Sometimes I wonder what he would be like if, in childhood, education was held with greater importance. Sometimes I can feel his inner struggle—not one of inability or incompetence, but of two minds whose roots are separated by vast oceans.

Sometimes I can see his eyes dart and then glaze over as I speak with words that, to him, sound like a foreign tongue.

It's not that he lacks faculty or intelligence; both blessed him at birth and are present in abundance and quality. It is, however, that he was not born into the same household graces of privilege. While my own parents were working hard to acquire bachelor degrees at university, his parents barely managed to finish high school. Their dreams were trampled under the weight of survival, so the luxury of prioritizing education was a foreign concept.

While my parents were rejoicing at the news of new life forthcoming, his were watching their country burn.

When I was merely moments old, safely snug in my mother's arms, he was gasping for each new breath as dust and ash from falling bombs settled upon his sterile incubator's protective walls.

To me, education is the most important pursuit in life. To some, however, the dire, critical weight of survival takes precedence over the pursuit of knowledge.

I wonder what he would be like if he had been born into privilege like I was, raised with the empathy of education rather than the harshness of war.

My Dear Ex-Manager,

You

fucking

cunt.

I don't know where to begin. Maybe I'll start by saying that my lovely wife first called you a cunt after hearing my stories. And you're the one person she allows me to call a cunt. I can just start talking about "that fucking cunt" and she'll know it's you of whom I speak.

Oh, you fucking cunt. Remember the Employee Appreciation Lunch, when all the executives stood up and said how much they appreciate the hard work we employees do. And then you, a manager, stood up for 30 minutes and talked about YOURSELF and how hard YOU work. Such a cunt!

Or after that first round of layoffs, in your office, telling me and what's-his-name that if you wanted, you could have everyone fired. That that's how powerful you are. Fucking cunt.

Remember how you cut down my idea for your stupid-ass project, and even told coworkers behind my back that I wasn't realistic. Then, two weeks later, you used the same idea and took credit for it. Cunt!

And why would you talk bad about one of my coworkers and tell me she's having marital problems? Were you trying to out-cunt yourself?

I could go on and on. Remember when you told a coworker, "mishmash doesn't believe in anything!" Didn't you know that would get back to me? You fucking cunt. I actually took it as a compliment. That I was one of the few to stand up to your bullshit.

Of course it all came back to bite me in another one of those many layoffs, when it was my time. I've got to admit I appreciated that you threw a few perks my way at the end, and even expressed regret that you had to let me go. So thanks for that. I guess even you can't be a perfect cunt all the time.

Sincerely,

mishmash

I was nine years old when I murdered my friend, Nessie.

She had died fast, her body thrashing on the ground. I stared, awestruck. The only sadness I’d felt was when it was over. Destructive me.

I was ten years old when I killed Finley. He died the same way as Nessie, his body thrashing on the ground, squirming. It was a really interesting sight. And I've kept it a secret, because I'm pretty sure no one would have liked to hear that I had killed two of my good friends.

Finley and Nessie are buried together. I didn’t have that much space for them, because they were... well, they were really big. I used a shovel to sink them into the ground, and then I prayed for them.

I did the same thing when I was eleven to my other friend, Feefee. She died the same way, and I began getting bored of killing. I went out to bury Feefee that day, but then, my dad my stepped outside.

“Athena, will you take out the gar-” he’d started to say, then stopped when he saw me. His eyes grew big.

I was dragging Feefee out onto the lawn. My dad’s eyes grew even larger, if that was even possible, and his eyebrows bended over so much that they crossed. He looked ready to choke, and I couldn’t blame him. Dragging something takes a lot of effort.

“What is that your carrying?” He asked, his eyes now bulging out of his head. He closed his eyes. “Oh God, tell me I’m dreaming, tell me this isn’t real.”

He told me I had a lot to explain. And I did, later. I told him about Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.

Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.

In my life, I’ve murdered three.

Fish.

___________________________________________________________________

People don't understand what's it like to walk around with all this anxiety. You know who had the first case of anxiety?

Well it's documented in my family history.

My family line claims the first case of anxiety. 

My ancestors had anxiety attack from technology.

The first dude that created fire after they saw lighting strike a tree catch fire-made my ancestor have a serious anxiety attack. 

The first anxiety attack was because technology.

The fire was beautiful enough to hold till

They realized how hot it was and how easy hair and animal skin catches fire. 

My ancestor stayed away from prehistoric picnics and barbecues for a long time.

The invention of transportation by water caused anxiety on so many spectrums of my family line. You know I'm black right?

I also have American Indians in my family.

Anything that came on a boat that was not from our culture spelled trouble and anxiety.

Now I have anxiety. Just imagining how much more it will cost to travel in the next 5-10 years whether by public transportation or buying gas for my car? I am very interested in horses, sleds, and camels, and large dogs these days and anyone that could watch either of them in between stops or if they don't mind if I tie them up while I do my shopping or go to work.