YOUR FRIENDS' ACTIVITY

    Blog Posts by One Child International

    • Married to a Dog Whisperer

      By One Child International | Healthy Living – Mon, Feb 9, 2009 7:30 PM EST
      Imagine, if you will, a bed. Not just any bed; a bed filled with a mound of heaving, seething bodies. A bed occupied by pretty ladies with names such as Margaret, Orla, Nessa, Izzy, Bella and guy named Charlie. (Hot eh? eh?) Can you imagine? Well stop imagining, you're dealing with my reality; where dogs rule.

      The first thing I noticed on waking this morning was that the six inches of the king size bed that are mine were occupied. By myself (obviously) and my bad tempered ginger-cat Morris who sleeps curled up in my arms. As he falls asleep he likes to be rubbed until he's had enough. How do I know when enough is enough? Easy. He bites my arm, gently, the way a lion snaps the neck of a f*cking Zebra.

      There's more. My territory had been encroached upon during the night.

      A Beagle (Orla) has somehow managed to burrow beneath my pillow. Now snoring loudly; she twitches as she dreams of chasing the cat that's asleep inches away from her. Not the smartest tool in the shed our

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    • The legacy of Suicide

      By One Child International | Work + Money – Mon, Feb 9, 2009 4:51 AM EST

      "The paper called it suicide
      A bullet from a .45
      Nobody cared and nobody cried
      Don't that make you feel sad"
      Thin Lizzy. Suicide. 1975


      Have you ever sat in a chair, detached, dejected, in crushing despair?

      Your life; meaningless. Your head filled with self-loathing. Numb, your insides are bound with the knot of hopelessness.

      You're surprised for a second by the heft of the gun; it's a lot heavier loaded than it looked on the desk. A glimmer of golden oil shines on the grey stainless steel frame; the copper snubs of the bullets peek menacingly from the cylinder. You sniff the gun oil; it's smell mechanical; familiar. In one motion you put the muzzle of the barrel to your temple. It's cold. Leaning your head against it, your thumb rests on the rough edge of the hammer. With a little effort you draw back on the hammer spring and c--- the gun; hearing the clicks as the sear engages.

      A last breath; your heart beats in your chest. No thoughts now;

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    Pagination

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