like. Nighttime Noshing Set a rigid schedule for eating during the day. Face the Reality of Your Body Around the house, wear jeans two sizes too small. Little Games Can Lead to Big Losses If your favorite song comes up first in your workout mix, double-time the jumping jacks or add four blocks to your run. Reward Good Behavior With Decadent Treats Fill an ice cube tray with a 2mm diced cube of cucumber or carrot, or three bits of orange zest. Keep Your Body to Yourself No matter how hot summer gets, no one wants to see your largest organ on display. Older posts. Choose an option Hardcover Clear.