Gorgeous Gangstah Pt.I

Gorgeous Gangstah

Jeneane partially rolled  her eyes open, squinting from the rays of sun creeping through the slits in  her blinds. Her mind immediately replayed last nights events, she rolled from her right side facing the window to her back closing her eyes. The ringing of the hail of shots rang in her ears like bells, as Ricks body stiffened and his face riddled with pain, he hit the ground…lifeless as his eyes rolled back into is head, his body slumping over and blood seeping from numerous holes. Backing away Jeneane ran towards the street away from the alley behind the infamous Purple Rain. She looked back , heart racing, as the rest of the drunken civilian’s scattered from the hailing bullets. Her eyes burned like fire zeroed in on Jeneane’s back as she ran out of her sight. A tear trickled down her cheek and a familiar scent wafted into her nostrils. “Majesty!”…

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Gorgeous Gangstah Pt.I

Source: Gorgeous Gangstah Pt.I

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The Harvester Ep. 1

           I saved lives. No matter what your measly little opinion is of who I am and what I do, peoples lives were saved because of Me. And at the end of the day, that’s all I ever wanted. I’d also like to point out that none of my so called “victims” meant a DAMN thing to anybody, and that they did more for the world in their death than they ever could have imagined doing in their worthless lives. The media would portray me and my kind as Monsters, I wouldn’t disagree. To a person with no form of understanding or insight into this lifestyle, the perception of “Monstrous” is an initial and almost an acceptable reaction. In fact, the stories of us being monsters are probably what brought you here. By the way, this isn’t a confession. If it were, that would mean that I am sharing this in an attempt to alleviate some form of guilt for wrong doing, none of which I possess. And why should I? I! Saved! Lives! There’s a little girl who won’t be spending her upcoming birthday in a coma because of me! There’s an old man walking his daughter down the isle of her wedding, this very weekend because of my societal contributions. Day in, day out, I take the chances in life that are being squandered and give them to those that need it more. A life for a life… there’s a bit more gray area than that, but big picture that is the exchange. Blood. Bone. Organ. In these dark days, the value of those three things is higher than it’s ever been and it is the duty of me and others like me, whether we like it or not, to make sure that there is a constant or at the very least steady supply of them. There are no ranks or medals between us. No one of us is any more or less important than the other, we have all taken the oath, we have all pledged to complete our duty… Harvesting. Blood. Bone. Organs. We harvest them all, collecting them from one body and transferring them to another. Heh, you know, saying it aloud like that, it actually DOES make us sound a little like monsters or some kind of twisted fucked up little cult. Why don’t I just begin at the beginning? That way once the truth about us comes out and gets bent, broken, and twisted in the public eye you’ll be able to make an educated decision on who to believe. Did I mention I saved lives???

          Growing up all I wanted to do was help people. Old, young, friends, strangers, cats, dogs, if there was a need for assistance I was more than happy to fulfill it. This way of living has left me broken down on multiple occasions, but overall I found no greater pleasure than knowing I had a hand in making someones day just a little better. It’s almost as if the job of Nurse was invented for people like me. We get to help people in some of the most important ways possible, the ICU especially. That was my department, the Intensive Care Unit, the worse of the worst case scenarios. The people there were terminally ill, fatally wounded, on literally their last leg of life and being the crutch they could lean on brought my spirits to their highest state of euphoria…for a while. It all started when our Head Nurse told us that there has been a steady decline in available blood for transfusions, due to the lack of donations being provided. Now, being that I never was really keen on donating blood anyway (although I was always the first to sign up and help with the blood drives) I didn’t pay this warning a second thought. “We can’t expect people to care as much as we get to” I said to myself. What I failed to realize was that the decrease in donors would subsequently lead to an Increase in death. At first, the fatality rate remained pretty average, but before long people began dropping like flies. We lost 68 people in one month, children included. I had managed to stay relatively strong through this entire thing, a few doctors had to take leaves of absence because the consistent loss of lives drove them to deep depression. One orderly even killed himself after one of the elder patients he had begun a brief friendship with passed away mid-conversation. You couldn’t walk past a supply closet or bathroom stall without hearing the stifled sniffling of a intern, nurse, or even a doctor allowing a brief lapse in their emotional resolve in order to better cope with the cloud of death that seemed to loom over our hospital. Strangely, I hadn’t even felt myself coming close to tears…not even once, that is until the twins were admitted. Zoë and Chloe were just the most adorable pair of little girls that I ever had the misfortune of meeting. They were born 30 seconds apart but you’d have thought they were Siamese because they were inseparable. Theresa, their mother would call them her “Chocolate Cherubs” because of their round angelic faces, big innocent eyes, and their ebony colored skin which was flawless, since at only 5 years old life had yet to bring upon them the burden of blemishes. Both were smart, funny, completely well-mannered, just everything a parent could hope for , except when it came to Chloe’s health. Chloe was born with acute kidney failure, and after spending the majority of her early life on dialysis, her condition became chronic and a transplant became necessary, one of those times where having a twin is the most convenient circumstance in the world. You know, maybe it’s just me, but every time we get a kid born with some kind of chronic or terminal illness that requires them starting their lives with constant visits to the hospital accompanied by all the hassle of having tubes put in In them, on them, around them, under them, people poking at them, looking at them, talking over and about but never to them. It all just makes me question God’s existence entirely, like if He loves us all equally, and has a grand design so that everything happens for a reason, what’s the reason for stealing a kid’s childhood away from them??? Sorry, got off track there for a second, anyway…

          After the usual hustle and bustle the day of the girls surgery finally comes and you would think these two little girls would be terrified, but after the doctors and their mother explained what was going to happen they were so excited about being able to “switch pieces” that the only time they showed any form of fear was when they had to be taken into their separate OR’s for surgery. And wouldn’t you fucking know it, during the procedure there was a mistake. Dr. Feldman through a slight error while making Zoe’s closing incision accidentally severed one of her major arteries and she lost an excessive amount of blood. Now, we barely had enough to keep Chloe alive, so with the amount that Zoe lost she didn’t have a chance. She was pronounced dead 30 seconds after her kidney was successfully placed into Chloe. The look on their mother’s face was indescribable. But the look on Dr. Feldman’s face, that son of a bitch! The way he feigned sorrow when delivering the news to the mother. The way he put his arms around her and hugged her, pretending to provide comfort all while checking the time on his Rolex to make sure too much of his wasn’t wasted. The way he claimed “He wished there was something he could do”, then minutes later went right back to laughing and joking it up with the other Doctor Bro’s in the lounge. Making their juvenile and subjective remarks about everything from their cars to the “fuckability” of certain female staff members. As if a little girls life didn’t just end moments ago by HIS hands! A little girl who should have grown up side by side with her twin is dead now and did he care at all? No, but I did. Did he stand there having to hear a mother cry over her child asking God ‘Why’ but never getting an answer? No, but I did. And did God bother to fill the good Dr. Feldman with even a single drop of remorse? No…but I did.

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12-Steps to Creating Motivation When Depressed

Nathan Feiles, MSW, LCSW-R

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Creating motivation when feeling depressed can be one of the most difficult things a person can do. An episode of depression can be physically and emotionally draining. The simplest of tasks seem to take maximum effort, and sometimes even beyond maximum. Some may feel lethargic. It may be tough make meals, or clean up at home, or take showers, or even get out of bed.

Navigating motivation when depressed can be tough because the instinct is to wait for the energy to return. People who are depressed often fall into the trap of trying to wait it out — that if you give in to the urge to stay in bed for a few days, that you’ll be re-energized and recharged, believing you’ll have exorcised the depression demons by just “going with it”.

Unfortunately, it’s not usually as simple as this. If everybody tried to wait out their depressive episodes…

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There is more truth in silence than can ever be relayed in speech. At its base spoken words are only a small, constructed expression of the thoughts of another. These thoughts are in their purest form when confined behind a wall of silence. For they are untainted, unedited, and unaltered for the outside comprehension of others. These silent statements are heard loud and clear, resonating off of the very walls they were conceived in. A conception brought about by a myriad of physiological and chemical responses, filling it with life, giving it a purpose and existence. The depth and power of silence is phenomenal. There is so much that can reside within its nothingness, all the while piercing through the ears and souls of those subjected to it. Very few have ever experienced true silence, merely quiet moments or those void of any verbal or other auditory stimulants.

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Medal Of On Her

In a mess hall littered with milk cartons and lies, our Hero listens to the Veterans tell their war torn stories. How he longed for his own Medal, shiny golden bringing with it a new level of experience and the respect of the peers he silently envied. Day after day he would listen, hearing the men detail conquest upon conquest each attempting to outdo the tale before. They would explain how they used their armor to shield themselves from the unknown fortresses they would enter, some of which they said was coated with a liquid force field to help ease the entry. The excitement in their voices was undeniable as they described the details of the battle, at times fast, voracious, each opponent fighting with the passion of the Gods. At others, long, grueling, seeming to drag on endlessly when all you wish is for it to be over. Both ending in the same result, and there is only one victor. No lives are lost, only respect, and to the Victor go the spoils. And the Medal. That precious Medal that is unseen, but proudly recognized by all who desire it. It wasn’t a Medal of Valor, for in most cases the means by which this Medal was attained were all but honorable. Using wit, and conniving practices most of these soldiers would enter the fortresses with promises to protect and prosper with the kingdoms they so savagely desired to conquer. Only to leave the castle broken, shattered left only with bitter memories of what it once held, and shall never possess again. This is of no concern to our soldiers. All that matters is the Medal. This was not a Medal of Merit. Although, if you were to ask the soldiers they would say that based on their abundance of victories they deserve such an honor in its highest respect. Respect. A word that the soldiers only silently, express amongst each other. A privilege only earned in the trenches and throes of battle. A right deprived and stripped of the villages that are ripped apart and maimed in the cross fires of their unyielding subjugation. All done in the name of the Medal. This Medal who’s glistening gold reflection has these soldiers blinded to the true measure of what victory entails. It has been said that “War is Hell”, many men have been to Hell and back in pursuit of the Medal, some returning with the hell fire’s residue still singed into their swords often times scarred for life. Life. This Medal has claimed many throughout its existence. It’s origin untraceable but that takes nothing away from its dark yet necessary history. Is this Medal worth your life? Our soldiers briefly ponder this query to themselves before storming each fortress, the thoughts quickly pushed out of their heads by the temptation of a new day’s battle. The most precious fortresses are those that are heavily guarded. For some soldiers the thrill comes not from the attainment of the Medal, but the discovery of the unknown. The challenge of achieving the impossible. Of obtaining that which he believes in his heart is solely meant for him, even if the truth is far from that. Our hero wishes for the best of both worlds. He hopes one day to enter the field of battle, to storm a fortress head on, doing whatever is necessary to weaken its defenses, to allow him entry. But his mission is not that of destruction his mission is that of prosperity. For while the soldiers in the hall wield the Medal, and are able to amass multiple tales of hallow victories, they still return at the end of the day mere soldiers. Our hero wishes to be a King. A king wields the Medal as any soldier would, as proof that he too has seen the horrors of war, that he is able not only to attack but to defend, keeping his Medal precious and unattainable by any who dare to tread on the same land as he. Our hero wishes to gain entry to the fortress by means of little force as possible, only asserting his dominance when need be. By declaring his purpose to the gatekeeper, expressing that he wishes to make the kingdom apart of that which he is, only causing destruction to make room for greater constructs. So while the Medal may elude our hero for quite some time he takes solace in his delayed attainment. He is among a chosen few who understands the true meaning and value of the Medal, and he wouldn’t dare risk his life for a fulfillment he wasn’t meant to bare.

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Garbage, and why you shouldn’t keep it around.

Great Read!!!

turn and live

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The other day I was trying to write something of worth, something meaningful and witty, deep and delightful.  What I got was 6 bad starts to 6 awful and confusing drafts.  I was so frustrated, so disappointed, so discouraged.  Why couldn’t I just write something?

Then, after those 6 agonizing attempts that probably weren’t as bad as my perfectionist mind insisted, it hit me, I wanted to write something real.  I wanted to put something on paper that mattered, not just something to fill it up. I dont write just to write, I write to create something.  I write to bring life.  I write to bring truth–to my life and to the lives of others.

And there was the problem: I haven’t been able to wrap my mind around anything real in these recent days and weeks.  Everything has been a blur, a foggy disjointed mess.  I’ve been trudging through…

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