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When my son reached his 17th birthday, he was diagnosed with ulcerated colitis. By the time he was 19, he was rushed to the hospital with severe anemia. His colitis began to cause bleeding ulcers. His hemoglobin count was down to five when it should have been 13. Two pints of blood later and a seven day stay in the hospital, l he was released with a hemoglobin count of 11. At the beginning of 2011, the colitis took control, and the decision was made. My son would have a colostomy. He wasn't happy. After all, he was only 45 years old. A colostomy bag was the last thing he wanted. Yet, on June 1st of that year, that's what happened. He had a full ileostomy. However, that wasn't the end of the problems - only the beginning. For the next three years he was in and out of the hospital with one procedure, or surgery, or infection after another. Finally, his health began to stabilize, and he seemed to be getting better but still hated that colostomy bag. In December of 2011, my mom had an accident which forced her to reassess her living conditions. She realized that she could no longer live alone, and in January of 2012, she packed her things and moved in with me. After we cleared out her house, we put it on the market. Mom was recovering nicely from her accident but still needed the use of a walker to get around. My son's house is about 3 hours away from mine which enabled us to visit often It didn't matter that I am his mother and my mother his grandmother. He was mortified every time the colostomy bag began to fill. He would leave the room and hide in his bedroom until the sound and odor dissipated - which often was about 30 minutes While we were busy socializing with his wife and children, we were unaware of the colostomy bag. Unfortunately, he was, and it made him extremely uncomfortable. Early in 2013 a friend began doing research on colostomy bags and found a doctor who specialized in a different kind of procedure. it's called the Barnett Continent Intestinal Reservoir Koch Pouch – or B.C.I.R. At that time there was only one doctor in Florida who could do this surgery. My son made the appointment, and it was determined that surgery would be scheduled for August of 2013. The procedure is a reconstruction of the small intestine using about two feet at the end to create a small internal pouch. The stoma is no wider than a #2 pencil which enables the pouch to get emptied a few times a day using a catheter. No noise, no smell, no mess! My son was thrilled. His stay in the hospital was about seven days but he insisted during that time we bring his grandmother for a visit. “Mom, I want grandma to see that I'm OK. After all I've been through and all her prayers, she deserved to spend some time with me, and I really want to see her.” I loaded mom's walker in the car and help her climb in the front seat. The hospital was only two hours from my house, and mom and I passed that time easily since she had many questions about his surgery. Once in the hospital, we pulled a chair closer to his bed and while holding his hand, grandmother and grandson spent the next hour gloriously talking about health and family. The nurse came in a few minutes later and reminded my son he needed to get out of bed and walk. Lying in bed wasn't good for anyone so I encouraged him to follow the nurse's orders. He was still hooked up to an IV, the urinal bag, and a heart monitor. Anytime he left the bed, the pole with all the bags went with him. Looking at the pole my son spoke up. “Hey Grandma, since I have to walk for exercise why don't you come with me? I have my pole; you have your walker. we could race up and down the hallway.” My mom laughed. “I don't know about racing, but I'll take a walk with you.” For the next 15 minutes grandma and grandson walked the halls of the hospital, chatting and enjoying each other's company. Once back in his room, he lay in bed, my mom sat in the chair, and they talked and laughed about how they must have looked with him pushing his pole and mom pushing her walker. Our visit lasted another 30 minutes and my son looked as though he was about to fall asleep. I suggested we leave since mom also looked tired and I had to make sure she had the strength to withstand the ride down the elevator and the walk to the car. We still had a two-hour drive home. We left the hospital and walked slowly, stopping periodically for mom to regain her strength and her breath. After all, mom was 92 years old, and her stamina wasn't what it used to be. As soon as we got in the car, she perked up and said, “Can we stop at McDonald's? I'd love a cheeseburger!” That's mom! My son was released a few days later and the first thing mom wanted to do is visit him at his home. Mom may be gone now, and my son is healed, but I'll never forget that day in the hospital when grandson and grandmother had their Walker Derby. It definitely was a sight to behold and one I'll cherish forever.

I didn't cry when she got sick, or at the funeral, or at the graveyard. I didn't even cry when my mother brushed the hair out of my still dry eyes and held me as the undertakers wheeled away her coffin. Mom never said it, but she hadn't approved of our relationship from the first moment I brought Elise home. It wasn't that she didn't like Elise. What was there not to like in smart sweet Elise? Mom had tried to understand us, I knew that. I guess it doesn't matter anymore. The next morning, I awoke alone. The sun moved shadows across our bedroom while I just stared off the edge of my side of the bed. I was waiting for something, the smell of her coffee I think, but nothing came to snap me out of this fog. Was I supposed to be doing something? Breakfast, I guessed, though I didn't feel hungry; I didn't feel much of anything to be honest. I went into our pantry anyways and saw row upon row of canned sauces, fruits, and preserves she had prepared for the long winter ahead. The shelves were filled with Elise's preserves and her light curled handwriting. I picked up a Mason jar and stared through it without seeing the diamond shapes etched into the glass or feeling the paper label as my fingertips absently traced the word ‘strawberries' over and over. I didn't see the bags of flour and sugar or the boxes of her favorite cereal crowded together on the mint green shelves in the cramped little pantry. I was back in July, sweating as I hauled in another tray of fresh picked strawberries. She would have picked them herself like every other year if she had still had the strength. I smiled and laughed when I thought she was looking and stole glances at the scarf wrapped around her head when I thought she didn't see. I opened my mouth to ask her again why she was doing all of this and wouldn't she rather fly away somewhere to lounge on a beach? I closed my mouth without a word, we'd fought about it enough and her answer was always the same. “I don't want some crazy trip. That's not me. I just want every day I can have with you,” she would say. I knew she just wanted her life- a normal long life- and it was the only thing I couldn't give her. I hefted the jar turning it over and over in my hand, puzzled by the weight and feel of it like some alien artifact. The jar ate away the cold numbness wrapped around me and I couldn't push away the itching burning feeling rising from the pit of my stomach. I clenched my fist around the jar as if it and it alone had taken my wife from me. I couldn't stand the sight of the wretched thing, it brought anger to a boil suddenly spilling over onto my carefully sealed up resignation. I flung the jar with all my might at the pantry wall, red exploding over a bag of chocolate chips, syrup and glass and strawberries falling to the floor. A low guttural animal yell erupted as red as the strawberries and I hardly noticed it was me spewing anguish and rage at the rows of silent glass jars until my throat grew sore. I slid to the floor completely boneless without anger to hold me up, rocking back and forth holding my head with both hands as if it might come loose without a firm grip. My whole being shook, tears making cold splotches on my pajamas as I sobbed there on the floor of our pantry. I felt like my insides had all been scooped out leaving me hollow and empty, blankly staring at a bag of dried beans as if they could anchor me to the world again. The smell of strawberries touched me tugging me gently back, not to the world around me but further back to a moment with her. The bright sweet fruit conjured up that birthday cake she had made filled with our first strawberry harvest, and how we sang and kissed that night joyfully celebrating life. I looked up at all her jars: the tomato sauce recipe we'd spent years perfecting, the peaches from her mother's tree, the BlackBerry jam she hated but still labored over knowing it was my favorite. I saw her there, all her work and planning and love, every moment of our lives together laid aside here giving me a million tiny roads back to my life with her, if only for a moment- a taste. My vision blurred again as tears flowed, gently now, onto my cheeks. I nodded my head imagining her beside me, gazing at me with that secretive smile. I whispered to her, and to myself, “I see what you did, my clever wife. Thank you.”

Anne loved to parties. Pete hated parties.. Halloween was approaching. She would dress up; he refused. During the party, Pete's friends mingled with the other guests but Pete, never one to go out of his way to make friends easily, just leaned against the wall deciding on grabbing a beer. He'd speak occasionally to someone passing by. He was bored, again. After pushing himself off the wall, as he approached the keg a few of the other guys began tossing a football around which resulted in Pete being pushed directly into the path of Anne, knocking her to the ground. “Hey, man, I'm sorry,” Pete said not paying any attention to the person at his feet. “Hey, man, yourself, buddy!” Anne stood up and placed her hands on her hips. “Do I look like a man to you?” Pete looked her up and down and laughed. “Well, uh.” He felt lost for words so gently took her arm and led her to the bathroom so she could see herself in the mirror. “Tell me what YOU see,” Pete insisted. “Oh God!” Anne was horrified. While choosing her costume carefully, she went a bit too far. Since she loves baseball and was, in fact, on a softball team, she dressed the part. Her hair was tied up beneath her cap, which was pulled down just above her eyes. Her jersey and pants were stained with mud as if she'd just slid into home plate. Even her sneakers were covered with dried mud. To matters worse, she opted to wear no makeup, but smeared her cheeks with black goo in the manner of a baseball player. “Oh God,” she repeated staring at the stranger in the mirror. Pete tried to suppress a laugh but failed. “Great! I look like hell and all you can do is laugh!” Anne didn't know if she was more embarrassed at how she looked or angry at Pete for laughing or worse, angry with herself for wanting to laugh. “Come on,” Pete started, “you have to admit, with that uniform, you don't look like a girl. And you certainly didn't fall like a girl!” Anne admitted that the uniform was hers and that after playing softball for many years, she learned to fall without getting hurt. Pete was impressed. “So, do you want to dance?” She laughed. “Do I look like Ginger Rodgers to you?” Pete was puzzled. “Who?” “Never mind. No, I don't want to dance. Never learned how.” “Whew! You have no idea how glad I am to hear that! I don't dance either.” He sighed with relief while uncrossing the fingers behind his back. “Then why'd you ask me?” “Just being polite. Hey, my name's Pete. How about a movie Saturday night?” “That's tomorrow night! What makes you think I don't have plans?” Although Anne was thrilled he asked, she didn't want him to know the plans she'd made earlier fell apart. “Oh. Sorry. You're right. I just don't make plans a week ahead of time. You just never know what's going to happen. So, how about next Saturday?” Pete was a bit disappointed but tried not to let it show. At the end of the party, just before Anne walked out the door, she pushed a folded piece of paper in Pete's hand. “My number. Call me Monday for directions to my house.” On the way home, Anne's cousin asked about the handsome young man. “I really don't know what to think of him,” Anne answered. “First, he knocks me down, then he laughs at me, then asks me to dance when he doesn't know how and to top it off, asks me for a date for tomorrow night? What's going through his head?” “Well, are you going?” “Next week. I'll tell you then if this thing will go any further.” Their first date began leaving Anne with mixed emotions. After enjoying a good dinner at a nice restaurant (yes, Pete wore dress slacks, dress shirt and jacket), there was a mix-up with the bill. While Pete left a substantial tip for the dinner, he never noticed the separate bar bill. The waitress was furious, followed Pete and Anne to the parking lot and threw Pete's tip on the ground at his feet saying that if that's all he could afford, he should keep it. Pete ran after her asking what he did wrong. After an explanation, Pete gladly corrected his tip but still felt humiliated. Anne, at first, felt the same as the waitress. “How cheap can you get?” Plus, he left her standing in the parking lot when he ran to follow the waitress back inside. Once Pete returned, he explained the situation and Anne agreed the waitress should never have acted the way she did. Anne saw the look in Pete's eyes and realized his embarrassment. Her heart melted and offered to go for a long walk rather than sit in a movie. She felt Pete needed to talk. She was right. Anne and Pete saw each other regularly after that and on a warm spring evening the following year, Pete took her hand, knelt on one blue-jeaned knee, and placed a diamond ring on her finger. With tears in her eyes, she put her arms around his neck and suddenly found herself almost speechless – a first for Anne. As she nodded yes and smothered his face with kisses, between breaths of air, she asked, “Please, just don't wear jeans to our wedding.”

When I was in college here in Kentucky, I became Known on campus, or at least in the English Department. I wasn't the most punctual or active student, so I was not infamous for that. No, I was Known for a piece I wrote. I have ever been an opportunist. I wrote this piece about a negative experience I had with another student in the class: The Masturbator. I remember printing and stapling the piece- a 12 page masterpiece of vitriol and punishment- before handing it out that fateful Friday. He took one and I smiled at him. I wonder if he remembers that, as well. Here is, largely, the piece that slayed a man. Anytime I stroll into a classroom and it's outfitted with actual tables and chairs I unabashedly revel in the opportunity to have a place to comfortably put my belongings. I hate the cramped, little wrap-around desks that NKU seems to think are “efficient.” A tall, tanned fellow approached the chair beside me and paused. I flicked my blue eyes up to his dark ones and was rewarded with a smile from him. Not a bad smile, I guess, but boys' smiles don't affect me like they used to. It could have been an award-winning eligible bachelor smile for all I know. He asked tentatively, “Can I sit here?” His question struck me as odd—it's not like we were at a wedding or a school dance or something. I don't care where you sit in class. Honestly, I'm not the best conversationalist. I'm a passing fair smiler-and-giggler, but the truth of my social success, such as it is, is my arrogant meanness. My most recent nickname is “The Eviscerator,” for I often disembowel my male friends in semi-playful banter. I'm extremely awkward if I'm not being a heinous bitch. Class began and I remained basking in the glory of a separate chair from desk situation—arm hooked over the back, right leg crossed over my left, shoulders back. I spared my neighbor a glance and realized he was “arranging himself,” which I contend as the most distracting thing a guy can do, for all parties involved. Quickly, I realized he was arranging a boner. Fuck. I moved to shift in my seat, but hesitated. I decided to be cool, like I hadn't noticed. I figured it was embarrassing for most boys and it wasn't like he could help it. I decided to take it as a compliment and hoped it went away. Soon. A few minutes later, I'll admit, I peeked. I wanted to know if we were in the clear and nothing weird was going on, but there he was, long olive fingers wrapped around his dick, squeezing it rhythmically. He stroked it, moved it and squeezed it again. I don't own a penis, but I'm pretty sure this is not the recommended method for getting rid of an inappropriate woody. Upon this discovery, there were many words to describe my reaction, including, but not limited to: abhorred, disgusted, enraged, betrayed and revolted. We were thirty minutes into class when I noticed he had started pinching the head of his cock, still habitually looking at me. I was hoping to get out of class as fast as possible, but before I could skedaddle he asked about my tattoos. “Yeah, sure,” I said, which was not an answer. My eyes narrowed and all I saw was the door. I was angry. I had done nothing, which was the worst thing I could have done. He was momentarily rebuffed but smiled and purred, “I really like that dress.” I hope my eyes flashed as venomously as I think they did. An Evisceration was on my lips as I hefted my purse to my shoulder, but all I said was, “Yeah. I bet you do.” I saw the opportunity to tell him what I thought of his actions that day. I couldn't let him get away with it, and live his life without knowing. Dear Reader, I gave The Masturbator his own story. The day of my workshop I could not shake my nerves, I jittered and skittered through the entire day. I saw my friend, C, hanging in the hall, a text perched on her knees. “He's pretty mad, huh?” She asked. “Who?” I wanted to know. I was scared the teacher would consider my story highly inappropriate, or worse, side with the Masturbator. “You ought to check the blackboard,” she said, eyes wide behind her metal framed glasses. It was gold. A treasure trove of insults and accusations and acknowledgement. He admitted it happened. I did not name him, but he outed himself. I was elated. I floated to class that day. He didn't come to my critique. During my workshop, my professor asked me why I was the Wimp, not the Eviscerator. It was a shame, to listen to the professor tell on himself, as well. It was clear that he did not look at the Blackboard, that he did not click the little hypertext links to peruse his students' reviews. When I turned in my final draft I explained myself. The professor read my portfolio, complete with the ending of the Masturbator's tale, and emailed me. He said he would take it up with the Dean. I shrugged it off. The next semester, C, who worked in the Office, let me know she'd looked at the student files. They expelled the Masturbator. Eviscerated.

“Aunt Bridgette has been diagnosed with cancer,” Dad said. Silence. Images of her face flash through minds, and all attention is lost to memories of those already lost to cancer. There have been too many. “Aunt Bridgette died last night,” Dad said. More silence. Slight pricking of tears at the eyes. Memories play in minds, big jewelry and kind hugs, a familiar presence. Gone. Walking up the path. The location is the cemetery in Hamilton, there are people gathered on the side of the road next to their cars, trying not to weep. An “I'm so sorry Christina,” is murmured to Aunt Bridgette's daughter. She smiles weakly, her eyes glassy. We walk, a silent parade of sombre, well dressed people, the bright day dampened by the reason for the gathering. Some of these people have not seen each other in years, and half of the thoughts are wishes that they were not seeing each other for this reason. Walking up the path, wind tossed hair and ran it's fingers through clothing. The priest opens the book, and says a few words. Then, Christina and her kids stepped up to speak. They spoke words of love, of happiness, of thanks, of warmth, of memories. Of love. Of sacrifice. And there was one thing said, by Christina. Christina told us that Aunt Bridgette knew she was going to die. She said, “Let me go,”. However, it wasn't that part that made the group of family get so teary. It was seeing little Ryan talk about Grandma. Talk about how much fun they had, and me looking over to see Nonno standing right there. Standing tall and proud, yet so weak at the same time. This is a man who has had two heart attacks, and survived them both. This is a man who has nine grandchildren, and loves every single one of them. This is a man. A man. A man who is in his mid eighties. A man. A man who will die. He will die. He will die. He will die. He can't die. Tears flood down cheeks, hot and heavy and full of emotion. Head turns into Mom's shoulder, and the weeping begins. Nonno. This man who has done so much for so many people. This man who cares so much for his family, cares so much about his friends, and even cares for strangers. This man who played such a big part in my life, and whom I love so much I cannot express it. Head turns to look at him, the wind blows, and a cloud passes in front of the sun. Hair ruffles, tears dry, nose runs. He will die. I don't want him to die. And then I lose my marbles.

Plagiarism is taken as a crime in many institutions around the world. This act has been condemned by many scholars claiming that it is not right to steal or copy someone's else work. There is a many reasons that make this student do it. But what is the main reason for this? There is no answer to this question. Some say maybe its because the student didn't know that it is illegal or they want to acquire easy success by using others work. Some students do it without knowing. But the law doesn't look whether you did it intentionally or accidentally, a crime is a crime. The punishment to it is very severe and many students regret it after getting the punishment. It might lead to being expelled from the institution or getting no grade. "In most serious cases, students appear at hearings behind closed doors" (Kelly Heyboer). Many authors have lost their names and value after being accused of plagiarism. It is a very bad and sad thing. I remember seeing one of my schoolmate doing plagiarism. She was told to write a book for a lesson in her class but she didn't like writing. She was forced to write the book because without writing it she wont get some points for the final exams. She had no other option, she had to copy and write the book. This kind of act was not good and I don't support it. She was lucky that she wasn't caught doing it. This is because some countries don't investigate or punish Plagiarism. She wasn't caught here but her days are numbered. If she does this again in another country that condemn Plagiarism, she will regret it. According to me what I could do to avoid Plagiarism is that I will write what is in mind. Believe in myself and my work. Be proud of whatever I write, do more practices and work hard to improve myself. Because what I believe is that what's yours no one can take it from you and their is nothing that will make you happy than seeing your work done by you. Even if its not good improve yourself, we learn from our mistakes. No matter how many times you fail, stand up again and continue from where you left. In a matter of time you will win. You will never regret it and you will be proud of yourself.

Internet is been widely used around the world and the majority of the users are children. It has made communication easy and fast to access. Internet has both negative and positive effects on children. “Blessing and curse are just like the two opposite sides of the same coin”, (Avik Sarkar). The positive side of the internet on kids is that they get the chance to widen their knowledge from lecturers online. “Using the internet for study increases the knowledge and that increases the confidence of the students,” (Pramela). On the other hand it has negative effects if not controlled by adult. Some of the effects on children is poor health. You can find a kid sitting in front of a computer for a longtime playing games. This may cause the kid to have poor sight and among the video games some have negative effects. It can lead to having aggressive thoughts, feeling and behaviors. In order to stop this we need to come with measures that would be good to the society. Like educating the kids on the advantages and disadvantages of internet in a good way so that they understand. Adults or Parents should give their kids a limited time to use the internet and control what they watch all the time. There are many ways to do it, this is just an example am giving out. By doing this we will help the kids not to go astray.

Did you ever notice that sometimes, the older generation are much more laid-back at festivities than young adults who are always tensed about appearances? I suppose the former's age gets muffins on them. It was my mother-in-law's birthday and the day I realised my mind's conscientious density was as lacking as that of a driver tooling his car with water instead of petrol. My family decided on celebrating the occasion at home. The guests for the fiesta included only people from the senior generation. It had been eight months since I was married into a Jain joint family. There were no pretences from them for a newcomer. Each of them were habitual around me. I tried being the same, only I was bashful. But being a discreet, weird, watchful, reflective thinker, only talking where may be necessary, I can say I went overboard with myself. Being the first amongst family and friends to get married, I had always been too apprehensive. The satisfaction of feeling accepted was my target. Even though I might have not needed to, I decided that the best way to express my adoration for the new folks was by impressing them by taking up the task of cooking all by myself with the secret ingredient of love, for the get-together. Earlier, cooking for me used to be all about melting cheese on bread, pun intended. Then I cooked only to find that no one ate it or it was too difficult or only to find that it looked like nothing in the photos of recipes on the internet. Over the years though, I had mastered ‘some' exotic looking dishes. It was a way to show-off my culinary skills and get a few compliments in my kitty. My sister-in-law and I prepared a menu for our little get-together. It all seemed easy (only someone should have told us that if it seems easy, we're doing it wrong). We went over it a million times, always trying to add something better to satisfy our guests and to make it part of the entertainment. Yes, food is the life and soul of the party here. Using the best of my knowledge in the area I tried and included the most delectable and colourful looking dishes to flaunt my skills. Well, cooking is like chemistry. Only by tweaking and mixing the most interesting substances do you get a reaction. In this case reactions would be appreciative or detractive. I sorted out the house to make it look neat before the guests arrived and kept all essentials like water, tissues and food. Sweating the vegetables for flavour, bruising herbs to bring out their full flavour and decorating it with a chiffonade of cilantro was all done. The appetizers which consisted of ingredients like paneer and bread were all prepared and the desserts and cake were baked – all in a birthday's work. It was now time to play the perfect host. A playlist that I compiled earlier with Indian melodies from the past started to buzz. A certain level of joy exuded while I greeted the guests. They hailed in return along with compliments about the décor, the clothes and the aroma of the special chemical tweaks from the kitchen. My timid nature came in the way and we all went about our own ways. Everyone was perfectly dressed. There were games and the whole bunch of elderly visitors enjoyed themselves as if to say nobody was watching them at the fiesta. There was a slice of merrymaking and story baking. The food was served, eaten and then I hit my head. I had liked the look and peel of the dishes but it did nothing to honour my mother-in-law. At the bake of my mind I hoped to turn bake the clock. It so happens that the celebrant didn't eat cakes, English-desserts, English-bread, cottage cheese or any dishes with ketchup which primarily constituted all of the dishes in the menu. My half-baked menu plan was a disaster! The quest to feel a certain way trapped my mind into ignoring the obvious. I expected a litany of salty complaints from my folks but to my surprise the whole situation was ignored. My kind-hearted in-law didn't eat anything but she discounted the situation. My fear of being judged was false. All I can say is that I'm lucky-fluky but that doesn't mean I did the right thing. I did bake a mistake. I put all of the attention to the taste of the food rather than the person who was supposed to be honoured with it. There was no change in the molecular structure and no chemical reaction. Like someone said ‘soiree' seems to be the hardest word. I can only remember one quote by Ben Tolosa- ‘Most jokes come from good intentions – and most mistakes too.' After all, tomorrow is another birthday.

So...lockdown's a thing now, and dare I say it's super fun, fresh, flirty and good for me! By that I mean, no, not at all, I am genuinely confused as to what day it is, how to process information, and just a general state of unease. It has led to more and more alone time, as I thankfully managed to spend 4 months away from my claustrophobic and highly tense household. A tiny glimmer of peace and quiet, however after, perhaps....3 days of on- my- own- gratefulness complete with "good evening moonchild vibes", I was struggling to keep things together. Keeping things together, maintaining a certain level of sanity differs from person to person, my version of this was making a conscious effort not to just, well to put it frankly, open my mouth and scream for a solid 28 minutes. (A personal all time record- not proud of it, well sort of, as a raspy, husky voice came out of my mouth for the next 5 hours.) The next stage of lockdown is well, what do I do now? The answer is- if you are already on the cusp of a low level identity crisis, to buy as many wigs as you can from a suspiciously cheap website, plaster your face in make up, and just go the whole hock. Not just the hock, I'm talking tail, snout, trotters, the whole shebang! Then you look in the mirror, giving yourself that pep talk, the 1 we all have, the 1 that makes us convince ourselves we can and will do anything, but ultimately leads to you crying, foetal position, on the nearest bed and or floor. The best ones end up with you on the kitchen floor, there is just something so gratifyingly pathetic, stupid, and disgustingly privileged of a "grown" white woman doing so. It's as if you think the cold hard tiles are a way of paying penance for being so ridiculous, but actually ends up feeding into the melodrama of the whole conflama of it all. After about 30 minutes of that hell-scape, what's the next step, what's the next stage? Well, you get up wipe off the make up, regretting it the entire time as you are perilously low on micellar water, oh the horror, and you realise you WILL be left with that black smudge underneath your waterline, for another day- minimum. Now that's done you check your fridge, freezer, cupboard and search for the serotonin lift that accompanies a sugar high; much to your despair, but unsurprisingly you can't find anything and it's too late to go to the shops. You curse yourself for having the audacity to refuse to buy junk food as you pledged to yourself not 2 days ago, to turn your li9fe around, get healthier eating habits, and for sure, workout feverishly, just so you can pretend you have some sense of control and discipline in your life. Fearing that even though they 're your friends they would somehow judge you for not losing that cumber band of fat, or not being able to solve world hunger and eradicate the patriarchy through the power of self love. The self love screamed at you anytime a petite influencer needs to sell the newest "fit tea", or indestructible toothbrush, not quite understanding the irony in the whole fuckery. Anyway, you have no junk food, you have no drugs or alcohol, so you sit in it, you sit in your feelings, your boo-hoo poor me feelings. It would almost be comical if it wasn't so inherently selfish and privileged. You need to combat those feelings and fast, quickly get yourself on change.org, sign a bunch of petitions, the more racially diverse the better, you find it eases the white guilt a bit and also you get brownie points, as you can brag to your friends, lord it over them, showing them proving to them that, yeah, perhaps I haven't lost weight, but at least I have proof that I'm a good person. I deserve to be seen. Please recognise me. Don't let me fade into the background. I'm clawing my way up the ladder of a superiority complex. Please just tell me I'm a good person, I don't want to be thrown into the fires below. Then you sleep, you've worn yourself on the emotional rollercoaster, you wake up the next day, and what do you know, you repeat the 3 day process again.

Each day of this quarantine is a little different. Some days there is energy and motivation, and other days there is beer with lunch. I am trying to manage my anxiety around reopening the world by continuing to stay at home as much as possible and see new people as little as possible. However, I did go to a small business craft store with my daughter the other day and was pleased with how they were making sure people couldn't sneeze on one another. It required suiting up with gloves and taking a sanitizer bath, but I felt safe and it encouraged a great conversation with my daughter around how we as humans will always learn to adapt to new situations. Today was a day that I woke up and thought, " Ugh, what am I going to do to fill the time between now and when I get to go back to sleep?" I wanted to just stay right there and not move until bedtime, watching episodes of Shrill or Bob's Burgers until my eyes were tired and eating bags of chips in bed until I realizing that I would now have to get up to clean the crumbs off of the sheets. But I have kids. My daughter has an open-air farm camp she needs to get to so she can stand in hula hoop away from the other kids while wearing a mask and trying to socialize, (see? we adapt!), and my son is 5 so he obviously needs me to come running into his room first thing in the morning so he can sing me the chorus to "Africa", (he prefers the Weezer version, sorry Toto), while still laying in his bed. So, staying in my own bed and being lazy all day isn't even an option. If it were an option, I would be horribly judged by everyone reading this because that would mean that my children were exposed to too much screen time, whatever that magic amount of "just enough" is, I have no idea, but I am sure a day of Bob's Burgers is probably past that point. Some days I get ready as if I were going to see people and wanted to impress. But like I said, each day of Covid living is a little different, so there are also the days where I decide I am fine the way I woke up and everyone else can shove it. Today, I am sure that putting on makeup would AT LEAST help pass the time, but I think I will save it for when I am super bored. Later, I will probably have to stand outside for an hour, minimum, while watching my son ride his bike up and down the street; a daily ritual that he will never get bored of and that makes me want to set something on fire. After that I will probably start a loaf of sourdough bread to feel like I contributed to the household economy and then let my son have screens for too long so that I can read/take a shower/stare at the wall for a while, and not have someone climbing on me or shooting me with Nerf bullets or yelling for me to come and take the arms off of his lego men. And tonight, after eating a dinner that my husband made and the kids won't eat, I will sit in bed with my husband and watch TV (finally) while the kids fall asleep in their own damn beds. When I wake up in the morning it will be a different day and I will wonder what I will do to fill the space between waking up and going back to bed. For now, it's lunch time and I think I am going to have a beer.

Is it just me or does the thought of going on a cruise ship immediately make you think of the part of "The Life Aquatic" where they get boarded by pirates or the scene in the "Titanic" where Leo is chained to a pipe and water is rising up around him? Knowing my luck, I would be on the cruise ship that was boarded by pirates while it was sinking and be somehow trapped in the room with the pipes. Cruise ships are a hard pass. Is it just me or does the thought of your neighbors being upset with your chickens make you wake up at 6:30 in the morning just to run outside and "shush" them while they strut around the coop screeching/boasting about the eggs they just laid or the eggs they're planning on laying, and then when that inevitably doesn't work you end up giving them all of your rice cakes so they don't wake up everyone in a 3 mile radius, but the thought of getting rid of said chickens makes you nauseous with guilt? Is it just me or is that sound outside probably a murderer? Is it just me or are these WEB MD diagnoses making it sound like I either have the common cold or the bubonic plague? No inbetween. Is it just me or do awkward moments in a TV show or a movie cause you to get up and leave the room with excuses like, "I have to go pee, you don't have to pause it for me," or " I am going to make 5 batches of cookies, leave it on, I can watch from the kitchen," ? Shows like "Extras" and "Curb Your Enthusiasm" are basically reasons for me to get things done around the house so I can avoid seeing other people make asses out of themselves. Is it just me or should we give these pickled beets I canned last summer to someone else so they can act as my poison tester. If they don't die after eating them then maybe I will open the other can. But what if they lied about opening them just so I wouldn't be upset that they hadn't yet? Or what if THAT jar was fine but MY jar is actually filled with botulism? Is it just me or is it too late to become that kind of parent that doesn't give their kids screens? And if I take screens away do I have to replace it with something? Or can they just figure that shit out themselves? Is it just me or is my Memoji prettier than I am in real life? Is it just me or did that prescription commercial just quickly list about 500 ways it could kill me, making me want to remember the name of it just so I can tell my doctor what I DON"T want should I ever develop the ailment that those middle aged, white collar, housewives had? Is it just me or did the cat puke in my sandals on purpose? Is it just me or did I say that thing that one time and everyone still remembers it and probably hates me? Is it just me or...?

Yes it's so nice when you're trying to get a new life together and you've got a million things running through your mind like; how to market yourself in a diverse market and how to fund myself for this new change in career focus that I'm embarking on, when the flu hit me and sent me straight to the toilet. It's never fun! lol So here we are now a few days later and I still feel crummy. I didn't get a wink of sleep and all I can do is sit and write which is a good thing right now. For 15 years it has taken me to strengthen my back and get myself to where I can sit up and write for awhile without too much pain providing I sit up a straight as possible. That gets hurt some too at times and then I take a good break. Good thing I get up frequently to stretch my limbs! But in all honestly the flu has me writing. I'd love to be helping someone right now. I wish I could offer my services in support work. I loved my PSW position with Paramed Oakville. But that was 18.5 years ago now. Wonderful people to work for and my job was fulfilling and my patients delightful. Last night, I laid in bed and thought about many things and the one question came to mind was, "How many people have a version of the flu right now?" I guesstimated that probably in my city at least 300 people. Thank goodness I'm not in need of the ER. I feel for the people who do. Well, I just needed to say Good Morning to you and I hope you're feeling well! LOL Thanks for the chat! :)

more an excuse than a problem an emotion more hypothetical than myths and more manipulative than a mother,has the ability to make you believe in imaginary and lose faith in reality.in a nutshell it makes a deadline seem ephemeral and a dead end inevitable. It is a force that guides you the night before exam to cram in the limited light,fight with all might and pray for your miserable plight. Tension is a teacher who preaches time is unlimited like doraemon ,but lacks the reasoning to justify its anecdote it forces things to the last nanosecond makes the employee work fast and the employer furious, Makes a work for months adjust in hours because we believe there is an image of ours to "banai rakhna"(maintain in front of lukewarm people). Positively it makes you work hard but obviously make you worry hard as well.it is a mechanism for delivery of what is available than what is the best possible. It is often associated with the loud thumping of the heart but with reduction in time grows to asthma and paralization. it isn't a wonderful feeling but does wonders, inculcates speed faster than flash and laws beyond physics as the calm world around you becomes a terror zone with the motto do or die.In the mind of a believer of the spirit of procrastination, it makes life exciting as we experience new events and act spontaneously, but what is forgotten is that critical analysis is no more considered a need and it has become an accessory,those who possess it now become a statue of awe. With the increase in the number of atheists in world there is a proportional rise of believers in unproductivity who believe that preparation isn't a necessity.it is a confusing feeling that begins with over confidence followed by low confidence. Individuals have begun to abundantly prove the word's existence and say its normal to to be tensed.explain this weird feeling with a million words, similes, metaphors but mostly has one simple avoidable cause that mankind choose to accept and refuses to change as we believe in comfort and support irrationality. lastly, many procrastinators tend to make themselves brainwash themselves to believe that the most unimportant tasks(at that particular moment in time) may be life changing, i would agree, a change for the worse. Over longtime of cultivating this sweet temporary pleasure you soon taste the diabetic fruit of regret, its fine as long as you are fine with just existing,not making a difference but #YOLO. It is never too late and obviously never early to do something productive,starting now would be right as you dont know how much time is left....or at least find a hobby. The author WAS the unofficially acclaimed representative of a procastinating and tensed individuals, time belongs to a person who thinks rather than one who is capable only to blink.

Akash Goswami age : 24 actor influencer