Our gov’t shouldn’t be making billions of dollars by drowning our students in debt #BankonStudents
Our gov’t shouldn’t be making billions of dollars by drowning our students in debt #BankonStudents
Anonymous asked: 121
Ugh, which one?
GB1: I wasn’t really old enough for this presidency, and I’m not schooled in history or politics thoroughly enough to state solid facts. I think he bought his sons some nice political posts and told them that, like all nice rich white dudes, they could have whatever they want. Mostly true, but America can stop raising brats any day now.
GWB: an entitled draft dodging rich white boy jackass who allowed some seriously evil motherfuckers to try their hand at destroying our nation. They did a pretty good job of that. I’m sure he’s a nice enough human being, and Laura seems lovely, but I have no respect for him or his presidency. The things he did and allowed his cronies to do are unconscionable. I am not opposed to The Hague trying him as a war criminal.
the creepiest cats of ok cupid
you should message me if u will let me put my butthole right in ur face.
The last picture I have of Millie is of her talking to a stray cat.
It was a late October night. She was working “the spot,” a shuttered loading dock on an industrial street where I had first met her over a year before. Always shy, this night she was quieter than usual. She spoke to the ground, her voice a soft mumble of English and Spanish, a tight smile on her face. Always fashionable, she was dressed as if headed for a nightclub with small iron-on stars running the length of her pant seam.
We made small talk before she asked for a favor. Could I drive her to her mother’s place? She was tired and cold. Her body was sore from withdrawal. She hadn’t been scoring much.
Before she got into the car she bent over and whispered to the dirty cat. What she said, I don’t know.
Another prostitute had previously spoken to the cat, “You a good boy. We ain’t that different really, out here with nobody to care for us. We get by though.”
Millie’s body language said the same, although she would never voice it. She was not one for talking about herself or ever wanting pity.
Before leaving Hunts Point she asked to stop by 13-14, the notorious drug building, to buy methadone. I declined, citing time. We drove five miles away, to a small nursing home in the shadow of the Cross Bronx. Millie disappeared inside, unsure if her mother would accept her.
That was the last I ever saw of her.
Millie was seen in Hunts Point two months later in the local Laundromat, just before Christmas. Ana, as she has for over five years, opened the bathroom of the Tub and Tumble so Millie could clean up. Mille soon fell asleep in one of chairs next to the spinning dryers. Awoken, Millie asked Ana to call an ambulance.
She was taken to Lincoln Hospital, where she died on the night of January 6.
Yafna Garcia aged 41: The 97th death in the Bronx in 2013.
The hospital, having no information on her family, moved her body to the morgue, where she laid unclaimed as #97.
Unclaimed by her birth mother who still might be in their native Puerto Rico, or maybe in the Bronx.
Unclaimed by the mother in the Bronx nursing home, the one who raised her after her birth mother fell into the haze of drugs.
Unclaimed by a man who had lived with her birth mother and died of HIV. Maybe that was her father. There were so many men who spent so little time.
Unclaimed by one of the thirteen sisters or brothers who share a mother, but rarely a father, or were raised in the same house.
Unclaimed by her street husband, “Pooty,” the father of two or three of her children, who is now in a Franklin Correctional Facility near the Canadian border serving the end of a two-year sentence for criminal possession of a controlled substance.
Unclaimed by any of her four children, the oldest nineteen, the youngest just one, all in foster homes after being taken from her sisters.
Unclaimed by any of the other addicts of Hunts Point. Her “sisters, aunts, brothers, uncles, and mothers.” They were all busy scrambling for enough money to buy their daily dose of drugs. They couldn’t look for her anyway; few had homes much less computers or phones. Rumors were their internet.
Millie’s initial absence barely registered on the streets of Hunts Point. She often disappeared for weeks. Months passed and rumors started to fill the void. They wrapped around the obvious candidate: The massive abscess that covered her left forearm. The one she hid beneath a bandana. An infection that started from shooting up and grew with picking. “She died from an amputation gone wrong.” No, “She died from infection from maggots.”
By March, one of the thirteen siblings, an older sister, appeared at the Tub & Tumble looking to raise money for a funeral. She had learned of the death after looking for Millie in the public hospitals, something she did every now and again.
A different sister, this one younger, showed up two weeks later also looking to raise money and trying to piece together exactly what had happened. They both needed legal proof of their kinship to get her body.
The body, however, was no longer at the hospital. Sometime in the middle of January it had been shipped to the City Medical Examiner’s office for autopsy and holding, as all unclaimed bodies in New York are.
Case #97 of the Bronx Medical Examiner. Cause of Death: Bacterial Endocarditis of tricuspid valve due to intravenous drug abuse.
This information had not made it back to either Millie’s family or friends. In early April they still continued to talk of raising money for a funeral. That was not going to happen. Millie was already buried.
On March 21, Millie’s body was shipped from the Medical Examiner to Hart Island, the city-run cemetery.
Inmates from Rikers Island placed her body in a wooden box made by other inmates. She was placed in a massive trench joining roughly 860,000 others that lay beneath an empty field on a small island two miles from the shores of the Bronx.
Many of her siblings do not know she is dead. Those who do know don’t realize they cannot bury Millie on their terms. It is unlikely they will ever be able to pay their last respects. Hart Island is run by the Department of Corrections and clouded in security and secrecy. It is close to impossible to visit. Family, after showing many documents, can fill out paperwork and hope. If they are accepted they can only get to the island via a ferry that leaves once a month. Her grave is unmarked: They wouldn’t be able to find it, anyway.
I started to tell her friends on the streets.
“What? I thought she died of maggots?” I tried to read a note from a doctor friend of mine, “Skin bacteria gets introduced via injection into arm veins and are carried back to the heart. They stick on the tricuspid valve (endocarditis). The bacteria on the valve then grow into a clot and subsequently shower the rest of the body, brain, kidneys, lungs, and joints.“
In the end I said, “Her heart caught the same infection that was on her arm.”
Pepsi cried, not just for the death, but because, “they buried her like a stray dog. I hope to God and pray that I don’t get treated like that. Please, I want the decency to be buried by those who love me.”
Another talked of the constant fear of ending up like Millie, buried in Hart Island. “I had gotten ten bags of great shit. I knew it was all going in me and that it could end that night. So I wrote my father’s phone number in marker on my stomach before shooting up for the paramedics to see.”
Michael cried, cleared his eyes, and looked at me. “Honestly? I know she is in a much better place than we are.”
Everybody fears telling her husband, if he ever comes back after prison. He was with Millie the January night just over a year ago when she injected herself with heroin and crack after six months of being clean. She was seven months pregnant and within one hour she was in labor. The child, her last, was born premature and is now with the state.
The sisters, the ones who know, are still hoping for a funeral. Hoping to get the death certificate and perhaps custody of the two younger children. They miss her. “She was my older sister and raised me. When she moved from Puerto Rico to the Bronx at nineteen I had nobody. When I came to the Bronx she had this awful addiction but she still was the only one I could ever go to. She often had nothing. Nothing, but she managed to help me and give to me.”
Last summer Millie was working her usual spot on a Sunday afternoon. She was sitting with Mary Alice on the ledge of the loading dock. They were telling stories of what the men who paid them wanted, laughing at the absurd requests.
I asked Millie and Mary Alice what they wanted. Mary Alice worked through a dream of rehabilitation and redemption.
Millie was her usual quiet, shy self. I had to prod her to answer the question. She smiled, “I want my kids back. I know it probably won’t happen. Still, if I get them back it means I will be clean and I hope that happens. I am tired of this life. Tired. You can only do this so long. We say it doesn’t hurt. It does.”
She looked down, picking at her bright green leggings. She lifted her head and with a big smile said, “Oh and also one of them chocolate-dipped cones from McDonald’s. I love them. You can turn them upside down and they don’t drip.”
More on addiction and Hunts Point: Faces of Addiction
Basically, the answer to all emails I get today is, “Yes.”
The Natalie Cole Pandora station was the right choice today.
Helms-Deep asked some questions of the internet yesterday, and I really quite enjoyed them so I’m going to try to answer them for a bit of fun.
They came with caveats, though:
Always post the rules. (check)
Answer the questions of the person who tagged you and write 11 new questions. (check and eh…I’m rull bad at making up questions, just answer these, they’re good.)
Tag 11 new people and link them to the post. Let them know you tagged them. (look, if you want to do it, awesome, but I’m not into forcing anyone.)
Rules above and yadda yadda.
1. Describe your dream vacation.
I usually find vacations are packed with itineraries and baggage limits, and thus it takes me at least as long as the vacation was to get over being BACK from vacation. SO, two versions of an ideal vacation: a beach for days with plenty of water and sunblock and alcohol and books and no work calls and no family visits; a wine tour of Italy with absolutely no schedule. Also: lots of books. No TV. Just great wine and great food and great art with my great boyfriend.
(Why aren’t there more Because I Said So gifs so I can put Mandy Moore here screaming, “And I Don’t! Say great too much!”)
2. If the TARDIS landed on your front yard: Which Doctor would you hope would jump out, and where would you ask him to take you (time, place)?
Not Applicable? I’m sorry.
3. What’s your favorite dessert?
The best dessert I ever had was a chocolate cake from Moshulu. My mom and sister each ordered it and proceeded to melt into their seats while making sex noises. I thought they were faking their joy, but they weren’t. It was unbelievable.
Everyday, though, I’d say something like s’mores or Ghiradelli Dark Chocolate brownies. Always good.
4. What album or artist do you most enjoy listening to when you are feeling melancholy?
I don’t do this often anymore, but when I was younger I really enjoyed Michelle Branch. I haven’t been melancholy in a bit, so… still Michelle Branch? I am unsure.
5. What is one art form (painting, poetry, whatever) that you would like to either try or get better at?
I am terrible at all art, so while I wish I could paint or write, what I love best (it gives me chills and brings tears to my eyes) is playing music (that someone like Mozart or Bach or John Phillips Sousa wrote). I’d like to get back into playing piano and the flute and be able to do that really well. I love making music.
6.Your house is burning down? Your friends/roommates/family/pets have all made it out safely, and you have time to grab 3 things before the entire place is engulfed in flames. What do you grab?
To be practical, I’ll say “purse,” because that has all my documents and money in it, so that’s a one-stop shop for having an identity and a way to pay for stuff. I have a little pewter castle with a crystal on top for a spire (glued on a couple of times after all these years) that I got when we went to Mount Rushmore and Bishop Castle when I was really little. I’ve always loved it the most. How many books would count as one object? I guess I’d run upstairs and grab the one book on my shelves that caught me at that moment, if I can’t take them all. Wait! No! I’d grab my laptop so I could blog and talk to you guys.
7. What is the best and worst piece of advice anyone has ever given you, and who was it that gave you this advice?
My mom has given me more bad advice than I can even recall. I would guess the WORST advice she gave me was when I only applied to one college: Mount Holyoke, early admission. I was adamant (and an asshole who didn’t understand money and private colleges), but she let me do it and told me we could make the financing work. We couldn’t. She should have forced me to apply to state schools and take the free ride my grades and test scores would have afforded me.
I think the best advice (that I’ve taken) came from the internet generally… and that’s that it’s ok (no matter what family and friends say) to cut negative people from your life and not feel guilty about it. Toxic relationships are poisonous, even if they’re with your mom and even if you really love her. People don’t change, and you have to be able to let them go if all they do is bring you down and hurt you.
Also my boyfriend is a whiz with budgeting and saving, and he has pretty much changed my bank account with his advice. One of those…
8. Name a movie you were super pumped to go see, but once you saw it and were leaving the theater, you found yourself thoroughly disappointed. Oh, and to make this more difficult, it can’t be Star Wars Episodes 1-3 (Phantom Menace, Attack of the Clones, Revenge of the Jedi).
“leaving the theater” kind of kills this, because I hardly ever see movies in a theater. I’m not sure I can answer this… I will keep thinking.
(I’ve kept thinking and I don’t know. I don’t watch a lot of movies, so I usually only see good things on purpose.)
(Most of my friends didn’t like HP5, though…)
9. Name a movie or a book that you weren’t that excited to see or read, but once you started it, you found yourself completely consumed by it and it became one of your favorites.
I guess I would say “Some Like It Hot” (and/or any Marilyn Monroe movie). My HS English teacher was obsessed with it, my sister became obsessed with it, and I just didn’t buy into it… I finally saw it several years ago, and I absolutely love it. I can rewatch it anytime.
10. I’m coming to your city to visit. Name the 3 must-see or must-do things that we will be enjoying while I’m there.
That would depend on you. If it were my mom coming to visit, we’d go to a history museum or a battlefield and we’d both cry because we can put outselves in those situations, and envisioning a valley covered in dead soldiers gets us to sobbing. Then we’d go to the Library of Congress so she can use her LoC library card that tickles her pink. And then we’d see a show at the Kennedy Center and struggle not to sing and dance along. If it were my sister, we’d hit up the National Portrait Gallery, a local winery, and we’d try to find a show of Les Mis or one of her other favorites. I’d probably drag you for miles along the National Mall to see all the monuments (Lincoln, Jefferson, Washington, WWII, Vietnam, FDR, etc), then take you to a spinning bar at the Doubletree in Arlington to watch the cityscape at sunset, and then to a show (folk/bluegrass hopefully) at the Birchmere, because I fucking love that place.
11. What fictional character from literature, popular fiction, film, or TV do you feel like you relate to most and why?
I’m not really sure I could name one… I am very much a Hermoine Granger, though I get a little less know-it-all I-must-win with every day in a cubicle as my soul dies. I feel very attached to Temperance Brennan, and I’m not quite as gorgeous or socially awkward (not quite but close), but I WISH I could rule my lab and my world and do whatever I want while writing best-selling books and making millions. If Ally McBeal were still around and I were still dating, I’d probably say Ally McBeal. She was my favorite when I was a young thing because she was so neurotic.
With this cicada business, I feel like the 8 year old boy at summer camp who carries around a little toad to try to scare the girls. “Look! Haha!”
I am stuck in stand still traffic on my way to CVS to pick up my Xanax.
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