Welcome to the Baht Life

Last night, I was inspired by a friend’s blog post, in which he declared he was going to live for ten days in Washington DC on one hundred dollars. It may sound like a good chunk of money, but after living in the city last fall, I know that a hundred dollars hardly gets you half way through the week.

A year after leaving DC, I have relocated to Southern Thailand, where money goes a lot further (which is great, since you make a lot less). With a week until pay day, and less than a hundred dollars to my name, I decided to copy his idea.

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I am starting with 2,365 baht, which is the equivalent to 79.38 USD. I will track my week, from Sunday to Monday (eight days), and document the ways that I spend money and live my life on less than eighty dollars. I chose eight days because his goal is to show how you can live on ten dollars a day, and I would like to offer the same, except from the life of someone living abroad.

To be fair, my fridge has a loaf of bread, some sandwich meat, and a drawer full of fresh fruit and a few vegetables. My motorbike has a half tank of gas, and my water jug is empty. Living in a country where the water is not safe to drink means that I must constantly be either filling up water containers or buying water bottles. While water is still cheap, it adds up quickly when you’re doing it daily, and consume as much as I do.

Rent is the only expense that will not be included in this week’s budget. Just to give you an estimate of what life costs here, I rent the master in a two bedroom/ two bathroom/ fully furnished house, and pay 4,500 baht ($151) a month.

This week I will find productive and creative ways to spend my time, that allow me to avoid spending as much money as I normally would. I will avoid nicer restaurants, going out for drinks, and buying items I don’t need. To save gas I will also be making a conscious effort to walk to places I would normally use my bike to get to.

The house that I have been living in was under construction since late November, and it was only just completed in the last few days. Now that it is finished, Nick, who is wonderful  housemate, and I can make it our home. Decorating with the limited supplies we have, will provide me with a way to fill time. I will also post pictures of before and after, so you can see my Thailand home.

There is an Olympic sized pool up the street from me that I can swim in for a little more than a dollar a day, and a park down by the river, where I can lay out and spend my day reading and writing.

I am also taking inspiration from my friend’s idea to track his progress on a painting he is working on. In order to save money, he will fill some of his free time with the canvas, and hopefully complete it by the end of the week. I too will start some type of picture, whether it is a drawing or painting, and dedicate my evenings to it. I will also share the activities I plan for my students and any art projects I prepare for them.

As life so often has a funny way of working, living on a budget this week comes at an ideal time. I recently found out that the school I work for is closed the second week of February. However, my agency has mandatory on call office hours, and if we choose to be unavailable, we will be penalized a day of pay for each time. I was planning on using this week to meet up with a friend who is in Thailand, and spend the week in the islands with her. A normal weekly budget for me is around $100-$150, depending on how often I go out, or what unexpected costs arise. Saving money this week, so that I will be able to afford to take a few days off, will work out perfectly. As I mentioned earlier, I also don’t have much of a choice, since this is what I have until the 9th.

I hope you enjoy the photos of my daily life, and more so, that this inspires some of you to leave your jobs at home, and come live a life style where you can afford to live on such a small amount of money, while not living without any of the normal comforts of life as you know it.

Feel free to check out The Dandygram, and see how Trevor does this week!

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http://thedandygram.blogspot.com/2013/02/living-on-100-for-10-days.html

It will also offer an insight to how one lives in one of America’s most expensive cities, compared to life in an emerging country.

twentythree


My age does not determine a change in my life. My life is defined by everything I do between birthdays, not how much older I grow every November 28th. Turning another year older is a time to reflect on everything that has taken place since the last time this date came around. I was hoping to post before I turned 24, and have an end of my year recap, but it’s been a busy week so forgive me. I had spent a few days thinking about all the things I wanted to say, how sentimental I wanted to be. Instead I have chosen to wrap this past year up with photographs that captured my most favorite moments with my most favorite people. Twenty-three was an incredible year, and a year of unbelievable change and growth. A year filled with unimaginable day adventures and unforgettable nights.  I’ve accomplished the goals I set for myself and have gained such great satisfaction from proving to myself that anything I want is obtainable. I can sincerely say that I am entering my year of twenty-four as a confident, independent, strong minded and creative young woman. I see beauty in all things around me, and I have a wonderful circle of people who touch my life. Cheers to the year and all that lies ahead.

Turning 23

Thanksgiving in my apartment

ugly sweater Christmas party

Christmas morning at my parents house

New Years Eve in SD

Getting snowed in on our car ride back to Santa Cruz

Entering Winter Quarter/ Spring Break/ Spring Quarter….

Yosemite Trip

Bay to Breakers

Graduation and Summer

Washington DC

   

Turning 24 and closing out a great year so I can start another

A reflection on Veteran’s Day

One week ago was Veteran’s Day. I decided since I live in Washington DC I should visit Arlington Cemetery. Arlington is our nation’s cemetery for all those who have served in the armed forces, and it is where my grandfather lays. For as long as I can remember, Veteran’s Day, for me, was just another day off of school. I’d never celebrated it for what it represents, for whom it represents. Both my father and grandfather served for our country, as I’m sure so did many others in my family’s history that I am unaware of.

I am not at the top of the list of the patriotic, but I can appreciate what it means to be American. My life in America has meant the freedom of speech, freedom of expression, freedom of religion (which I choose not to have and no one cares, it doesn’t matter), equal rights, a good education, being raised in a family that can support me because they enjoyed the same privileges I do. I understand this is not the same for every American. Growing up in America, for me, has never meant growing up as the 1%. I don’t need to be in the 1% to enjoy every amazing opportunity that has been presented. I have been given so much. I’ve never struggled. I’ve never needed. I’ve never been hungry, homeless. Living a good life in America does not mean existing in this percentage that people have made out to be the mega monster capitalists of the world. I’ve never even thought about those who have so much more than I do, because I’ve always had enough.

Focus. I am getting off topic.

To be an American, means that I appreciate that there are people who are willing to risk their lives for my freedom. People my age who die so that I may live.  People who sacrifice their own opportunity at college, so that they can protect the freedoms that are guaranteed to me in the Constitution and Bill of Rights. I don’t agree with many of our country’s policies, foreign and domestic, but our country’s policies are not what Veteran’s Day is celebrating. It honors those who have dedicated their lives to protect a country. A country that I can live in and where I can freely express my opinions. They fight for my freedom of speech- so that I can say, “I fucking hate that we’re fighting other nations. I fucking hate the act of war. War is disgusting and destructive and it’s pathetic that this is the best solution the so called ‘smartest creature on earth’ can come up with.” Veteran’s Day is about individuals. It’s not about war. It’s not about America. It’s not about democracy. It’s about people.

The range of emotions that I experienced those hours spent at Arlington were so scattered. It was as if a child dropped a bag of rubber balls. Every ball representing a different emotion. Bouncing off into a different direction. A scattered spectrum. I felt Pride. Anger. Privilege. Guilt. Despair. Happiness. Confusion….. But most of all, I felt sadness. Rock bottom sadness.

After visiting my grandfather’s grave, I walked over to the area that was designated for all those who have lost their lives since 2001.  Row after row after row of graves marked for people who should be alive. People who were a year older than me. People who were younger than my little brother. Row after row after row. Mounds of fresh dirt. Lives lost so recently grass hasn’t had time to grow, head stones haven’t been made. This is my generation. They don’t belong in the ground.

Parents sat before their children’s graves, posted up in folding lawn chairs, scarves, mittens and blankets in their lap, braving the crisp cold Virginia morning air, to spend Veteran’s Day with their sons and daughters. I saw one father wiping down his son’s grave, while his wife rearranged the flowers at the base.

While walking through a grave yard as massive as Arlington it’s easy to be overcome by the sheer size of it. The perfectly aligned rows of polished white stone. Each with the same lettering engraved upon the face. The exact measured distance between each row. It’s so overwhelming. So impersonal at moments. You forget that bodies separate each row. Thousands and thousands of people lay beneath the earth you walk on. A sense of distance is created in a graveyard when you walk though the rows, and you think of the people as those whose lives have passed. Those who have been under the ground long enough for their body to be reclaimed by the same earth that gave it everything it needed to live. But when you see that fresh mound of dirt, the one where no grass grows, the distance collapses. This is new. This just happened. Someone just lost the person they love most in this world.  The presence of the parents, distance collapses. These soldiers are children. They have mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. They’re not just soldiers. They’re not just faceless men at war, fighting in a far off land. A land you and I talk about, read about, which only exists for us in college lecture halls, on the tv, the internet. A place so fucking familiar, yet you and I will never go there. We’ll never know.

It really hit me in those moments that those gravestones aren’t just names and dates. They’re your neighbor, your best friend, your girlfriend, your fiancé. Your child. Your child. Your CHILD.  I kept coming back to the fact that all these graves were children. When I say child I don’t mean in the sense of a little kid. In the eyes of their parents, these were their children. It was the presence of all the parents that hurt my heart. It destroys the rule of nature, of decency, of logic, of everything that should be right in this world, to know that a parent buries their child. That a parent feels the pain of losing who they created. That’s not fucking right. Ever.

Seeing parents hug one another, comfort each other on this national day of loss, created that feeling within me. That one really heavy feeling that starts behind your belly button, and rises with pressure up through your chest, shoving against your rib cage, jamming itself against the bottom of your throat until that lump rises. Until tears flow. I kept trying to swallow, to resist the temptation to cry over people I had never met. Never would meet.

After wandering by myself for a bit I met back up with my friend who was speaking with a woman. I approached them and I heard her ask him to make a toast. She pulled out a Dixie cup, poured me a shot of Crown Royal, and we toasted to her son. I didn’t say anything. Language failed me. I couldn’t open my lips. Within minutes of meeting her I was choking back tears. They toasted to James, and then she told us the story of who he was, where he was, how he died. All of the details.  The pain in her story was unlike anything I’d ever heard. The words she used to describe how amazing, brave, talented, intelligent and missed her son was. She said he knew he was going to lose his life. How he called her and told her he felt it was going to happen soon and he just wanted to come home and never return again. How when it happened, in his last moments of life, he was still giving commands, making sure that those he lead and those who were hurt were taken care of. The story of someone’s loss, a mother’s loss, was unbearable. Her confession that things haven’t been right since. She hasn’t been the same and nothing makes sense. She doesn’t make sense to herself anymore. What it means to lose your child.

I had resisted writing about this for the past week because I didn’t know how. I didn’t know where to begin. The most important thing she told me was that her son asked her that if he were to die, that she would make sure that he was never forgotten. “Just remember me.” That he would continue to live in people’s memories.

I am not going to retell the details she told me. Her sharing of his life is something that will remain forever stored in my own memory. Rather, I’m sharing my experience with you, and the pictures, because it allows us to share a common, if general knowledge. A knowledge of lives lost. Children gone. For you and I. War is fucking awful and dirty and it takes people away from one another. It erases individuals who should be here. Be present. That is Veteran’s Day. Not forgetting.

“To generalize about war is like generalizing about peace. Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. At its core, perhaps, war is just another name for death, and yet any soldier will tell you, if he tells the truth, that proximity to death beings with it a corresponding proximity to life. After a firefight, there is always the immense pleasure of aliveness. All around you things are purely living, and you are among them, and the aliveness makes you tremble. You feel an intense, out-of-the-skin awareness of your living self- your truest self, the human being you want to be and then become by the force of wanting it. In the midst of evil you want to be a good man. You want decency. You want justice and courtesy and human concord, things you never knew you wanted. Though it’s odd, you’re never more alive than when you’re almost dead. You recognize what’s valuable. Freshly, as if for the first time, you love what’s best in yourself and in the world, all that might be lost. You are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, but now is not.”

a bike through Georgetown and my obsession with Fall

today I decided to take advantage of the beautiful weather DC has been blessed with, and explore a different area than I have been in. I rode all the way down M street, until it hit the Potomac river, and then I bike along the river for miles.

My Bike and I

I love anytime that I stumble across any type of artwork in this city.

On the other side of this bridge is where the most amazing bike trail began. I couldn’t believe I just happened to find it. My luck.

Picture perfect day.

The tips of Georgetown University

If only….

Concrete jungle where dreams are….

On Friday I got a text message from one of my favorite people. It read “im calling you later, I’ll be on the bus to NY.” I Reply,  “I want to go to NY this weekend!” And that, was that. The beginning of one of the greatest weekends I have had and will have while on the East Coast. Sitting in my office and frantically searching websites to buy my megabus ticket felt like a race against the clock. Uncertain about how many seats were left, where to leave from, and how fast I could get there after work got my heart racing. Excitement pumping through every vein. I’d never been to New York and being as obsessed as I am with cities and  nightlife and everything that is urban I was in total freak out mode.

By midnight I was there.

I had no idea what to expect and how large to expect things to be. I knew I’d see buildings bigger than anything that had ever entered my life, and lights that stretched forever. When the city came into view I literally lost my breath. The buildings glittered against the backdrop of the night sky. It glowed. It was the most amazing creation by man. Every color twinkled to compose the New York skyline. At first I saw it from afar, and the size of it was incredible. As the bus made its way into the maze of towers, buildings reached higher than I could even see from my window seat. One after another after another. You know that moment in your life when everything you’ve seen prior just doesn’t measure up anymore. When the past is run over with the present. That’s the moment that I collided with at full speed. I’ve known beaches. I’ve known beach towns. I’ve known suburbs. I’ve know small cities. I’ve know Targets, boutiques, taco shops, beauty parlors, surf shops, golf courses, petsmarts, schools composed of portable trailers. I was utterly unprepared for arrival. For cement that never ended in every direction. For architecture that challenged gravity. For lights that never dimmed. For noise that never ceased.

The first night was girl talk. Wine in huge glasses. Candle light. Catching up. Stories of Boston, The District, New York. We’ve all been out of college since June. We all live on the East Coast. The last time I was with the two of them together was December 31. Down Town San Diego. It’s hard to fathom how much can change in a year. Not even that long.

Both girls I spent the weekend with are amazing. I know no one like them. No one so in control. So on top. They are fiece. Driven. Intelligent. Beautiful. So talented in ways that I envy.  It was like we were the new Sex In The City… minus the sex. Fashion. Art. Late nights. Wine. Amazing food. Location better than Hollywood could create. Oh to be young. Carefree with a weekend where we were exempt from all responsibilities. Where we gave hugs and kisses to reality and said goodbye. Sent it on its way.

The first night ended around 7 am. That’s when it seemed appropriate to make our way into a bed that was constructed perfectly to fit us. I’d like to take full credit for keeping them up that late/ early.

A few hours later, when we finally decided the bed was no longer big enough for the three of us, sometime around 11 that morning, we got up, showered, walked through Brooklyn,

got incredible coffee,

and wandered the high line, eating our New York bagles.






From the highline we managed our way back to the metro only to be spit out at the MOMA. Our destination. Exhibit after exhibit. Artists I loved.

Artists I’d never heard about.




Artists I could care less about.

Art is weird. Its so…. Personal. I say this because while I can fall so deeply with some pieces, others I can walk right past. Zero interest. And it’s always uncomfortable when you know you are standing before the works of one of the greatest artists, acting like you’re totally interested and engaged, but you’re not. Your just staring. And your mind is wandering, and like two magnets pulling together your thoughts keep focusing on…

“ I could do this.”

Yes. You probably could. As could I. But I guess the significance is they did it first. They did it at a time when no one else had. But jesus- does that change the fact that the entire canvas is just two squiggly lines in different colors, and I’m supposed to stand before it and wet my pants, and oogle about how its just so amazing and I’ve never seen anything like it before. “OH, Dawwling, isn’t this just the greatest. Oh My it’s just so, so, exquisite. I’m so cultured. I’m such an art critic. I can even read the French names.”

Its just color. That’s it. He is just a name. We are just observers. Many. Many. Many years later.

So, de Kooning.

Like I was saying. I saw incredible art. I spend the day with incredible people. The MOMA in itself is a work of art. Architecture has gained a new appreciation in my heart since living here.





After the MOMA we enjoyed cocktails in SoHo at the cutest pub. Corner window seat. Irish accents to my right. Good beer. Good food. Good company.

From there we found ourselves at a table, in a Brooklyn apartment, owned by the one and only. We met shot after shot with lime, and in between our tequila we sipped coffee. How New York can we be?

Our tequila was mixed with home made music videos and more pictures than I know what to do with. It was the most fun. After months of not seeing one of my best friends I realized how much I missed her. Being able to be around people who know the core you. Who really know how weird you can act. You want to see you act weird. Who get to that weird weird place with you. That’s her. That was all of us. She is my muffin. I am her sugar moneky. We get stupid.



When we left the house we went to one of Brooklyn’s friends, and killed time before going out out. He entertained us with music, while she acted as his backup singer/ dancer and put a huge smile on my face. I spent the whole weekend in the best of company. The most beautiful of company. Inside and out. Oh and by the way…Mr. Madison…. Check out his video. He is talented. Boy has got flavor. Go.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=itVxj76lfhQ

After adventures at clubs that would never exists anywhere other that New York, where we had bottle service (cough cough) I found myself alone with my Boston.




Sometime circa 4 am? Where the rest of the group is will always remain a mystery. We went to catch a metro and amazingly we found our way home. Not without getting what I guess was breakfast, sometime around 5am. And making a video, around the same time. Looking through my phone on Monday on my way to work and finding a video of us on my phone, singing and acting super silly while waiting for the NY subway was the greatest gift ever. We are the worst. We were beyond entertaining to watch. That night we laughed. We cried. We spooned. We were us.

I woke up to Boston yelling at me about an alarm that wasn’t mine. At some point during the night New York had ended up in bed with us, although I know she was crashed on the couch when we got home. Oh, the mysteries of the night.

Miss. Boston was adamant about going to breakfast before she had to leave the city, so somehow we made it across the street, and had an amazing Cuban brunch. Sunglasses never coming off. It was one of those mornings. You know you’ve had them. The mornings where it seems safest to stand at a distance from society.  We sat in the farthest corner, and it was probably for the best. For all parties involved. The night before we had been our biggest fans. That morning it seemed as if really we were our own worst enemies.

I’m over exaggerating. It wasn’t THAT bad. Plus, the food was amazing. Afterwards we wandered the neighborhood, and then crawled back into bed and laughed while recalling the nights events.


And to talk about memories from our past lives. Our lives from Vista. There is something so charming about being able to talk about memories that you’ve shared. That we can make fun of the same schools we’re gone to. That we had the same teachers in high school. That we can laugh about watching the same people progress or digress via their facebook statuses. Its all so silly, but its sharing that common knowledge. That common bond that there was something before this. That our lives didn’t begin here, where we are currently at. The last time we saw one another was New Years, and now here we are, all on the East Coast. All hung over in a bed. All young professionals. Them more than myself. But I’m getting there.

Until my bus left that evening I napped and watched really crappy movies with my Brooklyn love. When I left her place I explored the Union Square area of New York and the surrounding streets. At 7 on Sunday night I got back on megabus and headed toward my home, DC.



Arriving back in DC meant that I had to return to reality. But as I walked through Union Station, my first time seeing it and being inside, and exiting it only to be greeted by warm night air and the glow of the Capitol rotunda, I realized I have a pretty damn good reality. I have a killer internship. I live in the nation’s capitol, a place that people from all over the world come to visit. I live in one of the nicest areas of DC. I am surrounded by talented, fun, good hearted people. And most of all, I enjoy every day of my life. Every day gets better. Every day is filled with something new. If I need a vacation from this reality, I can’t even imagine what the real reality must be like. Life is fucking good. We shall close with that.

A midweek gift.

Wednesdays are my midweek weekend. I have to be in class for a few hours, but I don’t have to go to my internship. Wednesdays are the day that I explore the city, and spend some time alone. In a week filled with people and responsibilities and time lines and places to be, it is my day for me. After having a week or two of east coast winter weather, in Fall, it was just my luck to have a day of sunshine and light breeze. I decided to walk the city, explore some streets I’d never been on, and wander my way to the Hirshhorn art museum. I listened to all the Air albums on my giant headphones and spent my day in the company of modern art, architecture, and a sculpture garden. I ended my day with a bike ride all throughout the neighborhood streets of DC, and dinner in Chinatown with a new friend. It was absolutely perfect and a total success of a day. Enjoy my pictures, and definitely make time to have a day for yourself.

 

 

um…. what

 

 

 

The next shots are from the top of the tower of the old post office. Incredible view of all of the District. All directions. Breathtaking.

 

 

this is the building I was standing in front of before I went into the tower. See the second picture in the series.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The elevator that I rode to the top….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sculpture Garden…

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

Andy Warhol

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shadows. Reflections. And Entering The Art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And now a few from my walk there…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

is this when winter begins?

Today I went to go meet with a girl about a room I might rent. My current lease is up in December and I don’t know what my next plans are, so I figured I should start meeting with people about housing. The neighborhood I went to check out was amazing. Brick paved paths, trees that dripped over the side walk, their branches reaching for the townhouses. Every place has a tiny porch and about 7 steps leading up to it. Plus, the neighborhood is in the heart of one of the coolest areas of DC. Everything about the situation seemed right. The girl who I met is a freelance writer, shes a year older than me, the other roommates have small dogs, and the place had a good vibe to it. I don’t know that I’ll get it, or that I’m definitly going to stay here, but it felt right.

On my way home it stated to snow, and it wasn’t long until snow was pouring down on me. Walking in the snow with an umbrella. That was a first for me. I was drenching wet by the time I got home, about forty five minutes later, but the walk was so charming. The snow blowing in every which way direction and the brick buildings were meant for one another. The pictures don’t begin to do it justice.

(note the goat)

watermelon house : )

Dear little Allie…..

It’s always weird when a child decides they are going to have a stare down with you. I should rephrase. When a child decides they are simply going to stare at you. For as long as they please.

There is this girl on the metro. I don’t know- maybe eight, give or take a year. I would assume old enough to have introspective thoughts, or at least in the most basic form. I think. Shes old enough to be starring at me and probably thinking about me.

Am I seriously being analyzed by a kid right now? Am I seriously analyzing the situation of a kid analyzing me? Oh god, I am…..

…..I looked up and met her eyes and gave her a smile and then looked back down at my ipod. Shuffling to another song. Distracting myself.

I look back up and shes still starring at me. No expression. Just a stare. Wide eyed. Gaze set on me. What on earth could this kid be thinking about. Just starring at me, her mind running.

A part of me feels awkward under the relentless eyes of this child. Another part admires the part that she hasn’t learned to be coy yet. To have social manners. To understand that you just don’t stare at someone for minutes on end. Especially a stranger. There are so many things that children haven’t learned yet. I start to wonder if starring at someone is something you are ever told not to do, or if its one of those things you just learn as you get older? Not everything we learn as we grow up our parents tell us, nor do our teachers. Some things I suppose we just learn from observing others.

What was I like when I was this girls age?

I remember being really curious. Always wanting to experiment. Always wanting to write everything down that I did or saw. Not that much has changed.

I remember being fascinated with those who were older than me too. I remember being fascinated with the idea of one day having my own place, being able to cook myself whatever I wanted to eat for dinner, being able to drive myself wherever I wanted to go that day, having a job where I got money. Now that I have all these grown up advantages I don’t really want them any more. Isn’t that how it goes? Being a young adult and having unlimited freedom and no one to tell you what to do isn’t half bad, but being a kid was so nice. It was so carefree. I remember days where all I had to do was entertain myself. No responsibilities, no where to be. Just hanging out.

The pain of the world was still hidden. You haven’t begun to question your purpose in life. No one you know has died. You haven’t experienced heart brake. The problems of your parents aren’t something you think about when your mind wanders. Theres no what ifs, time spent wondering what could have been. You don’t have to plan ahead. You don’t have obligations, priorities, things that would cause you any stress at all. Remember when you didn’t know what stress felt like??? When you’re a kid there aren’t sleepless nights. There are nightmares and your parents bed to crawl into. When you’re a kid you don’t think about what others think of you. They either like you or don’t. and when they don’t, end of story. There isn’t a self reflection of why that would be.

Complexity is just- non existent.

Remember when the only thing you regretted was not staying out later on Halloween so that you could get even more candy?

Remember when you could eat all of your Halloween candy in a sitting, and you’d still feel good afterwards?

Being a kid is sweet. Very very sweet. I wish I could forewarn my childhood self of the attachments that come with being a young adult.  I wish I could tell eight year old Allie that life is good, don’t be in such a rush to grow up.

A stare from a child got my mind racing all over the past. What on earth is she thinking about as she continues to stare?

saw this and thought it was clever

We’re going to be “gifted” with a health care plan we are forced to purchase,

and fined if we don’t,

which purpostly covers at least ten million more people,

without adding a single new doctor,

but provides for 16,000 new IRS agents,

written by a committee whose chairman says he doesn’t understand it,

passed by a congress that didn’t read it but exempted themselves from it,

and signed by a president who smokes,

with fuding administer by a treasury chief who didn’t pay his taxes,

for which we’ll be taxed for four years before any benefits take effect,

by a govenrmnet which has already bankrupted social security and medicare,

all to be overseen by a surgeon general who is obese,

and finanacied by a country that is broke.

What could possibly go wrong?