Matters of Great Concern

Matters of Great Concern

by | Feb 16, 2025 | Writing

Matters of Great Concern

“I matter,” says Suzi proudly.

Geri smiles sympathetically, her red lips pressed tight, holding the truth, not knowing how to break the news. Just do it, her mind urges.

Geri’s lips part. “Oh, Suzi, I’m sorry to tell you—you’re wrong. You don’t matter.”

Suzi blinks.

“I believe you used to,” Geri continues, earnestly. “I truly do. But there’s a New World Order now, and I have a list of who matters and who doesn’t. I don’t see your name on it.”

She holds up a clipboard, tapping the paper with her manicured nail.

“It’s true,” she says. “The only people who matter now don’t have nicknames as legal names. We only recognize proper names—Suzanne, Jennifer, Michael, Anthony. You get it, right? People who don’t matter are the ones whose birth certificates list their names as Suzi, Jenny, Mike, and Tony. People went too far with their liberties.”

She shrugs. “Don’t worry—you can still exist here. You can still live freely. It’s just that… you won’t matter.”

Suzi stares at her, then sinks into the cold metal folding chair at the unemployment office on Main Street.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she says. “Why would that matter?”

“I’m afraid everything matters now,” Geri replies. “Except for you, of course.”

Suzi folds her arms. “That sounds so arbitrary. I mean, we didn’t have a choice in how our parents named us.”

“I realize this may come as a surprise,” Geri says smoothly. “Obviously, your parents were free thinkers and, well… people can’t think for themselves anymore.”

She smiles with her lips but squeezes her eyes shut.

Suzi glances down, then back at her. “If we can’t think for ourselves… do any of us matter?”

Geri hesitates. “Perhaps you’re right. I haven’t read through the entire manual yet.”

Suzi leans forward. “But isn’t Geri short for Geraldine?”

Before Geri can answer, a man appears in the doorway. He wears a gray three-button suit and brown loafers, as if he stepped straight out of 1982. His graying hair is combed neatly over his balding head.

“Hello, ladies,” he says.

Suzi eyes him warily, distrusting this blast from the past.

Geri straightens. “Hello, sir.”

“I’ll need the two of you to come with me,” he says, tucking his clipboard under his arm.

Geri smiles, lifting her manual. “There’s been some mistake. I have a copy of the rules. That means I still matter.”

The man shakes his head. “We’ve made some adjustments. You’ll need to come with us too.”

His voice is calm but firm.

A pause.

Then—”Hurry up, ladies. The bus is waiting.”

I’m So Proud

I’m So Proud

by | Nov 22, 2024 | Writing

I’m So Proud

I was so proud that I wasn’t embarrassed when I burped and skipped in public that I hugged myself and said, “I am enough.”
I’m so proud that I am enough that I wrote a self-help book.
I’m so proud I wrote a self-help book because it helped millions of people.
I’m so proud I helped millions of people that I started a mastermind.
I’m so proud I started a mastermind because now I know Tony Robbins.
I’m so proud I know Tony Robbins because it means I made it to the big time.
I’m so proud I made it to the big time because it means I was successful.

I’m so proud I’m successful because I came from nothing.
I’m so proud I came from nothing because the payoff to success is that much sweeter.
I’m so proud that the payoff is sweeter because it meant I could brag to Tony Robbins.
I’m so proud I could brag to Tony Robbins because it meant I was in an intimate conversation with him.

We were talking about strategies, and I told him I had the best strategies because I came from nothing.
He said he came from nothing too, and that his dad kicked him out of the house.
I told him that must have made him good at strategizing because he learned to be resourceful at a young age—much like me.
I had a mother who liked to play with asphyxiating her kids, and we must have lost brain cells.

So, the fact that I could strategize myself all the way to this mastermind with Tony Robbins is something to be proud of.
I’m so proud that I strategized my way into this mastermind with Tony Robbins because it meant I had charisma and people liked me.
I’m proud of people like me because I used to think I was worthless.
I’m so proud that I used to think I was worthless because there’s only one way up from there.
I’m so proud there’s only one way up from being worthless because it shows how far I’ve come.

I’m so proud of how far I’ve come because look at me now.
Tony Robbins said Richard Branson was on his way, and we could fly around on his jets.
He said he has new technology where planes can go straight up in the air, revolutionizing the airline industry.

Then Steve Jobs’ ghost came in the form of a hologram, and he said Apple was still better than Android.
But I pointed out that Google is a thousand times better than Siri.

I’m so proud I said that to Steve Jobs’ ghost because it meant I overcame my fear of ghosts.
I’m so proud I overcame my fear of ghosts because it meant I could have a frank conversation with Steve Jobs about how Siri needs to chill the fuck out because Google is running circles around her.
I’m so proud that Google is running circles around Siri because I just bought stock in Google.

Worst Week Ever

Worst Week Ever

by | Nov 7, 2024 | Writing

Worst Week Ever

The mind is a powerful tool, they say. Tara watches her thoughts turn to reality as if by magic. She wonders if a lobotomy would make life more bearable or electroshock therapy might be enough, it’s come back in fashion.She’d recently had a nerve conduction test, and those zaps felt like repetitively sticking her wet finger in an electric socket. And why would my finger be wet? And why would I do that repetitively?

She spends time every day with tools to help her: meditation, a vision board, visualization, journaling, and a rubber mallet to the head. She doesn’t always make the best choices. 

She feels like she’s been saying for five years solid, “This is the worst week ever.” But she feels that, maybe, just maybe this week takes the cake.

She also complains sometimes, maybe she’s a bit negative, but maybe anyone in her situation would be. She loves to say, “I just want someone to take care of me.” Recently, she had a birthday that put her into the next age bracket. She doesn’t think she was being negative by saying,”I don’t want to age! I don’t want to get old!” 

She’s hoping these thoughts that become reality as if by magic haven’t come true as she opens her health portal and reads the doctor’s note.

“A terminal, debilitating disease is suspected as a cause for symptoms. Tara must see a neurologist as soon as possible.” She remembers that moment quite well. She mutters,  “No. What the fuck?” Then the tears fall slowly down her cheeks–her children.. Grief and fear take over.

But her sick child calls from the other room, “Mommy?” Tara wipes her tears off her face and composes herself. Then, she throws something—anything—angrily across the room and walks in to see her kid.

The kid spiked a high fever, 103.8, a flu-like virus taking over their febrile body. The flu turns into an infected lymph node, and after eight days of fever, pneumonia, and an ear infection. Oxygen level is 92%, respiratory rate is 30, and sounds in the left lung are diminished. Two antibiotics and a follow-up in two days.

Tara’s other child met with the rheumatologist. Their lupus is flared, and the fatigue and joint pain are unrelenting—the nerves are raw, on fire, shooting missiles of pain. Now, even holding a fork feels like a chore. The doctor said, “If we don’t get your symptoms managed soon, we might need to admit you to the hospital.” 

Her 6-month-old puppy had her left eye removed yesterday and has to have a cone on her head for two weeks. It’s squishing her ears, and she can’t smell or touch the ground. So she’s lost her ability to use her other senses that she relied on when her blinded, glaucoma eye was still intact.

Tara is pretty sure this is the worst week ever, and that’s not all.

Tara grapples with the looming suspected diagnosis she read in her chart. Why would the doctor put it in her chart that he discussed it with her and that she fully understood the cause of her symptoms? That’s false. He never told her anything.

“That’s malpractice,” people have told her. Yes, maybe. But then she remembers those thoughts that turned into reality as if by magic, and she wonders if this terminal disease is how her thoughts turned into reality as if by magic. “I want  someone to take care of me,” and “I don’t want to age!” 

Terminal thoughts and she scrambles to visualize better outcomes; she forces thoughts of independence and old age. “If my thoughts turn into reality as if by magic, then I’m going to imagine the best week ever.” She sits there squeezing her brain, searching for positive thoughts and an open mind. She tries to squeeze the scary thoughts out of her head but can’t squeeze hard enough.

She hopes that next week will be the best week ever because she’s done with shitty weeks filled with stress and fear. She’s ready to throw off her shoes and socks and ground herself on the ground outside. But she steps on a small stick, then a sharp rock cuts into the bottom of her foot, and she bleeds.

She sits on the ground, squeezing her foot, thinking to herself: It’s going to get better; life will be blissful… and suddenly, she’s swallowed into the ground. A crevice opens, the Earth beneath her, and she gets pulled into a strange underworld. It’s warm, maybe a little too warm, but she likes it. A man walks up to her. He’s wearing a scarf that says, “Go Devils.”

“Hi, my name is Tom. I’m sorry I’ve been controlling your life down here. I had the wrong Tara. All that stuff was meant for the Tara two streets over. Please forgive me.”