Diseree Lee Zacher
A 37 yr old female and a Utah native, I'd describe as an adventurer. I seek serenity, though I don't find this in the material world. I love all foods but highly processed items. My favorite foods originate from Russia and Eastern Europe.
“Mommy, when are we going to be home? I’m hungry.” Melissa sighed as she looked into the rear-view mirror at her 5-year-old daughter. Tight brown ringlets sprung out of her black beanie. Her porcelain skin illuminated by the shimmer of the snow that was pouring down on top of her old white sedan.
Bitch Better Have My Money
“Bitch better have my money!” The familiar sound of Rhianna’s iconic voice rings out from the pocket of Nick’s dark and dirty jeans. He can simultaneously feel the vibration of his phone as he rides his old green Schwinn down the streets of California. Traffic is congested but moving steady and he knows, that if he is to make it on time he cannot risk stopping to answer then getting stuck in the dreaded rush hour traffic. Still, his stomach sinks but, hearing that ring tone always has that effect on him.
Small Acts of Kindness
My life has been an interesting one. I was the born the illegitimate child of a mentally ill mother and a Middle Eastern father who, for reasons unknown to me, has never been a part of my life. I entered this world a burden on my family and on society. I will tell you that I don’t believe the disfunction began with me. I believe it takes generations of trauma to bring about the kind of disfunction seen within my family and others like us. I think each generation does their best given their individual circumstances but, over time, all the little mistakes they make only get amplified with the next generation and so on. So, to look at my side of the family which includes just myself, my mother, and my grandparents as I had no siblings that I’m aware of, it may have started with my maternal grandmother consuming alcohol during her pregnancy with my mother.
The Barn Owls Last Mission
The house had been empty for some time when Michael pulled in that night. It had been several months since his mother and father had suddenly went missing but he could not let go of the strange feeling that the answers to their mysterious disappearance were there, he just had to look. As he sat in silence in the running car, he once again went through the events of the last few months in his head as he lightly clenched the steering wheel. His gaze was vague and at nothing in particular. His golden-brown hair was a mess atop his head and his blue eyes were glazed over with tears. “What am I missing?” he sighed as the events leading up to that night flooded his mind.
Dear Mr. Trump
I hope this finds you and your family well. I want to start out by stating that I truly appreciate any and all sacrifices you may have made during your time as our president. I will admit, however, that I am not really aware of any of these sacrifices, though I know that they are there. I do not follow much in the realm of politics and it is easy to be swayed by what is spread through-out the social media platforms and via the news. It is, therefore, very difficult for someone like me who does not feverishly follow the media to get an accurate image of what is actually being said and done within the walls of the White House. Because of this I have tried not to judge you too harshly and have attempted to further educate myself more on your political agenda but, when you cannot maintain a proper public image it then becomes an issue for me. So, I am writing you because I want you to know what it is like for someone who is not fighting for either side but simply watching the war.