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By the time I was 14, I had lost my family, my friends, my neighborhood, anything familiar and had been raped 3 times. I had tried every drug available, overdosed, left for dead, did not see any white light, woke up and decided to make my own life. By 15 I had an apartment in Marin County, put myself through High School, earned straight A's, put myself through college playing poker (earned straight A's) then ended up in Hollywood to pursue fragmented dreams. During this time I was sleeping with my professor, his wife, his best friend and his brother. When you come from a broken home, this all seems normal.

After breaking from this pack, I started dating what seemed more reasonable men. …
From addictions counselee to addictons counselor.

Jets screaming overhead. Helicopter blades cutting the air. These were my lullabies where I came from.

Friends and neighbours came and went. That was life on a military base. Newcomers were often heard complaining about the lack of things to do. Wide eyes and a slack jaw were the usual responses. Nothing to do? But then… they weren’t born here. They didn’t spend almost 17 years of their life here and still not get to do and see everything they wanted.

It was utopia for a child if he or she knew where to look - what every person wants and needs and strives for and only children can find – but when …

I was born a bastard and I've remained one ever since. I became a journalist. Now that I've just turned 80, I've written a memoir about my unhappy upbringing and my career. I've tried to make it mostly funny.
The book is entitled: I NEVER LOOKED FOR MY MOTHER and OTHER REGRETS OF A JOURNALIST.

Today I took steps to becoming an excellent ME. I worked out, started a scrapbook of inspiration, and started a new blog. I feel better already.

We always assume it can never happen to us….not to you, not to your great marriage, which is the envy of all your friends, or so it seems by the statements that have come from their mouths. Later you will find what they TRULY thought but were afraid to voice to you. Why after all, you give him everything he could possibly need or want. Look at you, talented, attractive, great shape, intelligent, mother to his children, awesome chef and housewife. Not to mention bringing home the bacon…yada, yada, yada. There is his serious character flaw; a severe lack of ambition and drive. Him leading a double life? Bah, it would take way too much effort. There’s …

First Blackout. First Subway Strike. BYE!

I left work early on Thursday. I didn't feel well, and we were leaving for Washington DC the next day, so I decided it was best for me to go home, rest and be good for the trip.

I just started this job the month prior. It was for an upscale dental office. The Doctor was great, not stuffy or stuck-up. He was the kind of person that would say thank you for the job you are doing and compliment you on how well you were doing it.

My first week in he told me I was doing fabulous. Finally, acknowledgment for hard work. It was wonderful.

I have affectionately decided to refer to myself as …

Michael James Moore’s
AN AMERICAN TUNE
“Track # 1”

We head for the record department of the J.C. Penney store at the Ford City Shopping Center because Sundays are the longest day of the week and any chance of a winter’s day getaway (“Out of the house!”) is usually seized upon by the Mom. After spending fifteen minutes looking at new albums at the big store that sells seemingly everything, the Mom has an armful of newly selected LPs. That’s what the grown-ups say when they mean record-albums. Us kids just say “records.” Usually.

Most important is that a new record by the Beatles is there. Even if …

As we ran along the roadside, I couldn't help thinking this is how life would be forever. I had my dog since I was 5. I'm now 16. She was a golden retriever mixed with a Yellow Lab. A mutt, some would say, but I thought she was beautiful. She didn't really like other dogs, and she always chased our old, grumpy cat, but I loved her. At the beginning of the summer, we had starting running to train for my cross country season in the fall. She was never really trained to be off a leash, but we would run in the country and I would let her run loose until we got back to town. She ran through the tall grass as if …

I’m not going anywhere this holiday season. Like a seal, I’m going to spread myself largely over my pillow-laden couch and bask in the warm glow of the Christmas tree and useless television. With the remote in one hand and a cookie(s) in the other, I’m going to do nothing but relax.

And I’m not buying gifts either. That’s not to say, my wife won’t. I’ve already noticed a few odd-sized brown Office Depot boxes and small cairns of ‘gifty items’ around the house. “Who is that for?” I’ll inquire, one eye peering over the couch, the other never leaving the set. “It’s for the baby…just something simple. You remember how it was.” It’s a gift for my niece and her husband. They …

I almost didn’t meet Joe. He wasn’t supposed to be at Ben Farkle’s house that day.

If I hadn't been wearing my Catholic school uniform - gray wool, rolled at the waist and hiked thigh-high - I might have left Ben's house with an accessory - handcuffs.

Maybe it was my glossy black oxfords that saved me – the polished shoes of the police gleamed nearly as bright.

I didn’t fit in at Ben’s. I didn't look like a wannabee hippie, not that day. Becoming an expatriate from upper-middle American values was still an ambitious rebellion cocooned between the pages of my diary. I was months away from frizzy curls or jettisoning supportive undergarments; I …

When the men were gone and she could no longer think of the word for the thing she used to light cigarettes, my grandmother, Barbara Russakoff—Bubba to those who loved her most—gave up, wrote a note, and overdosed on anti-depressants and applesauce. And it didn't work.

That was seven years ago. I was sitting in a gray cubicle in Boston pretending to work when I got the call from my mom. I don't remember the five-hour drive to Bubba’s home in Skowhegan, Maine. It was strange to be in her house without her. For the first time I could remember, the large, round schoolhouse clock on the wall opposite the table was silent. When I was a kid, its tick was the constant soundtrack …

I don’t dare set foot in Northeast alone, even then I am always on guard—always looking over one shoulder. My children and I have fled our 1940’s bungalow on street lined with shady trees, running for our lives after I was attacked by their father and now we are homeless. We are one of the blips on the 2nd Precinct crime maps; fuzzy circles pinpointing assaults and domestic incidents in Northeast that indicate something terrible happened, but so often are ignored. Ignored even by families like mine, who hide their secrets well, taking great efforts to portray a Norman Rockwell dream. The smiling mother holds a pie, behind the picture; the crust has burned, happiness is brittle, breaking. The stern father holds a newspaper, his …

Woodstock Writers Festival celebrating the Memoir - Feb 12 through 15th. Join acclaimed authors in this "Celebration of the Memoir." Writers will read and readers will write during four days of romancing great books! Workshops, fetes, readings and panels, moveable feasts and more.

Special guests include Susan Orlean (The Orchid Thief, Lazy Little Loafers) and Julie Powell (Julie and Julia, Cleaving).
www.woodstockwritersfestival.com.

At 15 years old, you're supposed to think you're some brand of perfection. Some amazing creature that, while going through all these awkward changes and teenage nonsense, will emerge this beautiful, wonderful person.
Not me. At 15 years old, having gone through a child-hood and my first few years of teen-dom in chaos, I was sat down by my therapist, with my anxious parents next to me to hear the words that explained everything, and destroyed my hopes and dreams in one fell swoop.

Borderline Personality Disorder.

Everything else fades into the background as that one diagnosis is explained. And suddenly my life shifts. It's filled with a search for a new therapist, books my mother frantically reads in order to …

Thanksgiving commercials had me convinced that only the proverbial soccer mom and her ilk would be pressing their faces against the sliding doors of Retail Mecca (i.e. Best Buy) at five a.m. on Black Friday.

That Mom, a Chinese-American woman now in her “Golden Girl” years, had spent the holiday gingerly reviewing “Doorbuster Specials” in the newspaper was no surprise, however. “I got you six pairs of socks for free! Guess how I did it,” she’d said by way of greeting when I returned home for Thanksgiving.

Sensible people did not stand in the parking lot of retail stores before the break of dawn, especially not in Lake Jackson, TX where even bars are closed and empty by …

“How do you live with yourself?” she said, a disgusted look on her face, and turned on her heel and flounced away.

“Well,” I said to no one in particular as I balefully watched her go, “it has been a long and interesting story. I first met me about 41 years ago, in a small hospital in Covina, California. I think my mother was there when we met, but I don’t think my Dad was around. I was quite taken with myself at an early age, but I didn’t always return the interest. Sometimes I even felt snubbed by me, and so I would get discouraged. We were merely acquaintances for a long time, for maybe thirty years. …

Ive losted my best friend

where did you go
what happened to you
when i ask these questions
you simply say nothing has changed
and how were just growing up
thats all?

where did your clothes go
what happened to those pretty sandls you used to wear
what happened to your hair
why did you say that
i thought you were smarter then that
where did my bestfriend go?

im sorry
i feel like maybe i had a hand in this
i remeber how we used to say we wouldnt be labeled
remeber how we used to share a soul
i remeber that we used to laught at those girls
now your laughin at are own hateful words

im …

Rumors hit like needles,hallways can be brutal and the stabs will com back and back again. But the dances make memorys,the people can be hidden angels, and he is lust...

This is what middle school is but when you leave you will have so many happy memorys to cancel out all the bad ones it will be like they never even happened


Silver lining..........all bad things have them.
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