I hate how middle high schools are combined because then the middle school gets in trouble for doing the same as the high. (True story ) names changed. Issia and roses started dating ( in middle school) and ther in a combined middle/high they kissed they got yelled at by people high schoolers (9th graders) kiss and know one saids a word make scents ?
2014 has not been kind.
On a cold, snowy day in January, when my husband was in Tokyo, my 10 year old son received a lifelong sentence. It began with a sick visit to the pediatrician followed by another sick visit to a gastroenterologist. As I sat across from this woman, who I disliked as soon as she entered the room, I could not imagine that my son’s world was going to permanently change. After a brief examination and a denial of all symptoms from which she was sure he was suffering, she stoically pronounced “he has Crohn’s,” which only made me hate her more than I already did. She prescribed antibiotics and advised that he would need to be examined under general anesthesia.
That night, my son slept in my bed. I spent most of the night feeling his forehead, making sure he was still asleep, plotting the death of…
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I have an uncle who was a cop.
His kids, my cousins, were around my age and when we visited our family in Québec every summer I practically lived at their house. As soon as we got to my grandmother’s house, all rumpled and grumpy from our eight hour drive, I would start dialling my cousins’ number on her beige rotary phone. I spent the whole damn school year waiting for summer, and my time with my cousins, to come; we wrote each other letters all through the dreary winter, hatching plans for new summer exploits. Life with my cousins – swimming in their pool, family barbecues, playing hide-and-seek in my grandmother’s mammoth hedge at twilight – was lightyears better than my boring life in Ontario.
Pretty much every summer my uncle would, at some point, take us to visit the police station. He would pretend that we were criminals and…
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“If I forget to ask you to donate to
Susan G Komen For the Cure
You get a Coke
I am not petty enough to call out a minimum-wage worker on a promotion like this, so I don’t have the comped bottle of soda to prove it, but I was not asked to make a breast cancer donation at Kroger last week. And no, the clerk (let’s call her “Vera”) did not forget to ask. She simply refrained from making the request because she thought I’d say no. Of this I am certain.
Before I share with you the passive-aggressive ugliness that transpired last Thursday between Vera and me, and in my own defense (with the understanding that I come off sounding like kind of a jerk in this story), let me just say that I donate to causes like this every time someone asks me. Every. Single…
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It starts with the sources and stories; that’s where it always starts. Not stories that exist full-formed and discerned. No. These are stories that exist always-already in-the-process-of-becoming; stories that consist in half-thought ideas, half-glimpsed connections, half-baked moments. Intuition? Perhaps. Often I do not know where they come from. Always I suspect they are wrong but worth trying still.
It continues with the sources. Hard won over many years and forgotten long ago. To re-enter box files is to meet old friends or to be struck with the shock of the new. I told you I had forgotten these sources long ago. It continues as an archaeology of our accreted days and months in some dusty archive or other.
It stops. It stops just at the moment when you open a document to begin. The blank page takes on the haunting qualities of nightmare. The blank page seems a proxy for…
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And then something happened that changed everything.
I wish I could start the story that way, because that’s how it felt when it happened: startling, vivid, breathtakingly transformative. Even now it makes my heart race, the moment when I looked down and saw what I saw on our front porch, and the follow-up moment when I pulled the car out of the garage and saw what was there. But you can’t be jolted out of a world without there being a world to be jolted out of. That’s an awkward way of saying it, but I’m a storyteller, not an expert in metaphysics. Bear with me.
And then something happened that changed everything.
We’ll get to the something. But first, you have to know what the everything was.
We were renting a house on a cul-de-sac in northern Virginia. The purplest part of a purple state, in the section of…
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Remember everyone should hear the truth but if mean you should’t say it to them. Unless if you don’t tell them they can be injured, or die. Or someone lets is don’t speak till you think
Every day of the year, American shoppers act irrationally. On Black Friday, however, shoppers’ irrationality and wildness climb to dangerously high levels. Why does Black Friday lead shoppers to grab and fight, especially when the stakes are often as low as fifty percent off toasters?
Over the last few decades, social scientists have cataloged the many different factors that lead to irrational consumer behavior, and Black Friday touches on nearly that entire list.
Luckily though, if shoppers stay aware of how Black Friday is designed to make them irrational—and if they take breaks, eat snacks, plan ahead, and keep a clear mind—then they can avoid falling victim to the “holiday.”
Here are seven reasons shoppers become so irrational and committed to deals on Black Friday, as well as a few ways you can protect yourself.
Black Friday is like a hazing ritual
Black Friday shoppers are dedicated—they sacrifice sleep…
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