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.
Something happened this weekend, and I still am not sure what strange force possessed me.
The last few days I have been researching the worst pandemics of the world for an article, you'll see the link to the final version likely later this week. One of the most deadly pandemics mankind has seen was the Spanish Flu of 1918. It too was Type A, it too was an H1N1 subtype, though far more virulent and terrifying than the current Swine flu, which is described by the World Health Organization as "moderate". Yep, moderate people. So stop spraying yourselves down with antibacterial foam and screaming in panic whenever someone sneezes.
If you’ve read this blog before, you may have stumbled over my first rant on plagiarism. Well, it has happened again, and this time it wasn’t just my idea for a pitch that was stolen.
When I was a kid my parents enrolled me in swimming classes, a decision I’ve always been grateful to them for considering we live on an island and the only way off to get to the rest of Canada is to cross a rather significant stretch of ice cold Pacific Ocean. I can always spot the ones who can’t swim when I travel by ferry, they tend to stay to the middle of the craft and count the life rafts as if had suddenly found themselves on the Titanic and surrounded by icebergs.
Since the first teddy bear was inspired by Theodore Roesevelt’s decision not to shoot a bear, stuffed animals have been a popular children’s toy. They bring cuddly comfort and protection from the monsters in the closet. Somewhere along the line though, the whole concept derailed, and now there are plush playthings that would make some closet monsters wish for a teddy bear to hold.
An open letter to the person who stole my work and posted it as their own.
A poem composed while walking over a bridge, in the dark, in a fog so thick it seemed a living thing. By the time I got to work the poem was finished, and it was all I could do not to bolt for the door inside.