Running For Your Greater Good

"Not all those who wander are lost." 

-J.R.R. Tolkien

Living abroad was the best education I’ve ever received. It was my exposure to the world, the vulnerability of being alone which instructed wisdom and strength. 

The flexibility of going from one place to another, without a plan or guidance, was liberating.

I understand that roaming isn’t suitable for all people. It may not work for the average person, but it fits for the earthly observer. The individual who loves the work, work, work model, may deem those without a permanent residence, as irresponsible or running away. Actually, it’s the opposite. It administers liability while adhering for the individual to rely on the self; which is something that the corporate realm is completely, incapable of teaching. The very concept of running is noted, yes, but running towards something. That something is only defined by the runner, not the viewer.

For those that don’t accept this alternative way of life, the unnecessary disapproving comments should remain silent. The griping resentment is, in truth, connected to a deep-rooted, miserable onset of issues that should be discussed with a therapist. Not the one who chooses the road less traveled.  

If you’re a person who loves to float around and finds comfort in random excursions, then the corporate daily motions will stifle your desires. The M-F offers a pension, 401K, and stability for the future. True, the periodic professional sphere lacks thrills, neglects passion, and doesn’t give enough time off; but the money is good, the people treat you right and the benefits package is awesome. This day-to-day schedule will work for you, should you decide to exchange the wandering voyages, for 5 star hotels and the expensive hamster wheel.

I’ve reclaimed my American citizenship and transitioned to the land of comfort and security, while giving the piping American dream, a Greek anecdote. I’ve become accustomed to crossing the Adams Street Bridge over the Chicago River, which is a challenge to do in the midst of an icy, cold, freezing winter. Whenever I venture across that bolted, slippery steel, I’m reminded of a time when I was in Chang Mai, Thailand, and I became scared to walk over a bamboo bridge, that was high above a waterfall. My good friend convinced me that bamboo was strong, so he jumped on it, assuring me that it was, indeed-y, tough. 

I used to have great adventures and amazing events that I’ve experienced with people I didn’t know. I once rented a motorcycle to drive through the streets of Langkawi, Malaysia. During this feat, I got lost in traffic, and along with the unorganized street patterns, the congestion of cars, my heart rate increased with panic. I ended up getting into an accident. Next thing I know, a 17 year-old girlie, with a naked baby hanging off her left boob, and a basket perfectly balanced on top of her head, came by and guided me back to my hostel. I bought her lunch and we talked about all the lovely topics that only girlies discuss.

It’s those accidental events that remain absent in my life. Unfortunately, they have become replaced with the superficial, the ignorant, and the insane. Luckily, I have the influence of friends, who are still abroad, to continue to inspire me with their wonderful endeavors. Here’s a few:

1. A girlfriend of mine just landed a job in Antarctica…I’m serious.
2. Another continent-jumper-friend of mine, has been roaming around South America, documenting the difference in ass sizes, thus becoming well-acquainted with the curvier species. Needless to say, he has joyfully, extended his stay.
3. A good buddy of mine has been flying between South Korea and Thailand for the past few years, and loving it.
4. Two girlfriends have been teaching in Guatemala for the past few years, and thoroughly enjoying their lives. 

I’ve been reading a lot about expats never wanting to return home, and there’s nothing wrong with that as their bold undertakings continue to stimulate and inspire those who dream of the world beyond the white picket fence. There’s a world to acknowledge, an earth to investigate, and these people I’ve mentioned above, are whole-heartedly, running towards something great.

Keep running towards the object of affection, the place of your dreams. Even if it’s for a few weeks, a couple of months, or several years, go for it.

If anyone tries to stop you, smile and politely, give them the middle finger, as you board the plane to your next stop. 

The Radicals Take Center Stage

"Individual commitment to a group effort - that is what makes a team work, a company work, a society work, a civilization work."

-Vince Lombardi

Question: How do you pay a debt that was impractical, to begin with?

This is the Greeks argument with the Troika. The Troika, is a slang term for the three financial institutions in charge of the EU: European Commission (EC), the International Monetary Fund (IMF), and the European Central Bank (ECB). Over 200 Billion Euro was loaned to the Greeks, by the Troika. June 2015 is the start of the first debt to the ECB.

ECB handed the Greeks a Billion (plus) Euro loan that was never used for the people. Instead, it was used against the people. Along with the borrowing came a hardship life of austerity, where public cuts were slashed, incomes diminished, and people were left penniless and hungry. Properly deeming this phase as The Greek Depression.

Things went from bad, to worse. From worse to terrible. Terrible to God-awful. More money was being borrowed from the Troika, thus creating a vicious cycle of instability.

You see, the euro is a marriage of political and economic union that will not separate. Once you’re in, there’s no leaving. Those of you who believe a Grexit is the answer, it’s not. Those who believe a transition to the drachma is an option, that isn’t possible either. If either of these became a reality, the result is: the country will diminish. Bonds will be cut; allies will be enemies, thus creating a third world. Therefore, the euro is here to stay with the Greeks having to find a way to increase the volume of money and the value of currency. How?

Alexis Tsipras, the leader of Syriza, a socialist-communist party with radical-left views, vouched for change and demanded that revision will happen. He guaranteed advancement for the younger generation. He confirmed a reversal from the financial crises we were experiencing. He vehemently expressed a declaration of assurance. The Greek people, in a state of reckless poverty, listened to a man who indicated a future of excellence. They observed the travesty the leaders before him had done, and agreed that enough was enough. They chose a different leader, a radical-leftist, to take control of the austere situation they were placed in. They voted for a man who promised a positive development in our country. Tsipras was their final attempt to end the madness.

“Greece will now move ahead with hope and reach out to Europe, and Europe is going to change,” Tsipras said. “The verdict is clear: We will bring an end to the vicious circle of austerity.”

Tsipras asks the Troika to lower the debt. Troika isn’t agreeing for there are guidelines implemented by the EU. The money that was borrowed must be returned. However, it’s unrealistic to pay back over 200 Billion Euro with the interest rate climbing and the internal revenue declining. There’s no way they can play catch up.

ECB is demanding they borrow more. The new Financial Minister, Yanis Varoufakis responds, “Bankruptcy cannot be dealt with by more borrowing.” In addition, the good-lookin worldly professor is positive to find a solution, because he is a man who is ready to, diplomatically, find resolve. “This country never had a government that was prepared to bargain.”

Maybe it does now. I don’t trust Tsipras, but I do have complete faith in Varoufakis, for he isn’t a man who barks orders. He educates a topic, explains the problem with the solution, and gains positive results.

Greece may be led by an atheist, a matter I won’t even touch, but the true resolve here lies in the hands of a man who became an “accidental economist.” Someone that the whole country agrees, will gain success by giving strength to the people and totally wiping out their humiliation.

“We will destroy the Greek oligarchy system.”

-Yanis Varoufakis

Expressions of Belly Dance

 “Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.”

-Voltaire

Belly dance is an improvised art form. This profession has a multitude of profiles, which come in a variety pack. These numerous assortments require attentiveness to detail, as well as vigilance, for the synchronization of music. It is the harmony of the rhythm that meets the body.

The most important mode is the feeling of the music. It is the way to perceive the sensitivity of the inventiveness, which is translated through the body, and brought to the people, for the people.

It is perfection.

Perfect is the absolute way to conform to a description of an ideal type. It’s a lifestyle, a culture of its own accord, for the dancers all strive to deliver a performance that is unearthly original. The classical timeliness of this stainless expression is endless. One can always move, can always sway, and can always hum the tune of the drum. However, it takes a physical absorption and consistency to perfectly deliver.

Belly dance demands strength. It is most important for the dancer to be calm in the heart and serene in the mind. If the heart and mind are connected to the music, the body will follow its desire. If the body is peaceful, then the movements will be graceful. The elegance of these refined movements is to honor womanhood, beauty. It’s timeless and filled with expression.

Tahiya Carioca, a legendary belly dancer, said Each decent Oriental dancer must express life, death, happiness, sorrow, love and anger, but above all, she must have dignity. What does she mean by this? Every dancer is trained to captivate and to inspire feeling. The dancer grounds herself to the flow of the accented and rhythmic pulses while conveying emotion, to the viewer. All of the energy that lives within the dancer, emotions and thoughts, should be placed in the function of belly dance. It is with determination and tuning into the music, that the dancer is able to implement and achieve a great performance. 

It’s not just the dancer that is highly regarded in this style. The music is the motivator for the movement. 

The instruments are crucial. They ignite the rhythms with their chemistry. It is the beat which assists the soloist dancer. This distribution praises the sounds of Egypt, Syria and Lebanon. The dancer produces the natural beauty of the Middle East, all with the help of the musicians. They follow the dancer, as the dancer pursues the music.

The exotic tunes command attention. It is the thunderous sound of the drum that escapes from the drummer’s hands, encourages adrenaline; it generates power while requiring establishment. The volume of the oud, a small guitar with a short neck and round body, shapes unique sounds with a low, warm timbre. The Egyptian harp, the qanun, the most integral part in Arabic music, has a quick modulation of sounds only achieved to temporarily rise the tuning of the strings. It lays down the law of pitch, organizing the scale for other musical forces, to feed off one another, thus impressing the dancer to accompany the beat.

  

These, and other classical pieces in the Arabic world, constitute a performance of perfection. What the musician and the dancer feel while they perform is one thing. However, for the audience, it’s an exclusive experience, connecting them to that moment, realizing that they are being brought into being, feeling, living.

To bring a person into being, that is perfection.  

Confidentiality in Love

" Tu esti pentru mine relatia necesara. Toti ceilalti sunt intamplatori."

Jean-Paul Sartre

Intimacy is strongly yearned for. It is confidence placed within affection; it is the performance of intense passion, which is defined by our animated presence.

When I meet a man I’m interested in, I wonder if he would be able to attain familiar affection.  I’d prefer to take it easy at first, absorbing each other’s skin and fitting into one another’s body. There are limitations and sex is something that takes a while, but once it flourishes, then the real challenge within the relationship, begins.

Connecting with a man of interest is my first step. I like taking the time to actually learn about a man I’m attracted to. Tell me your story, your past. I want to know who you are, who you were, how you got here. If the lines of communication are clear and each person is gradually learning about the other, then sex will be amazing. The act of declaring yourself while acknowledging your lovers self, will inevitably, grant for great love. I truly believe that.

Sex is the second most important aspect in a relationship. The way that partners enjoy their private assembly, is crucial. Excitement is necessary. Keep the lover intrigued because sex is the one, certain way for two people to solidify their love. It’s a sure step. Don’t stall; become creative and throw yourself into your lover.

Everything from rose petals on the bed to a quickie in the office’s bathroom at 2:15 pm, will inspire the craving. Promote the fascination and don’t worry too much if they like it, trust me, they do. Let your partner peel off (or rip, whichever you prefer) your clothes and grant that visual feast. People are visionary lovers and need to see bodies responding to theirs. Initiate excitement. Honey, let them in! The interest is there. Expose yourself and allow them to devour you. I assure you, your lover is totally aware of your presence and involvement. Tango is a dance for two. Sometimes more, but that’s a totally different article.

They want all of you, not a limited portion of you. All sex is agreeable but there are just some things that can’t be crossed unless specified otherwise. I know some girls that enjoy a good hair pull; other girls don’t even want that to be a consideration. Blowjobs are easy as long as the girl is in control but if the guy wants to dominate the girl’s performance, it can be most unpleasing for her. Missionary is good…for some. Leather and whips can be kinky and sexy, but freaky to the rest. Some boundaries can be crossed.

Consent and limitations are discovered as the relationship advances. Test the waters but be mindful as to how you set your limits. Don’t demand from your lover; ease them into your desires, introduce them to your likes. Identify one another. Tone sets everything; be careful as to how you direct your lover in regards to your lovemaking. It’s a sensitive subject that is somewhat bolstered by steely communication. Be clear and teach your lover how to please you. Only you know what you like. Show them.

You don’t want that person to work hard for you, so why add pressure? The key here is not to be selfish; it’s to share, to satisfy. Feed them the drive to keep going, but don’t give them reasons to stop, drop, and bounce. The importance here is that he/she feels they have all of you as it is just as necessary for you to feel the same. Give permission for them to soak you in. They’ll taste all of you by swimming into your character and bathing in your skin.

As a woman, I realize that a lover will ultimately own our bodies. Grab our curves, embrace the passion. It’s intimacy. It’s the feeling of mouth on skin, breath of words, pleasure and entitlement. A woman’s body becomes an obsession, a possession, and vice versa. Own my body and please it, praise it, do what you will to keep me around, have me stay in your bed until the weekend is over. Build the excitement.

Create the relationship and make it memorable. It doesn’t have to last forever.

Garden Identity

A garden is a grand teacher. It teaches patience and careful watchfulness; it teaches industry and thrift; above all, it teaches entire trust.

Gertrude Jekyll

My parents used to have a garden in the backyard. This bit of earth was designed as their personal heaven. Nothing could interrupt the chemistry that existed in our land.

 

During the fall and winter, it was an empty dirt box. No life, no aromas, just cold and bare. During the spring, I witnessed my parents breathing life into it again, sorting out the seeds and planting their harvest. Their Earthbox was in constant, flourishing motion filled with a multitude of fresh fruits and vegetables.

It was their private Greek Oasis.

Their backyard held flowers of various colors and sizes, emitting fragrances that not even the sweetest perfume could chemically carry. My mother decorated the house with her flowers and gave them away to friends so their luscious scents could fill their homes. They had fruit trees that decorated our backyard. Pear trees, apple trees, fig trees and orange trees. My father gently observed their leaves, their bark, and the fruit blooming. He would pull his chair from the patio and sit with them, checking their physique, double and triple reviewing if they were healthy.  

           

Eggplants, tomatoes, scallions, lettuce, cucumbers, onions, cantaloupe, watermelon...my parents’ hard work was a large part of our family dinners. Any interruption to mama and baba’s daily production would cause a great upset to them both. For instance, the heavens would be cursed if any of the vagabond rabbits would eat their wonderland of production. Should the insects assist in the decay of my father’s romaine lettuce, his vengeful act was the equivalent to God and the devil joining hands. If the worms found homes in his pears, my mother was quick to use her dominant energy to evict them. They equally raised hell if anything, or anyone, touched their summertime love.

Gardening wasn’t just a project. This cultivation was cherished, valued time that was shared together. This designed their unison by actively pursuing a scheme that only they understood. My father would rush home from work, change into his gardening clothes, and grab my mother so they can spend hours conditioning their beloved ground. They sweat their love into the earth.

The reason my parents began their garden was to remind each other of their personal goals. It was crucial for them to remember that all things take struggle: the Earth, their children, their lives. All things. Together, they eliminated the dust from the terrain by establishing the beauty of their land for people they mostly care for. It’s a promise of love and deliverance.

They made their garden exist for purpose. That ambition was greatly valued, for it created their sector and presented their cultural love. Every seed represented determination. With every dig, their initiative gained prosperity. Those fruitful missions breathed accomplishment to their intentions. They targeted their objectives by marking their own land with a firm togetherness by habitually working on their progress. They moved together to rectify any messes that were created, remedying any disturbances in unison, while never being alone.

Mama & Baba's solid field identified their harmony within each other, within themselves. Their marriage was defined by those months of planting and harvesting. Their love was deeply rooted into their Earth, dreaming of their Ionian Sea, but were glad to be standing together in unison, on their own shores.

Shouldn’t we all be so proud to work on something for ourselves, to better who we are, and to maintain our identities through our projects? In the end, it’s the love that matters. You and your partner are what matter as you both perform collectively. Together, you gather the materials to make sure that success is met. The condition of unity greatly magnifies that there is something much larger than the self, than mere selfish acts. It’s all about the love and where the love is going.

How will it get there? How will you accomplish the discovery of that identifying love?

Take a hint from my parents. They found it in their garden.

Rak & Roll

“Dance is the hidden language of the soul.”

-Martha Graham

The psychology behind belly dance comes from the fear of what the public, or family, might say. More importantly, it’s what your fears will say: Will I fall? What if I don’t hear the music change? Am I keeping time with the drummer? Am I on the balls of my feet? Am I sucking it in enough? Oh God, please don’t let the safety pin come undone and OOPS my bra falls to the ground and my tits are out in the open!! Do I look alright? Keep smiling! 

Fears are endless, but the performance goes on. 

Belly dancing is an art form all on its own. Serenity is the goal to accomplish while performing with grace and elegance. The purpose is to capture and hold the eye of the beholder during the moment that counts. Pose with a smile. Slowly undulate and move the body in a way that states I’m comfortable with my presence. Are you? 

There is pain one feels from the bottom of the jaw straight to the bottom of the feet. There is a soreness that is only relieved with rest and a nice massage. Your feet get used to dancing with splinters, which are later removed from your director, sister, or trusty friend. This is done because there is a deep love built within and around the foundation of Belly Dance. 

Starting out in this world is easier than maintaining it. I started for the love, for the intrigue, to feel different and absolute. My first class was amazing. I loved the days that I attended the studio and scheduled my life around the pounding music, the sweat, and the insight I was relatively gaining with each session. After a few months of dancing, the director asked me to perform as one of the greatest belly dancers, Fifi Abdou, in a show titled Legends. Fifi Abdou is a great dancer who did things her way, for her people, for her country. Legends is a tribute to all the great mothers of Belly dance. 

The first month of rehearsals increased. Class times increased. Nerves increased. Weight decreased. Practice, research, performances, the calm and peace consume the body while the mind operates without any thoughts of consequences, anxieties, or caution. We were learning to feed satisfaction to the audience, giving them heart, giving them soul. While the dancer feeds the pleasure principle to the viewer, at the same time, the dancer is feeding herself her personal pleasure platter: 

That wonderful feeling of completion.  Accomplishment. Triumph. In Yo Face! 

Legends was going to start and we were given the song, Ya Manga, to learn our choreography. We were practicing, practicing, practicing and it didn’t matter how much practice you put in, the nerves were still jumpin, jumpin. The first week leading up to the show, my senses were a jambalaya of excitement and fear. I couldn’t snap out of it. I was breathing, sleeping, and eating Belly Dance. 

I listened to Ya Manga ad nauseum. I was annoying everyone around me with my singing, chanting the moves, and muttering the steps to myself. Every chance I could, I embraced it with dedication to my solo. My meditation consisted of and envisioned each moment, which foot I was starting with, how I would move in time with the music, when and how I was going to walk down the stairs, to the center of the floor and to include the audience. These were essential for me to go over, to remember what, exactly, I was doing. I had a much bigger purpose here. I was not only representing myself. I was representing the ladies I was dancing with. Most important of all, I was representing my director, who seen everything in me, in us. Pressure? Nope, none. Not at all. What does that word even mean? Pressure? Ppppfffftttt. 

I was scared out of my mind! 

The night of the show came and finally, my obsession practicing could settle. I was standing in the dressing room, waiting for our memories to begin. The other dancers were already familiar with the process of performing. I was not. My heart was beating wildly, my mind was forgetting certainties, and my body and mind couldn’t keep still. Another dancer, who was newer than I was, felt the same amount of antsiness as I. Puking at that point would have been some form of relief, yet I don’t think it would have accomplished anything other than ruining my red lipstick and tangling my wig. 

The moment of memory-building began once I heard the familiar notes of the accordion beginning the road to Ya Manga. I have obsessively attached myself to those same notes for a month, so there was no way in hell, on Earth, or in heaven, that I was ever going to miss those notes. The moment was ours. My eyes directed to my equal, we smiled and I muttered Show time.  

The famous belly dancers procession of that night is as follows:

1.      Samiya Gamal

2.      Tahiya Carioca

3.      Suheir Zaki

4.      Nagwa Fouad

5.      Fifi Abdo

The ladies wait backstage and, as each famous belly dancer is called, the lady playing the part of said dancer, appears on stage to dance as the legend she is honorably portraying. She begins on the stage, makes her way to the ground floor where the audience is, performs around their tables, greets the people, makes her way back to the stage and presents the next legend. 

My legend was last. 

As I waited, I said a quick prayer asking God to do me a solid and have something take over, something to grab me so I can rightfully represent the ladies, my legend, myself. I needed a quick fix. You would too if you had 2 pairs of spanks on. The previous dancer was finishing which meant my time was coming and the quick fix was nowhere to be seen. There wasn’t a hole in the ground to devour me, and the natural disaster that I was praying to wreak havoc through Chicago at that moment hadn’t occurred. I walked up the stairs, offstage, and, like a volatile basket-case, I shakily waited. 

The dancer portraying Nagwa Fouad had finished and the singer sang the lyrics to introduce Fifi Abdou. He looked right at me, grinned from ear-to-ear and smiled. That smile meant: Rak N Roll, you’re gonna be great! As he sang Fifi Abdou, a pop sensation snapped within me and effectively took control of my body. Tunnel vision. I moved the way I rehearsed, I danced the way my director wanted me to, I didn’t hear the music, didn’t hear the cheering or the clapping, didn’t see the cameras flashing, for I was unconditionally focused on benefiting myself, the ladies, the legends, my director, and the audience. Spiritually, I was accompanying the music, performing with a specific condition and successive rhythm. I bowed once I finished. 

This psychological effect was entirely heavenly. An out-of-body experience. I can’t explain it. 

Humility, ability and skill are needed in the world of dance. Even if the skill is lacking, act as though you yourself created it and demand the attention of the onlookers. It’s important to perform with fulfillment and a conclusion: I will rock tonight! All the hard work that the team has put in together cannot be degenerated or spit upon. It’s a group effort, a relationship amongst the musicians, dancers and the audience. As dancers, there is a valuable importance to enforce ethics in a market such as belly dance, to prevent chaos, to create harmony with the self, and finally, so the audience can feel what the dancer is invigorating.

Worst Bosses & Their Teachings

(Old Man) You need to have values in this company.

(Me)…You don’t pay me enough to have values in your company.

-Maria Dionisia

That’s what I said to the last awful boss I had.

I used to work for a worthless company I call Old Man & The Wig. They enjoyed being vicious to their customers and regularly mistreated their staff.

My boss was deemed as Old Man, because, well, he was. I named his wife The Wig because her hair never moved.

The Wig was a confused person who knew how to start trouble, but acted innocently. She would take a look at a customer’s file, foul-up the account, thus wreaking havoc in the other departments. Once the file landed in our laps, we would fight amongst ourselves, tried to make sense of how it was ruined, until one of us realized The Wig jumbled up the account. When this was brought to her attention, Old Man would vehemently state that we were there to fix her mistakes.

She irresponsibly left any customer’s banking information out in the open. Disregarded their privacy and didn’t pay attention to securing any of their identities. She created violations in their files and sent them to collections. She tricked her clients into thinking that the business was financially secure. It wasn’t.

Old Man walked around as though he was a tough, sonuvabitch from the South Side. Really, he was a heart attack waiting to happen; barking ridiculous orders at his staff, punching walls, throwing papers in the air, etc. Not a healthy environment. How could it be? The office was a direct reflection of how angry his life was.

I continued to clean up the mess and kept silent. I never reported them; I was too focused on leaving. When my wish was granted, I sent the Old Man a text that Monday morning, saying that I’d rather waitress and serve juice-heads than work for his old ass and irresponsible wife.

They taught me to be honest in business, not careless. However, their bitterness did not compare to the first awful boss I’ve ever had the misery of working with.

I used to work for The Devil’s Daughter.

She was bold, savvy, intelligent and I foolishly believed that with her guidance, I was going to succeed. She was the perfect trainer with a firm grasp on business. Her primary love was money and the finer things in life. She had fancy cars, fancy shoes, fancy clothes, and fancy language, to buy you into her world. I was bought. We all were. Manipulation is a skill.  She didn’t care about work/life balance because she didn’t have one due to her extreme disconnect from reality.

I worked one winter with The Devil’s Daughter. The snowstorms that brewed around Chicago that year, were horrendous. Schools and businesses were closed due to the intense weather conditions. The cold ripped through the skin, filled the lungs with icy air, which prevented people from leaving their homes. Especially to drive.

Chicago highways are ruthless during the snowy months, as they are packed with cautious drivers, hidden potholes, black ice and limited visibility. Our roads are bad enough, and with a snowstorm surrounding the work commute, my time would be better spent getting a bikini wax by a blind man.

Chicago was warned of a blizzard that was going to attack the city. The day the snow storm began, I tried to call off from work. Her response: It’s just water. When I had gotten to work, the rest of the office had called off which further ignited her rage: Why are people freaking out?! It’s just water! By 2:00 p.m. 2 feet of snow had blanketed the city. By 3:00 p.m. I was told I could leave work and to text her when I made it home. But don’t disturb me past 9 p.m. Due to the Chicago drivers going at 5 miles per hour and trying to survive against winds and snow, I made it safely home by 10 p.m.

She would hold paychecks if she felt they weren't deserved. She screamed at people for trying to have a life outside of work, and was incapable of understanding that people don’t go to work when they have the flu.

When I gave my two-weeks notice, her rage had increased and I was mistreated for the remainder of my sentence. My last day there, she had a co-worker place two trash bags behind my car, which indicated that I had one final task to complete. A task that was meant to humiliate me.

I walked over to my car, knowing I had to load it with her garbage, drive around the back of the building, to discard it.

Instead, I ran it over. I ran over the mistreatment bosses give to their employees. I barreled through the impossible work/life balance that people desperately try to have. I charged through the notions of companies saying: Rely on us to design your future.

What they should be saying: We will teach you, to rely on yourself, to design your own future.

I wasn’t going to let The Devil’s Daughter, Old Man and The Wig, or anyone else for that matter, create drama all because of ego. Running over the trash was my way of kicking through those obstacles that have tried to prevent me from achieving what I want.

Update: My current boss is a great person and 

I would gladly take out his rubbish any day of the week.