Week 15 - Revision

Ever since I was young I have helped my mom cook in the kitchen, whether it is something as simple as scrambled eggs or pancakes, ranging all the way up to Chicken Cordon Bleu and above.   I absolutely love cooking; cooking shows, making food, cooking books, and eating out. If it weren’t for the few exceptions of mussels, calamari, and a few more eclectic tastes, I’d dare say I am quite the food aficionado. 

Whereas I’ve gotten much older than the days of my youth, I have become significantly more affluent in the delectable art that is cooking.  I always tell my friends, ask me to make anything and if I don’t know how to make it, I’ll learn how very quickly.  There’s not much in this world that intrigues me like designing a dish or preparing a new meal, and it’s something that I am extremely fond of doing.

I’ve watched my mother for years, preparing all of our families and other friends’ favorite meals.  Whether it was Chicken Cacciatore, Beef Wellington (I’ve always loved pâté), or Peking duck, there’s just been so many dishes I can barely remember and name them all.   One, however, has held the position as my favorite, all-time meal since the first time I tasted it.  Previously that position had been held by the likes of spaghetti with marinara and even my mom’s homemade chicken noodle soup; but nothing compares to the first time I tried Paella. 

It was love at first bite.  Succulent shrimp, tender chicken breast, delicious gandules, and soft jasmine rice among a myriad of other ingredients all baked slowly for about an hour.  Top it off with a little splash of Goya hot sauce and I’m in heaven.  I never thought I’d ever be able to recreate that magic in a casserole dish like my mom had done as though it was second nature, until recently. 

In the past, if I were to be craving that wonderful amalgam of my ultimate delight, all I would have to do is simply ask: “Mom, can you make some paella for dinner tonight?” and within a few hours, it would be seated in the middle of the kitchen table.  But just like every other simpler dish I had watched her prepared that I enjoyed, I had a deeper desire now; I needed to learn how to make it.  I remember the first time I made such an attempt, it was nerve racking, but now I can prepare it at nearly that magically level I fell in love with.  I dare say I am able to make it with my eyes closed – even though I might incur a few minor and possibly major cuts by doing so.

Garlic, Onions, Scallions: Check.  Green and Red pepper, Olives, Cilantro: Check.  The night prior I always go out and purchase everything I need to make it.  I break out the same casserole dish that my mom uses and once all of the necessary ingredients are in front of me, I take a deep breath before delving any further. 

I’ve got my knives sharpened and the cutting board ready.  First things first, the garlic and olives need to be minced, the onions and scallions diced, same with the green and red pepper.  Once that is all chopped nicely and pushed as neatly as possible to the edges of my giant cutting board, I push forward.  Next item on the agenda, I peel the shrimp and cut the chicken breast into square chunks and place them into their perspective separate bowls, easy peasy. 

Now it’s onto the microwave defrosting of my mom’s homemade chicken stock. Yes I cheat a little, but not only is it nice to make a combination of old and new favorites, it makes the rice considerably more succulent than just using straight water to slow boil it in the oven.  Once that is done, it’s time to sauté the chicken breast pieces with a little canola and hot garlic oil making doubly sure to only brown the chicken, otherwise it’s tough after the slow bake. A few grinds of black pepper; a generous pinch of sea salt.  My array of diced, minced and chopped onions, garlic, peppers, and other veggies go in after. Next comes the most important ingredient, saffron.

I’ve heard that it’s an acquired taste and I have gladly acquired it.  My mind races as I try to keep the pace with what I’ve seen my mom do. 

Right as the chicken is about ready, I throw the rice in to brown that a little as well, along with the gandules, shrimp and cilantro.  As all of the seasonings and flavors marry in my oven, the delicious aroma starts to fill the kitchen and I know that I am roughly half way there.  The familiar smells delight my nostrils and tantalize my olfactory senses. My mouth begins to water. 

As soon as the browning is nearly finished, in goes my mom’s homemade chicken stock, some chives and a few other dry herbs to complement the other already strong and delicious flavors.  I let it simmer for about five minutes longer and toss it gingerly into the oven at 325-350°.  Almost there, and it’s at that point that the anxiousness starts to creep up on me, so much so that I can nearly taste the anticipation!

After tidying up all the dishes and utensils I’ve used to prepare everything, I meander around the kitchen impatiently awaiting the completion of this delectable dish.  I check the clock sporadically and peek into the oven every now and again to check on the progress.  Despite my eagerness I must keep from altering the cook time with my eager observation or else the texture of the dish would suffer.  Thirty minutes transpire and I almost always try to pull the dish out early just because of my taste buds sheer anticipation, but I resist because I know it’ll only be that much better if I stay patient and let it run its course.  Just a little bit longer now.

Finally, the timer on the stove goes off and it’s time to take the Paella out and let it sit for a second and think about what it’s done.  It’s always better to let a dish’s flavors to further marry once it is complete, the anticipation makes it all the better.  I call upstairs and into the living room alerting the family to the meal.  As I hear the first clamoring of movement I quickly sneak a bite out of the covered dish, so as not to alarm the others.  Everyone piles in and gathers around the table. Everyone may be excited to eat, but none more excited than I.  The cover comes off for the first time to the populous and the hyenas converge. 

You know you’ve done well when the entire table is silent while eating, save for the occasional panting break due to an overzealous hot sauce dosage.  I love Paella an incredible amount, as I said it quickly became one of my favorite dishes to eat and make.   As pleasing as it is to my pallet and as happy as I am to partake in the amazing multitudes of tastes, there’s nothing more pleasant to a cook than seeing that everyone else is enjoying it as much as myself. Love at first bite?  Bon Appetit!

Week 14 - Mini-Research

           Since I was a child I have always drawn on my skin.  Stars, hearts, clovers, and sometimes even indiscriminate shapes have made it onto my ever aging canvas. God knows how many times I was disciplined for coming home with markers and ink stains scattered all along my legs and arms - I must’ve been a handful for my parents.   I had always had an interest in adorning my body with colors, even long before I knew about tattoos.  There was just always something very intriguing about having a permanent picture ingrained into my flesh, even though I didn’t understand it until I was older.

           Once I matured and realized just what it meant to actually get a tattoo, I couldn’t come to terms with actually getting one.  How could I decide what I would want on my body for the rest of my life?  It was perplexing to me.  Throughout middle and high school, I always maintained that I would be covered in tattoos one day but when 18 came, I had no idea what I wanted.  I searched and contemplated just what would be the most suitable artwork for my body but considering that it would be there for life, it was nearly impossible for me to commit to one single idea.  What did it mean to get tattooed?  What did it take?  How did it feel deep down?

           Most people believe that a tattoo is just some trivial idea or choice, ill contrived and sometimes poorly considered.  Regardless, there is a lot to think about before you just simply go and get a tattoo; a lot of things I didn’t know.  For instance, I found on BMEzine.com that in the United States, tattoo inks are classified as a cosmetic or color additive, and is thus NOT subject to regulation by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA); Some tattoo parlors have incorrectly claimed that their inks have such an approval.  Although the pigments are not regulated, the FDA and medical practitioners have noted that many ink pigments used in tattoos are “industrial strength colors suitable for printers’ ink or automobile paint.”

How about the fact that in California, Proposition 65 requires that Californians be warned before exposure to certain harmful chemicals; tattoo parlors in California must warn their patrons that tattoo inks contain heavy metals known to cause cancer, birth defects, and other reproductive harm.

There are a lot of things to consider before one just goes out and does something on a whim, and tattoos are certainly no different.  What about the colors they use?  What do they do to my body? Well, apparently they can do a lot of things - Manufacturers are not required to reveal their ingredients or conduct trials, and recipes may be proprietary. While there are several vegan and all-natural inks, some other professional inks may be made from iron oxides (rust), metal salts, plastics. Homemade or traditional tattoo inks may be made from pen ink, soot, dirt, blood, or other ingredients.

Heavy metals used in these other inks for colors include mercury (red); lead (yellow, green, white); cadmium (red, orange, yellow); nickel (black); zinc (yellow, white); chromium (green); cobalt (blue); aluminum (green, violet); titanium (white); copper (blue, green); iron (brown, red, black); and barium (white). Metal oxides used include Ferro cyanide and Ferric yanide (yellow, red, green, blue). Organic chemicals used include azo-chemicals (orange, brown, yellow, green, violet) and naphtha-derived chemicals (red). Carbon (soot or ash) is also used for black. Other compounds used as pigments include antimony, arsenic, beryllium, calcium, lithium, selenium, and sulfur.  Tattoo ink manufacturers typically blend the heavy metal pigments and/or use lightening agents (such as lead or titanium) to reduce production costs.  Basically, it’s not just getting something for fun - a lot of damage can be done in one instance of juvenile antics.

One thing I have noticed since my first tattoo is the variance in feeling regarding the size and quantity of the needles being used in the gun.  Actually, one of my artists has explained to me that it’s not a tattoo gun, it’s a tattoo machine because, “guns are used to kill people, and tattoo machines are used to maim people;” pardon my ignorance.  However, one thing I do know is that needles are a bitch all around.  Some are more irritating than others though and I especially dislike liners (which are the ones used to do the outlining and some other things).  As the name suggests, Liner means a tattoo needle that will be used to outline the shape of the tattoo.  I read on tattooequipmentonline.com that the liner tattoo needles are round in shape and that professional tattoo artists prefer to have at least three needles with sharp ends fixed on one bar. It is the bare minimum number of needles used for general outlining and if the person getting a tattoo wants a thicker outline of the tattoo then the artists use up to nine needles simultaneously. All the liner tattoo needles used by artists are rounded and these drive the ink into the skin. The other type of tattoo needle is used for shading. 

The shading needles on the other hand are not nearly as annoying as the liners.  Despite that shading needles are sometimes referred to as “magnum needles” due to their size; “The shading tattoo needles do not have a restriction of nine needles as generally tattoo artists have been seen using more than nine shading needles at a time. The shading tattoo needles are flat in shape and several shading needles are stacked up in two rows. The artists use it very effectively to blend different colors to impart realistic touch to the tattoo designs.” Again, this was something I didn’t know until I actually sought out the information.  I was always aware of the fact that one was not as painful as the other, but I had no idea as to why that was.

Pain was always an influential factor involved in the decision of getting a tattoo.  It took me until 13 years old to get my ears pierced for the same reason.  What would the pain be involved?  Even though I walked into it blindly the first time, I still wanted to know what caused that much pain.  Although it wasn’t unbearable, it was still remotely painful enough to make me wonder just what needle was causing the most pain: “Both the needles, liner tattoo needles and shading tattoo needles, are very important as the design cannot be completed without one or the other. The only difference between their uses is that the liner tattoo needle has to be used continuously without stopping so that the outlining is done perfectly and precisely. Because of this the pain involved is much greater in comparison to a shading needle. While a shading tattoo needle is used in breaks by the tattoo artist as they pause to wipe excess ink and blood from the area being tattooed.”

Outside of all the risks and pain involved, I still went forward without knowing very much about the actual problems that could arise.  What I did know was that it would be something I would get only at a licensed shop, that it would be somewhat painful, and that it would be there for life.  Upon further research, it’s obvious that there are many things that should’ve also been considered first but what can I do about it now?  Not much.  Might as well smoke another cigarette and hope for the best.

Week 11: Expertise, Authority

I absolutely love cooking; cooking shows, making food, cooking books, and eating out - you name it, I more than likely love it, give or take a few exceptions (no mussels or calamari, thanks).  Ever since I was young I have helped my mom cook in the kitchen, whether it is something as simple as scrambled eggs, ranging all the way up to Chicken Parmesan and above.   Where I’ve gotten much older than the days of yore, I am become much more affluent in the delectable art that is cooking.  I always tell my friends, ask me to make anything and if I don’t know how to make it, I’ll learn real quickly.  There’s not much in this world that intrigues me like designing a plate or preparing a new meal, and it’s something that I am extremely fond of.

I’ve watched my mother for years, preparing all of our families and other friends’ favorite meals: Chicken Cacciatore, Beef Wellington (I’ve always loved pâté), Peking duck, there’s just so many dishes I can barely remember and name them all but one has always held the position as my favorite, all-time meal.  I used to think it was spaghetti, mom’s homemade chicken noodle soup even, but nothing compares to the first time I tried Paella.  Succulent shrimp, tender chicken breast, delicious gandules, soft jasmine rice, among a myriad of other ingredients all baked slowly for about an hour, top it off with a little Goya hot sauce and I’m in heaven.  I never thought I’d ever be able to recreate that magic in a casserole dish that my mom made like it was easy as pie, until recently. 

In the past, if I were to be craving that wonderful amalgam of my ultimate delight, all I would have to do is simply ask my mom to make it and within a few hours, it would be seated in the middle of the kitchen table.  But just like every other simpler dish she had prepared that I favored, I had a deeper desire; I needed to learn how to make it.  I remember the first time I attempted such a feat, it was nerve racking, but now I can make it with my eyes closed – even though I might incur a few minor and possibly major cuts by doing so.

Garlic, Onions, Scallions: Check.  Green and Red pepper, Olives, Cilantro: Check.  The night prior I always go out and purchase everything I need to make it.  I break out the same casserole dish that my mom uses and once all of the necessary ingredients are in front of me, I take a deep breath before delving any further.  First things first, the garlic and olives need to be minced, the onions and scallions diced, same with the green and red pepper.  Once that is all chopped nicely and pushed to the edges of my giant cutting board, I push forward.  Next item on the agenda, I peel the shrimp and cut the chicken breast into square chunks and place them into their perspective separate bowls, easy peasy. 

Onto the microwave defrosting of my mom’s homemade chicken stock (yes, I cheat a little), it makes the rice so succulent rather than just using straight water to slow boil it in the oven.  Once that is done, it’s time to sauté the chicken breast pieces with a little canola and hot garlic oil, some grinds of pepper,  a tad of salt, all of my diced and chopped veggies and the most important ingredient, saffron – have to make sure to only brown the chicken though, otherwise it’s tough after the slow bake.   My mind races as I try to keep the pace with what I’ve seen my mom do. 

Right as the chicken is about ready, I throw the rice in to brown that a little as well, along with the gandules, shrimp and cilantro.  The delicious aroma starts to fill the kitchen as I am roughly half way there and due to that, my mouth begins to water.  As soon as the browning is nearly finished, in go the chicken stock and a few dry herbs to complement the other strong flavors.  I let it simmer for about five minutes and toss it gingerly into the oven at 325-350°.  Almost there, and it’s at that point that the anxiousness starts to creep up on me, so close yet so far!

After tidying up all the dishes and utensils I’ve used to prep-cook, I meander around the kitchen pensively awaiting the completion of the dish.  I check the clock rapidly as I peak into the oven every now and again to check on the progress, but not so often as to upset the cook time or the texture of the meal.  30 minutes transpires and I almost always try to pull the dish out early just because of the eager anticipation, but I resist because I know it’ll be that much better if I let it run its course.  Just a little bit longer now.

Finally, the timer goes off and it’s time to let the Paella sit for a second and think about what it’s done.  It’s always better to let a dish’s flavors marry once it is complete, the patience makes it all the better.  I call the family to the meal as I sneak a bite out of the covered dish, quickly so as not to alert the others.  Everyone gathers around the table, excited to eat, but none more excited than I.  The cover comes off and the hyenas converge – you know you’ve done well when the entire table is silent while eating.  Although I love Paella an incredible amount, there’s nothing more pleasant to a cook than seeing that everyone else is enjoying it as much as myself. Bon Appetit!

Week 10: Counterpuncher

I am a huge advocate for LGBT human rights, even being raised Roman Catholic and reading the ever-elusive Bible.  That doesn’t mean to say that I have renounced the scriptures of religion, or even denounced my faith, but it definitely doesn’t mean I agree with the theological beliefs surrounding homosexuality.  Everywhere we look, the world is changing and fast.  It wasn’t long ago that our black and ethnic brethren were also cast out and shunned due to American ignorance, yet people still perceive homosexuality to be a sin, a choice, and most importantly, evil.

Ethics class was something I expected to be centered around debate, especially about our beliefs on society and life in general.  What I didn’t expect was one person who literally spoke from no factual evidence or belief, just pure unadulterated ignorance.  From day one, it seemed as though this person, who I’ll leave to remain anonymous, would just say and make the most outlandish comments, mostly centered on homosexuality, but not entirely.  Some days they would make a comment, responding during the teacher’s lecture, and it became obvious fairly quick that this person was a strict Kantian; I doubt they even knew it beforehand.  Rule based thinking will only get you so far, so long as the rules are never challenged and shone in a light that can be perceived as wrong.  Such an example was this.

The class in an entirety doesn’t enjoy the comments made by this certain person, but to be honest not all comments are offensive.   I’m pretty sure the whole point of Ethics class is learning to be ethical in a real-world scenario, so like the rest of us, anonymous therefore should have the right to learn.  As the year winds down however, it’s becoming more and more obvious that, at least to me, little is being retained by this person. 

Here’s a tidbit of a conversation had towards the beginning of the year:  Our teacher asked us to form groups and pick someone we found morally upstanding, righteous even.  Someone like Ghandi, or Mother Theresa, and depending on your understanding of the person basically anyone could be viewed that way, so long as they lived with compassion and decency.  It matters little who everyone picked for their topic, with exception to Anon’s group.  Once it came time to discuss as a group who, in each group, we believed to be “truly ethical,” the group with anonymous came to butt heads in front of the class.  What came next still baffles me and burns my ass to no end.  The teacher, perplexed on how in the first days of class and on such a simple in-class assignment people could already be coming to blows, asked the group what the issue was.

“Did your group settle on a person?” The teacher asked.

“Um…well we did but one of us doesn’t agree,” Responded a team member, and looked towards the dissenter.

Before the teacher could even speak, Anonymous’ mouth flew open, “Well wait a second here, it’s not that I don’t agree - it’s that I don’t understand who this person is they’ve chosen? Like, I don’t know who Paul Newman is, so I can’t judge whether or not he’s ethical.  What if he’s an axe murderer, a rapist, or a homosexual?”

I lost my cool.  I had tried giving this person the benefit of the doubt for so many off-color comments, but this was the last straw. 

“How do a homicidal maniac, a sex offender and someone of a different sexual orientation than that of your own fall into the same category?!  How did you get from point A to point out of this world?  Times are changing, and the homosexual community is not all a bunch sinners or pedophiles, they’re people too.”

The class fell silent, and no one responded.  I think everyone was waiting for the teacher to take hold of the situation, but where it was the first few days and an ethics based class, he had to be, what else, but ethical!  I nearly bit my tongue off keeping quiet, and so did many other students’ offended by his blatantly mindless comment.  The only reason I could understand and come to terms with his foolishness was because he was from a different era than us; the majority of the class was in their 20’s to 30’s whereas he was definitely pushing 50 and a full-blooded Main-ah.  I’m not saying all born and raised Mainers hate the gay community, but just like to this day in the Deep South, you will find people around the ages of 50, 60 and 70 who still are as racist as they were during the Civil Rights movement, hell even people who are my age because they were raised by these people: but that’s life. 

To this day, I still regret not saying anything more.  I had so much discontent for that comment, it made me see red, but it was an Ethics class and to go balls to the wall crazy on this guy would not only have made me appear to be the ignorant one, but also unruly and  most certainly not ethical.  I know he probably didn’t mean any harm, but for those fighting for their rights daily and dying for their cause, it’s an unrealistic comment that should’ve never been made.

 The reason I don’t believe anonymous is learning Ethics?  Recently I missed one class discussion, and apparently it was on the topic of the Westboro Baptist Church protesting military funerals for the repeal of DADT.  Anonymous’ stance: It’s freedom of speech and should be allowed.  Despite the fact that I agree to an extent, there are better platforms and places for protests - the funerals for the deaths of our infantrymen and women isn’t one of them. 

Week 9 - Fiction & Fact: Speculative Piece

I get up every morning and lie awake in bed for the first few minutes of each day, dreading the impending chores and responsibilities I have to accomplish but also looking forward to what may or may not be in store.  I usually lay quietly as my boyfriend snores; it’s serene for the most part, even given the raucous sound.  Some mornings though, typically the ones where I have class, I cannot get up for the life of me.  The alarm will sound off numerous times before I give in to the inevitable.   Eventually, I manage to pry myself from the warmth of my comforters and plod towards the bathroom, but not without first looking out the hallway window to see what kind of weather we’re having.  First thought while gazing out the foggy window panes: Why doesn’t the snow fall heavily on the days that I attend class – Lame. The bitter chill from the lack of heat in our hallways quickly forces me into the unheated bathroom.

I shut the door tightly behind me as I immediately turn on the hot water faucet in the tub, and then the shower head.  The heat slowly comes up as I stand in the mirror, rubbing the exhaustion out of my eyes.  Once the water warms up, I turn on the cold faucet to modulate the temperature and disappear behind a veil of shower curtains and steam.  If only I could stand dousing myself in ice cold water, I’d be more than awake.  Slowly without notice, I drift off into a place of deep contemplation.  The water is but ambient noise as I consider just what the hell I am doing with my life. 

Without fail, the thought of classes brings me back to when I was 18 years old and thought I could live forever doing nothing to better myself and immediately, I flash forward into considering the future, wondering just what this degree will do for me.  I think about how the spring semester is quickly coming to an end, and I really have no idea what to do from here.  To be honest, I never expected to get as far as I have, and now that it is evident, I am in a complete tailspin.  Between the thoughts of how there is really no colleges or universities in Maine that offer majors I am interested in and where I am to go next since that is the case, I feel inundated with decisions that are going to be hard.   The water pools at my feet as I stand letting the shower run down my face, hoping that the answer will come to me.  There’s just no way I can uproot and kiss my responsibilities outside of college good-bye, and just when I think there is no hope, a swift knock on the door brings me right back down into the current reality.  As usual, what was supposed to be a fifteen minute endeavor turned into a 30 minute self-evaluation, and I am running late.

After feeding the cats, throwing some laundry into the washer, and finishing up my studying, I tear ass out the door.   More so than not, I am late to everything – rarely ever am I early.  I start speeding down the road towards the highway, hoping I can make up some lost time.  Once I am on the onramp heading towards Bangor, the thoughts of my future creep slowly back in.  The skyline melds in front of me as I sit and wonder just when my boyfriend is going to take it one step further, or if that ever will be.  Six years of dating and although it isn’t much, I worry that I am wasting my youth with someone who has no intention of making a real commitment.  Children have always been an integral part when I think beyond the present; I’ve always wanted a big family - Marriage, a house with a picket fence, two dogs in the yard, the whole deal.  Even being as jaded and obscure as I am, there are certain things that people from all walks of life value.  As I am reaching the end of one phase of my life, many things are coming into the equation.  I feel like time is slowly slipping through my fingers, and alas because of this worrying and cautious nature, I will lose the very best years I have.  As I approach Bangor Hogan Road exit, the thoughts fade into the background.  It’s time to do work, no time for frivolities like imagining. 

Class comes and goes, and I find myself trudging through the partially frozen mud towards the parking lot. The sun barely hangs overhead as I fight with my purse in search of the car keys. Once recovered from the depths of my bag, I plop into the bucket seats, light a cigarette and reach for my phone to call home and check in.  I call my mom first and foremost, let her know how my day went, whether or not I did well or subpar at best.  I tell her I’m on my way home and that I’ll pick up dinner from Hannaford’s if need be, say love you and hang up.  The ride home is no different from the ride there, except that it’s usually the time when I think about everything I’ve contemplated all day, and how it will affect her.  How could I ever just up and leave her behind in Maine and be 2-20 states away, attempting to finish my bachelor’s?  What if I should get married, what then?  Even when I go away for a day to a month, it’s unbearable.  I worry uncontrollably, and I don’t see the future being much different unless she’s with me.  I envision this future of us living in Florida, content and financially stable.  The house is near the beach and we are free of the bills and liens that have been bestowed upon us.  For once, my mom is truly happy – something she has not been since my father’s passing.  The street lights lining the highway slowly start to come on as I glide down I-95, back north towards home. 

I exit the interstate and run into 5 o’clock rush hour: 1 road, four poorly outlined lanes, and roughly 100+ cars trying to get into Old Town with some even heading towards UMO.  I turn the radio up and jam out in the bumper to bumper traffic.  With thoughts racing faster than cars, the music is like a soundtrack to the moment.  I scan through the channels in an effort to stifle the overwhelming thoughts of just how I am going to plan for my future but there’s one problem: I can’t plan for something that has an indefinite amount of contributing variables and like contradictory statements, I feel as though there is no right answer where everyone is happy and I am successful at anything.  The lights at the McDonald’s intersection turn green and I finally make it through the most of the congestion. 

I roll into my driveway and park the car in front of the weathered garage.  It, like I, has seen many years of unforeseeably turbulent and harsh events.  I sit in the driver’s seat, taking the last drag of my cigarette before it melts the filter; still, no answer comes to me.  The longer I wait, the longer I feel lost.  I know I must do something and soon, before there are no options and I resent myself for letting opportunity pass me by.  I lock the car, grab my books, and head for the sliding glass doors hoping maybe tomorrow will bring me solace or a solution. Even though I am only 24 years old, I know that I can blink an eye and I’ll be 50 and miserable, wondering just what the fuck happened.