Link: http://www.forkparty.com/artist-or-con-artist/
From people made of trash to scuplptures of blood, the definition of what is "art" is a very flexible thing!
We’ve all been there. We’ve all had a moment in our lives when someone we trusted turned around and threw us under a bus to save their own skin. If it hasn’t happened to you yet, then either you have been graced with loyal friends and companions of noble character, or you’re the one chucking your friends under bus wheels first. If you haven’t got many friends and the ones you did have don’t speak to you much, odds are good it’s the latter.
Link: http://www.blurtit.com/q9042832.html
As always, fun to write and I learned a lot researching this one. I live in hope I never experience any of these things.
The pendulum of dating seems to swing rapidly these days. Just last week I made the observation that I was getting an odd amount of interest from the younger crowd. As if to prove the theorem that observing a condition may change it, this week I received not a single contact from anyone under the age of 45. In fact, most of my contacts were over the age of 60.
This week I am left wondering what in my profile or picture has captured the attention of the younger generation, for once again the only interest I seem to be garnering is from the under 30 set.
The last two weeks have been a mixed bag of results, ranging from horrifyingly humorous to just damn strange. Did I get out on an actually meet? Yes, I did, but more on that later.
More than two years ago my little brother went to sleep and never woke up. His sudden and totally unexpected loss was devastating to my family, his friends and the many others whose lives he had touched over the years.
What struck me then, even in the numbness of my own grief, was how very badly some people reacted to the idea of death. As if it was an affront to their life and happiness to have to deal with it at all. We don’t’ seem to accept death at all, treating it as an enemy to be reviled, the big, dark elephant in the room that no one admits they can see. As a result of this awkward relationship we have with the Grim Reaper, we don’t know how to handle grief; ours or anyone else’s. Like kids at a high school dance we stutter, stammer, try to say the right then and invariably put our foot in our mouths while stepping on someone else’s toes.