PERSONAL: WHY CHOOSE ME AMONG OTHER?

Why choose me among so many men? First of all, because I am real.My intentions are sincere and honest, I am not here to find a plan Q, live a short-term relationship or without next day! I am not here to sell the dream.I am just an ordinary man who is looking for his woman here. I am not a prince, or a perfect man, not a top model, only myself, a man with the qualities and faults. I like to which I like! I would like to make a beautiful meeting, I want to love, of complicity, of desire, to share and exchange, to build, to base a life of two We will take the time to discover us and to dial our history

The woman I’m looking for is all about “going with the flow.” She is a woman who knows what she wants in life and has learned how to ask for it. Intelligent, attractive (both physically and mentally), and confident, she would capture my attention right away. As soon as we started to talk though,or text, and we would both “just know.” The connections could not be ignored and the risk would be well worth the effort. Honest, fun-loving and adventurous, this is a woman who would become the “best friend” I couldn’t see myself without!

Since the “Cliff Notes” version of me can’t tell the whole story, the better scenario is to email me so we can start getting to know each other and then take it from there. Who knows? A grand adventure may be about to begin-but unit I hear from you, we are missing out on all the fun!

ARTICLE: ‘I made a statistical game out of dating’: could I crack the formula for love? BY Dina Nayeri

I am a math nerd. “A maths nerd,” my partner corrects me, because we live in London now. Fine. I love puzzles and formulae and bullet-pointed plans. I’ve spent many a winter morning with a steaming cup of tea and an Excel file. I don’t often make major forecasting errors, but I’m in the middle of my life’s biggest miscalculation.

Until I was eight, in 1987, I lived in Isfahan, Iran, in a big, warm family of science and maths types. I had a bike and a best friend and my own calculator. I loved a boy named Ali Mansouri. But then my mother was jailed for converting to Christianity and, when she was temporarily released, we had to escape Iran. Before you could calculate the probability of losing every toy and friend and photo, it was gone, favourite calculator and all. We were in a refugee hostel in Dubai and then in Rome. And then two years had passed and I was the foreign kid in early 1990s Oklahoma. Every subject was foreign to me: English, Oklahoma history, the topography of who knows what. But one subject hadn’t changed; in fact, in this one area, I was ahead of everyone else. In maths, I shone. I could do a sheet of 100 multiplications in less than a minute.

At 12, when I started to feel our poverty, I asked my mother how much money an average person needed not to stay awake all night, punching my calculator. She said, flatly, $5,000 a month. Sixty thousand a year, I thought. I went to a library and looked at average income levels. I learned that to make that much right out of college, I had to get into an east coast university (I had yet to learn about the regional cost of living). Screw this life, I thought. I’m going to live comfortably. I had the grades, but back then it wasn’t so marketable to be an Iranian refugee: even trying felt like a risk.

The university guides said I needed sports. I needed a national championship. I calculated the probability of winning trophies in the sports I loved: tennis and swimming. Other girls loved those, too. Wealthy Oklahoma suburbs were teeming with country-club girls who had way more practice and nicer rackets than me. I needed a sport that bent to my juvenile analytics: a sport with trophies handed out by weight levels, age levels, belt levels. A sport that didn’t attract rich girls with trainers. So I signed up for taekwondo.

I dropped 20lb, put in five hours of practice a day alongside the boys. I counted calories, fat grams, the hours on the Stairmaster. At 13% body fat, I stopped menstruating and won a national championship.

At Princeton, I decided to find a boyfriend. I had never had one, never been kissed, never had sex. I made a secret chart of the boys I knew. I quickly threw it away, ashamed of myself. I hated the entitled rich boys. I didn’t want another financial aid kid – the probability of poverty was too high. I was planning to go into finance or consulting, so I joined a business organisation and met an awkward boy with a kind heart who loved my OCD and the way I counted on my fingers. He wasn’t hungry like me; he was enjoying his life. So I gave him some of my hunger, that missing ingredient, and he thrived. We married and bought a canal house in Amsterdam. He grew handsome and ambitious. He had rows of wooden shoe racks and the most beautiful suits.

I followed the numbers to New York, to McKinsey & Co, and he came, too. My life was perfect on paper, an immigrant girl’s fantasy: the midtown consulting job, the apartment, the husband. We made way more than $5,000 a month. In one of our earliest photos, we’re both in Brooks Brothers trench coats, leaning on a Princeton umbrella and sporting his-and-hers corporate haircuts. A friend said, “That’s the yuppiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Then I went to Harvard Business School; we made a plan for our lives. He would have the low-beta career and I the high-beta (beta being the finance term for risk and potential reward). We actually did the maths for this.

I remember thinking, 'If I date him, there’s an 80% chance I’ll get a weird infection'

Through the years, I’ve had periods when something snaps. When I turn deaf to the data and do something crazy, because I crave joy, creativity, a jolt. It happens every decade or so. In 2011, it happened. I became a writer. We divorced.

I moved back to New York and made a statistical game out of dating. I downloaded a few dating apps and quickly figured out which had the best men: the best apps centred on photos. After all, I had undergone enough institutional brainwashing to be able to weed out, from a few snaps, the cultured, educated ones from the ones who were faking. I learned that a hat means he’s bald, no smile means bad teeth, grainy pictures means lying about age. From photos, I could figure out their travel smarts, their creativity, insularity, intelligence level, and even education and political bent. Believe it or not, something as simple as a baseball cap, choice of sunglasses or favourite sport is enough accurately to differentiate (on an aggregate level, at least) a midwestern Republican bible-thumper on a two-year work stint in New York from a pro-choice, dual citizen who makes his own bechamel sauce and reads Sebald.

In two years, I had many high-quality boyfriends, ones who scored well by every known metric. And, as predicted by my personal algorithm, I went on roughly 12 dates per eventual boyfriend. Once, I segmented the population of Iranian-American men into four categories and devised a plan to date one from each kind. The experiment effortlessly settled the question: “Should you be with an Iranian?” The answer was no.

As a rule, I wasted no time. I had a tight schedule. I had many pretty dresses. I kept my body fat next to nothing. Sometimes, I accompanied friends to freeze their eggs. I considered it, but in the end I believed in my eggs. Throughout all this, I found my way into a decent writing career. At 35, I had it together again.

Then, out of nowhere, chaos.

***

I met Sam, not on a Tinder date, but at a writer’s colony. He was English, divorced, 39, jobless. His shirts were full of holes. He hadn’t cut his hair in six months and washed it maybe every two weeks; it was a crazy curly mess that reminded me of Sideshow Bob from the Simpsons. Back in New York, I was dating a handsome Mexican businessman who fit all the criteria. A low-beta career, love of travel, a sense of humour. But, suddenly, I found myself falling for the unwashed writer, and I was confused. I actually remember thinking, “If I date him, there’s an 80% chance I’ll get a weird infection.”

Over many meals, I learned that Sam had spent the last year wandering from residency to residency, writing a novel about a Vichy demographer so devoted to his work that he didn’t stop to think maybe he shouldn’t be calculating census numbers for the Nazis. Now, he was on trial for crimes against humanity.

“So you’re claiming that he did it mostly for the love of the census?” I said.

“Right,” Sam said. “Culpability is a complex thing.”

“I think he’s guilty,” I said, surprising myself. “Maths is just a tool. You have to care about the thing you’re calculating.”

Silently, I did the forecasts on Sam: he wouldn’t make a dime for years. But I loved his novel. He lent me The Reader. He lent me Stoner. We walked in the woods. I stopped crunching the numbers. Slowly, I fell for his distractedness, his wandering, the life he had scattered in three storage spaces. He loved my OCD and the way I counted on my fingers. He called me Rain Man.

“How much do you love me?” I asked.

“There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned,” he said.

Screw that, I thought. Everything can be measured, even love. If it was a job, I’d be amazing at it. I should be a yenta.

Sometimes, Sam watched me do puzzles. He read me short stories as I slept.

Then, at some point between a history in French demography and a night with the works of Annie Dillard, my once-a-decade insanity came early and I got pregnant.

Soon, every sphere of my life, once neatly rolled skeins arranged in a basket, unravelled into one big tangled mess. Early in the summer, early in our relationship and also in our pregnancy, Sam and I decided to leave New York and start over. “Let’s wander!” we said, delirious with our news, with our brand new romance, each of us seeing in the other a strange twist on the qualities we had always chased in others.


We drifted to a tiny French village with a population of 3,000 geriatrics who dipped their toes in the fountain in front of the local restaurant, spoke only fast, accented French, and tested positive for toxoplasmosis at alarmingly high rates. Within three months, I’d dismantled my life and landed inside my own worst nightmare.

But we also relished our aimlessness. We plunged into the pregnancy, thinking that we could build a world around our unborn baby, caring for her, feeding her, monitoring her heartbeat. We looked at her sonogram: her big ears and the way she touched the wall of my uterus. Sam cooked me exceptional French dishes every night. Friends delivered American vitamins to France. Sam read my writing. I read his.

Unable to make sense of my new life, I slowly went feral. When I got too big to shave my legs, Sam offered to do it, but I decided just to stop. When I got a yeast infection and didn’t want to drive to the doctor, he stepped up with a bowl of yoghurt and a turkey baster. He cooked gingery salmon. He cooked a daube full of lamb. He cooked sour sauces to assuage my cravings. I devoured them all with my fingers.

“This isn’t the life I imagined,” I said.

“I know, love,” he said.

Fingers shaking, I sank my teeth into chicken thighs, gnawing to the bone.

***

To preserve a sense of my own space, I turned to geometry. I created a perimeter: my suitcase, my backpack with my laptop and work stuff, a big leather purse of important documents. I put them in a corner of the room and closed off that corner. I said, “Sam, this corner is mine. Don’t move it or touch it.” I figured, everything that surrounds me can change – we can move down the road or to another country – but in every place I’ll have this square metre that’s mine.

Each morning, I woke in a stifling 500-year-old room, a constellation of mosquito bites covering my feet and calves, every tooth threatening to fall out as I struggled against a half-conscious panic attack. It always took me a few seconds to recognise the shock of black curls on the pillow beside me, the gentle English accent: “What’s wrong, love?”

My first thought: “I don’t have an address any more, or a phone. We’re in a town with no maternity store and I’m wearing your boxers and I’ve known you for 10 months.”

I counted on my fingers:

Probability of relationship failing and becoming a single mother: 60%

Probability that current lonely feeling is caused by hormones: 90%

Probability that that cheese I ate earlier in the market was unpasteurised and carrying The Tox: 99% (I returned again and again to have my blood tested).

How trifling and small they seemed now, my formulae and aspirations and plans

I wanted my charts and my formulae back. I wanted something to strive for. Twelve dates equals new boyfriend. Two months in a colony equals a book draft. It wasn’t just the indignities of impending motherhood or having to forfeit all the carefree bliss of early romance: Sam was a stranger to me. Would my child be a stranger, too? And what did this turn of events say about the way I had lived my life so far? Was it all for nothing, all that calculating, all that striving?

Worst yet, had I chosen wrong? I spent a month trying to find a formula for Sam. His unwashed hair (that smelled so nice), the scattershot holes around the collar of his T-shirt (the softest shirt I’ve worn), the way he took five minutes to get out a sentence (oh, but what sentences!). I remembered the day his parents had come to Heathrow to pick me up three months earlier. They didn’t know my face – I knew theirs because they were each identical to Sam in unrelated ways: his mother had his curls and his long, angular face; his father had his expressive eyes and aquiline nose. I watched them scanning the crowd, confusion blanching their cheeks, for several long beats before I approached them. What were they thinking? Who was this woman their son had brought home? In what configurations would our genes meld together to create a new person?

One morning, I woke up soaking wet. I had sweated through the sheets and the stress was giving me acid reflux. “I have no plan,” I murmured into the pillow.

“We can make a plan,” Sam said.

“You look terrible on paper,” I said.

“But we don’t live on paper,” he said.

“We’re living out of a suitcase,” I said. “Do you know how much stuff we need? We need a stroller and car seat and diapers and burp cloths and a changing station and 10,000 other things. There are a dozen vaccines and two dozen signs of meningitis to memorise, and allergens and baby cribs. Do we put her on her back or on her front? Should we have life insurance and godparents? How will we build a whole life?”

“It’ll build itself,” he said. “Have a little trust.”

But the universe gave me data so I don’t have to trust. Often, I wonder about the ratio of chaos and order that would equal a happy life. Clearly, I wasn’t satisfied in a life of diversified betas and shoe racks all aligned. But going feral almost broke me. Is life only chaos or an ordered game of averages? Should I welcome it and its beautiful wildness, or fight to rein it in? So far, all I know is that my life has been a constant act of letting go, of changing what I need to survive, recalibrating the perimeter.

After France, we built a life slowly. We moved again, and once more after that. We bought a changing station. We chose godparents. We borrowed a car seat. Suddenly, we were surrounded by aunts, uncles, cousins. We inherited bundles of baby clothes. We had the funniest, cleverest girl (there is no comparing). It came together by itself. No, Elena brought it together. How did she do it, with her little hands?

A few months ago, I stumbled on a piece of paper from 2014. It was labelled, “My five-year plan”. It was full of silly goals: publish second novel, finish third novel, decorate apartment, find community, read 50 books a year. Reading it, I missed my old self. I wanted to edit it, to make a new list, to build a predictive model of my future, and Sam’s, and Elena’s. Where had this vital part of my identity gone? Without it, I was no longer entirely me.

And yet it was frightening what I had left off. Where was my Elena? How trifling and small they seemed now, my formulae and aspirations and plans.

I looked again at the page, the unfamiliar language of it. I kept thinking, without my deviations and the screw-ups, the probability of Elena would be zero.

POETRY: ONCE UPON A TIME....YOU AND I LOVED

If you merely knew the sorrow I felt,
All those nights without you, all those nights watching the candle melt..
Tonight, tonight will be nothing more than a dream, unreal,
A dream where I find the courage to tell you how I feel.

There's so much I want to tell you,
So much I want to say, if you only knew.
Every night I pray and pray that you feel the same about me,
Cause deep down I know we're meant to be.

Your eyes are so dark and mystical, as the black of the night
A man can get lost in them and never find his way back.
Your lips are so red the roses green with envy
Your smile is so warm and pleasant
that even heaven thinks with spite... this could not be.

Nothing on the earth is as soft as you're gentle skin,
Your hair is so full of life when it dances with the wind.
I can feel your wonder as you walk into the room,
I can hear your voice that's as sweet as a mid-summer?s bloom.

Your kindness can bring a man such wonderful bliss,
A sweetness like yours is like an unforgettable first kiss.
I'll be there to share your pain and cry by your side,
But, most of all I'll be your friend, someone in whom you can confide.

In a dream I embrace you under the romance of the moonlight,
As we kiss and let ecstasy take over the starlit night.
I wake up the next morning  seeing the most wondrous sight,
As dusk passed over I revealed it was you while we dined by candlelight.

Yet, this is nothing more than a lover's fantasy,
Conjured up by my yearning heart at a quarter past three.
I lie down as I cry your name into the forsaken night,
Hoping you?ll show up and be my saving light.

My fondness for you isn't something new,
I fell in love the first time I laid my eyes on you.
In time my desire grew and grew,
Into a passion unconditional, honest and true.

Open your heart and let your feelings show,
Cause I just can't bring myself to let you go.
Take me as I am, take my dying heart,
And save it before it breaks and falls apart.

And that's all there is to say,
The endless night has ended,
And tomorrow is but a moment away.

The sun will rise and the birds will chirp anew,
Dawn will break and my never-ending quest will continue,
As I build enough courage and find it in my heart to say,

"My darling, I love you."




PART 2


The softness of you
Engulfs my every want care or worry
-moreover,
Now, is mostly meaningful
For memory's sake.
It's your absence that I
Embrace.

The sweet look on your God-perfect
Lips-as they encrypt their
Brand on the inner recesses of
My mind with subtle kisses,
A most unkindly kind.

Filtered sunlight prances it's way upon
The folds of her hair,
And our communication is perfect
In the muted form,
It's the sweet silent speech
Of timeless time.
 
I sink in slowly,
Floating on these rays of light
Where even with my eyes closed
It's bright.
Closest to her in dark light,
She haunts my mind in the
Midsts of the night-
As I fade out of sight.




PART 3

My angel... so full of warmth.
Take me in your loving arms.
Wrap your wings around me and protect me from the cold.

My angel... so full of love.
Take me in your heart and protect me from hurt.

My angel... so full of light.
Take me in your soul and guide the way to true happiness.

My angel... I ask these of thee and in return...
My angel... I will take you in my arms
And protect you from the cold.

I will take you into the deepest depths of my heart
And protect you from hurt.
I will take you into my soul and guide your way to true happiness.
My angel... above all else, I will love thee for eternity.



PART 4


Your eyes are like the sun's rays,
That dance upon the sea.
They make me want to hold you, touch you,
When they look at me.

Your lips, so full and tender,
I yearn for their gentle touch.
I can't wait until ours reunite,
As they dance to the rhythm of our love.

I long for your arms to hold me,
To make me feel so safe and secure.
I could lay in your arms forever,
And listen as my heart beats with yours.

There are so many feelings, emotions,
That I cannot express.
But maybe someday soon,
They can be physically addressed.



PART 5

I found out what my heart was hiding behind its very walls.
It was a dream; one that I wanted to be true.

It wandered in from nowhere, I knew not where it came from.
So when I found it standing there, I cried out for sheer joy.

The dream, it kept me happy, I treated it bad.
So, then one day it walked away, out of my heart forever.

Have you seem my dream?
Oh, I forgot. . . it's you.




PART 6

Once upon a time
In a land far away,
You and I loved 
Yet in a different way.
For we have always been together
In more than just this life,
And will be forever
Now that you are my wife.

Because soulmates are made
For eternity,
To love and to cherish
Just you and me.

Now should you get mad
At something I might do,
Just remember that I love you
And that you love me too!

JOURNAL: TODAY MARKS THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY SINCE MY DAD PASSED AWAY

I hate this day. It's been one year since my Dad passed away. I still remember kissing his head before leaving and telling him I loved him

This past year has been very difficult for me. It doesn’t seem to be getting easier. I had expected it would. I thought time heals. It hasn’t; at least not yet.  I miss him more than I could ever describe. I’ve probably already said this in a previous post: it feels like I have a phantom limb. It feels like a part of me has been amputated but the rest of my body will not acknowledge its absence. I know he’s there. I just know it. But then I look for him and he’s gone. It’s a horrible horrible feeling. 

I’ve learned a deeper compassion for people in pain.
I’ve learned how much you can hurt and still hold it together on the surface.
I’ve learned that old memories returning are like surprise packages from Heaven.
I’ve learned that death will challenge your faith in ways you never imagined.
I’ve learned that you’d gladly trade everything you own for thirty more seconds with them.
I’ve learned to resent strangers who have their fathers and grandfathers, and no empty chairs at the holidays.
I’ve learned that on some days, though not suicidal, you’ll wish you could die just to see them again.
I’ve learned that even though good people try to help, you ultimately have to grieve alone.
I’ve learned that no matter how old you are you never stop needing your Daddy.
I’ve learned the horrible accuracy of all those clichés about how we never have enough time with people we love, about how there are no ordinary days, and about the paper-thin fragility of life.
I’ve learned that death just sucks, and that any other spin on it is just a valiant but failing effort to make lemonade out of some really bitter fruit.

But mostly I’ve learned just how big a hole someone can leave in your life; how massive a gap there is when they’re gone, and how we all fill that space for someone.

I LOVE YOU DAD

ARTICLE: President Obama's $400,000 speaking fees reveal what few want to admit BY Steven W Thrasher (WHAT A BIG DISAPPOINTMENT)

The reason many of us have been critical of Barack Obama’s outrageous $400,000 speaking fee is that it robs us of a fantasy: that sooner or later, the first black president was going to use his considerable powers, in or out of office, to help the economic ravages of the poor, who are disproportionately black.

That Obama’s project was or ever would be racial and economic justice was always a dream – and the sooner we let go of this and recognize Obama for who he is and what he does, the better we’ll all be.

Some people who disagree with me believe I am racist for not lauding Obama’s right to cash in on the presidency the same way the Clinton and Bush dynasties have. I will never deny the representational and psychological value of having had Obama in the Oval Office and his beautiful black family living in the White House. I always liked the guy immensely, even as I’ve criticized the politician.

But when it comes to the economics of systemic racism, I don’t think anyone should earn $400,000 an hour, and I certainly don’t worry about criticizing black people also earning that obscene sum. I’m much more concerned with factors of economic racism such as why white people have 12 times the wealth of black people; why black families would need to work 228 years to build the wealth of white families; why the median wealth of single black women is $5 and how the economic crash of 2008 was an apocalyptic theft of wealth from black homeowners to Wall Street which was never prosecuted.

Enter President Obama. As Robert Jones Jr, the writer and creator behind Son of Baldwin, noted, it’s significant that Obama’s first big talk was to a Wall Street gathering, considering it’s “the same Wall Street that he used our money to bail out and, in return, instead of lowering our credit interest rates and raising our savings interest rates, that same Wall Street raised our credit interest rates and lowered our saving interest rates for what was the definition of ungrateful”.

 Barack Obama has a powerful voice. He shouldn't use it for paid speeches


Like so many people, when I campaigned for Obama before I was a journalist in 2008, I wanted him to take on the specific and persistent racial inequalities generated by American capitalism. I had read Dreams From My Father and hoped, once in office, this thoughtful writer about race would directly address economic racism. But the 2009 bailout, and Obama’s subsequent failure to pursue any significant prosecutions related to it, should have taught us all that racial economic justice just wasn’t Obama’s main priority.

We hoped, maybe in a second term, he’d come out swinging on systemic racism. But when Mike Brown’s killing in Ferguson ignited a rebellion, Obama looked very uncomfortable when he had to pause his Martha’s Vineyard vacation to address the ugly truths of American policing, as he did again when Brown’s killer was not even indicted. He never visited St Louis after that.

Still, some of us so desired our first black president to lead a Martin Luther King-like charge against the “giant triplets of racism, extreme materialism and militarism” that we hoped maybe, perhaps, after he left office, he’d really speak his mind. It was naive of me, but after I saw Obama speak in person about his My Brother’s Keeper initiative here in New York, I fantasized that he’d spend his days out of office working with young black people in a similar way that Jimmy Carter builds houses for Habitat for Humanity.

Instead, it seems like Obama will spend his post-presidency hauling in money as the Clintons have. I don’t believe even under the guise of philanthropy that speaking to banks helps ameliorate economic racism; it certainly doesn’t help the Democrats electorally.

Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe in his heart, Obama’s project was racial and economic justice, even if the evidence suggests otherwise. However, that was indisputably never the project of the people he hired.


Rahm Emanuel left the Obama White House to become mayor of Chicago, where he’s tried hard to bust the teachers’ unions and has presided over one of the most overtly racist police departments in the country. David Plouffe left for Uber, which is attacking the labor rights of taxi drivers the world over, while Robert Gibbs went to McDonald’s, which lobbies against an increase in the minimum wage. All of these things hurt the working poor, who are disproportionately non-white.

But the most egregious post-Obama job may have gone to Eric Holder, who returned to the very same law firm he worked at before he became Attorney General. That firm represents several banks which stole black wealth via subprime loans that then crashed the market in 2008 – none of which were prosecuted by Holder or Obama.

There isn’t a day I don’t look at 45 and wish 44 was still with us. Sometimes I think back to how my sister Sharron came home from Occidental College in the early 1980s. She was politicized about divesting from South Africa, because she’d heard one of her classmates, a young man with an afro named “Barry” , give a rousing speech about it.

My sister is now long passed, and “Barry” left the presidency just over a 100 days ago. But when he left the Oval Office for the final time – leaving it in the tiny hands of the very racist who had demanded his birth certificate – I fantasized that he’d join us on the front lines of marches, battle for the salvation of Obamacare in ingenious ways, and maybe turn up at a Black Lives Matter event.

But this was all a fantasy. The high-paid speeches were a sign that Obama’s post-presidency will, like his presidency was, be Democratic business as usual. And that means not radically altering the racial injustices of American economics.

POEM: HER LIPS ARE AS SOFT AS A ROSE

You came to me like an angel
   falling down from heaven
You covered me up with your wings
   and pulled me closer to your heart
Until I became part of your soul
There was no way out...
I didn't want out...
You protected me with every single feather
Filled me up with warmth and tenderness
A sensational feeling I have never felt before
I wanted to love you like you loved me

For once in my life I can
Say that I am in love and
No one can make me doubt it.
Love has finally found me
And cupid's arrow has
Made a direct hit.

For once in my life I can say she is
Mine and no one will be able to take
Her away from me.
This is the lady that I have 
Waited for, ever-so patiently.

For once in my life this
Is what I have been searching for 
From the time I knew that love really exists.
In my lifetime I will never
Find another love such as this.

For once in my life I have
Found someone that is special in every way.
She is like a fresh breath of Sunshine on a cold wintry day.
I am so glad that God sent Her my way.

For once in my life all my hopes and dreams
Are being fulfilled, 
it started the moment that she walked into my life.
Now that she is here there will never be any more goodbyes.

For once in my life I can raise my head up and walk proud
For her love puts me on a natural high.
There are no more dark nights since she came into my life, 
only blue skies.

For once in my life I can safely trust someone again,
In my life there has been so much heartache and pain.

She is as sweet as a Georgia Peach,
And as breathless as the
Sun that shines on a cool autumn day, 
and chases all the chills away.

Her lips are as soft as a Rose, 
and as gentle as the fresh  morning air.

She is pure as the white snow 
that covers the ground in the wintertime.
And her beauty makes you forget about all your troubles 
and leave them behind, for that is the way she is.

For once in my life I can say 
I am really happy,
For the dream I have sought is now a reality.

JOURNAL: A UPDATE ON MY EAR.

It 3 weeks since the tubes where take out. I still have the echo and pressure difference...it is better..but still there.  I developed an atrocious low frequency humming / vibration sounds in my right ear.  The only things I can attempt to compare it to would be the sound when you are inside a building and someone drives by with very loud bass in their car.  Or, I could sometimes describe it as a car running off in the distance, or someone strumming a low frequency note on a bass guitar.  It's devastating affect on my mood and sleep.  A low-frequency loud roaring sound. the noise feels like it has a throbbing pulse

low-pitched vibrating type of sound,I find that it increases when I lie on my bed - especially when I put my ears against my pillow. This makes sleeping really uncomfortable and makes me really anxious and self-aware the whole night, and I am really distressed by it. Has anyone suffered from the same thing? Does anyone have any advice?

One way I would describe it is perhaps machinery running continuously in the distance, or the rumble of a loud car exhausted in the street. I can almost 'feel' the sound in my head, its so unnerving at times especially at the moment as its been pretty bad for a few days now. I also find that sometimes it can just go away, often for a few days and then it will be back. I simply cannot understand it,

PLEASE GOD..LET MY EAR GO BACK TO NORMAL....PLEASE

JOURNAL: I HAD A TYMPANOSTOMY - A TUBE IN MY RIGHT EAR DONE.

JOURNAL: I HAD A TYMPANOSTOMY - A TUBE IN MY RIGHT EAR DONE.


So about two weeks ago, I went to my fourth ENT doctor. She is telling me that I don't have Meniere's Dx.  It is either:

1- Eustachian tube Dysfunction which ear tube would solve the problem 75% of the time.

A tympanostomy tube (also known as a grommet, T-tube, ear tube, pressure equalization tube, vent, PE tube or myringotomy tube) is a small tube inserted into the eardrum in order to keep the middle ear aerated for a prolonged period of time, and to prevent the accumulation of fluid in the middle ear.

2-Otic Migraine: is also know as Vestibular migraine. According to the Johns' Hopkins Medicine guide "Vestibular Migraine," conditions which may be confused with otic migraines include a series of small strokes, Meniere's Disease. The triggers for the otic migraine are largely food related. Red wine and dried fruit with sulfites are major migraine triggers. Foods with large amounts of caffeine such as coffee and soda must be avoided, as well as monosodium glutamate (MSG), a common component in Chinese food. Otic migraines can also be caused by too much salt in the diet, low blood sugar or a lack of sleep

I am now on a Migraine diet to avoid trigger that cause my attack

3-TMJ ( temporomandibular joint  syndrome) I will need to get a face massage done.



I got the tympanostomy done and it was hell.  The results were disastrous. I immediately had a major reduction in my ability to hear. Bass sounds were gone and low level ambient sounds were also gone. In fact my ears felt more plugged than ever and everything sounded like I was under water. Having conversations was a chore as people had to repeat themselves to me. My own voice sounded like I was hearing myself with a bad cold and not like it was coming in through the air. .Sounds like I'm underwater. When I speak, I can only hear my voice in my head, as it does when you put your fingers in both ears to speak. I cannot hear my voice 'from the outside'. Feels like my right ear is completely plugged! Everything was muffled

I waited two week and had them removed. Now it will take another few weeks for the hole in the ear to close and I am still having the same sensation. It like having a perforated ear. If i knew it was going to be like this. I wouldn't have done it. The ENT didn't tell me it was going to be like this and was telling me she does this to 6 years old all the time.

DATINGl MYTH AND TRUTH ABOUT LOVE

Myth: That relationships are always perfect (Titanic)

“If relationships were always perfect there would never be any divorce. There is no such thing as perfect – there’s good enough. Hollywood often portrays this image of perfect relationships but this can be very dangerous.  Your partner cannot be wonderful all of the time and neither can you. Sometimes things can feel perfect and it is great to have moments when things are brilliant but it does not mean there is something wrong with you or your relationship if you do not feel that way all of the time.”

Myth: You have to change your appearance to find love (Grease, She's All That)

“Changing your appearance won’t help you to find love.  If you want to change it for your own self-esteem and sense of self-worth then go for it but don’t do it for anyone else, otherwise you are making somebody else entirely responsible for the way you feel about yourself.  That may be tempting but it’s also unhealthy. Before entering into a relationship, you ideally need to like yourself enough to think you are worthy of somebody else’s love and affection. If you don’t have a good relationship with yourself, this can cause all sorts of issues, and we see evidence of this in the counselling room every day.”


Myth: An argument results in a break up and happy couples don’t argue (Notting Hill)

“Happy couples argue because they communicate: Arguing is a form of communication.  It is not about whether you fight but how you fight that is important. Agreeing to disagree sometimes, finding a compromise, and getting to a place where you understand somebody’s position even if you don’t agree with it are all positive signs.  If you find you keep on arguing more often than not or over the same issues and nothing gets resolved then you may want to consider seeking support such as counselling. Counselling with an organisation such as Relate can help you to unpick what’s not working and improve the way you communicate with one another.”

Myth: Relationships do not require work (Every Disney film)

"Love is a verb, not a noun. It’s a doing word and that’s what gets forgotten. Love isn’t just a seed you plant in the ground and watch it automatically grow. You have to tend to it. So you may think, I’ve met this wonderful person, they’re the one and that’s it. From then on it’s all plain sailing. Of course it’s not. Living with another person and managing your differences, children, job changes, house moves, that’s not going to be easy but it doesn’t mean the relationship isn’t right for you. So if you prepare for dodgy weather ahead, you’ll actually be in a much stronger position. It is important to see it as a strength, not a weakness, to work a relationship.Hollywood sells us this image that work stops once you’re with someone, that it’s all plain sailing and it’s not. In fact if your relationship doesn’t change it’s not growing."

Myth: That love is only fun and interesting when you’re in your 20s/30s (All of them apart from Something's Gotta Give)

“That wonderful feeling of headiness and crazy love doesn’t last forever but it’s often replaced with something much deeper and more conscious. A relationship that has gone on for years and had gone through difficult times can feel amazing because you know each other better and have overcome so much.  It is important to point out that you can find love at any age and that with a bit of effort, it is perfectly possible to keep things fun and interesting. Love is not the domain of the young and can happen at any time.”


Myth: ‘The one’  (The Notebook)

“The myth of the one can lead to feelings of loneliness because you are always left feeling there’s a soulmate out there and that you haven’t met them yet. This is a hideous game of hide and seek which can lead to a lot of unnecessary disappointment.  The myth of The One can also make you question whether the person you are perfectly happy with is right for you just because they don’t fit that perfect image that you have in your head. The secret is that you don’t find The One, you make The One.  There are many people who could become The One for you. But that right person only becomes the one through living with them, experiencing them and building a relationship with them.”

Myth: Sex will always be mindblowing or intensely passionate (Friends with Benefits)

“Sex might be mindblowing all the time or a lot of the time but chances are it will change and develop in the same way that a relationship changes and develops. Sex is a form of communication like any other. If the relationship is going well then that tends to be reflected in your sex life. But children, job and other stresses and illness are inevitably going to have their part to play because your sex life isn’t removed from everything else in the relationship. It’s part of it. Sometimes if a couple think they have a problem with sex what they may really need to address and look at first is the relationship. Sex can be the canary in the coal mine - the indicator all is not well between a couple. So it’s often a relationship issue rather than a sexual one. Which is why counselling may be the best option to look at first if a couple isn’t happy with their sex life.”

JOURNAL: GOOD BYE 2016 YOU WERE THE WORSE YEAR OF MY LIFE

I am so happy this year is over. It has been the worse in my entire life:

-Lost my Dad in May
-Developing Menier's Dx  R ear
-Car problem
-Home repair
-Dental work

LETTER: I PRAY FOR YOU

A love so strong, so deep, so passionate...everybody has love, without this love there would be no life. Every day you think of your love, with a heart so small and its love so big. You only have one choice, to love the one you are with. Day after day you sit and dream of all the wonderful things you have to give, but nothing comes closer to your love, the one of your dreams, the one that loves you through and through. Through thick and thin they will always be there, to guide and protect, your love, your hero, your soulmate, your forever-burning light. Your love is your life,your path to an everlasting eternity.

At the closing of the day,
A prayer for love this night I say.
A prayer for love that echoes deep,
Just a little prayer before I sleep.
"Stars above, I pray to you,
And listen close I beg you to,
That ever should I hope to find,
A love of heart, soul, and mind,
That should these things ever come to me,
Let them all treasured be.
Let nothing tear apart,
A love that should bind each heart.
And further stars, let me ask of thee,
Let this love in no question be.
For such so strong both hearts should know,
And from them both should it never go.
Let this love be as the sand and sea,
Forever in a perfect harmony.
Come this love however it may,
Darkness of night, light of day,
Right next door, or from afar,
Let me know, I pray little star.
And while I dream of the one I love,
And while you sparkle high above,
Never from me should you dismiss,
The memories of his gentle kiss.
And while I dream of someone far away,
Stars above, this I say,
Even should I die before I should wake,
Never from me this love do take.
For nothing more precious to me could you give,
Even if in heaven should I live.
So if this love, should it be real,
Keep is strong by strength of will.
And if this love, should it be illusion,
Let it go, with all due confusion.
So stars above, I pray to you,
Listen to all I've asked you to.
And when on the morrow comes the day,
I'll pray to the sun, come whatever may.
But tonight is for the moon and each star,
And little prayers said for a love afar

LOVE: APPROACHING HER FOR THE FIRST TIME

Unable to decipher the visions, the thoughts churning in my head,The cataclysm is silencing, deafening... I find myself speechless...caught in a whirlwind approaching the eye of the storm,I see her there, the peace I'm looking for...wanting to join her in that place, seeking to escape.I'm trapped in self-doubt, entrenched in a shroud of fear  Fear of the unknown,  Fear of endlessly being lost in my own captivity,  Fear of the rejection yet, it arises in me- a tumultuous upheaval burning in me- an eternal flame

I close my eyes and feel her touch,The warmth extends to the very tips,To every fraction of my body,Calming the rising tides.  I know not of words that are right,  I know not of actions that please,  I know only of the feeling I feel in me,And care not for the pleasure of the audience

They see what they want, through their tainted lenses,And I have amused them far too long
They see not what I see- when she sees right through me,They see not the indivisible connection that draws me near I cut the strings that dictate my life,Cynically forcing my every move No longer a marionette for these puppeteers.

For it lives within me,   It moves to the rhythm of my heartbeat,  It pumps and pulses through my veins,  It takes me whole...  It needs not approval nor permission,  It knows not of limitations and boundaries  It has no words to complete it's definition...indescribable, unparallel

That word, that term, that rises up from the hearts of young lovers to the tips of their tongues
Passing through their lips to the heart of another, that word, that term, so miniscule, so undeserving, un-triumphant in its attempt to describe that that is beyond all words...yet, its pacification somehow temporarily subdues.

But the grandeur, the complexity, the effortless epitome of a never-ending, ecstatic paradise
In all it's glory and pain, in all it's bitter sweet existence...It is the one thing that drives us all,
We except its occasional pangs because we are blinded by it's beauty,We are deaf to any defamations, we are caught within that which does not bare a name.

I, too, am entrapped- yet, with a challenging grin intrepidly I dive into it, prepared to sacrifice all else. Embracing it.... as I embrace her fall victim too it.... as I fall into her.Lost in it.... as I get lost in her, I mock the viewers, I mock the world

I laugh as they crumble in disbelief,
Shocked that I am self-moving,
  That I can breathe,
  That I can feel...
  That I am human.

No longer this masquerade. I pull her close, indulging in a kiss,m elting into her as the curtains close

LETTER: MY LOVE, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?

My love, where have you been? Why did you hold back the light and ignore the cry of my heart? Where you aren't, darkness is. Where you aren't, emptiness abides--Only love could fill the vacuum your absence brings. For years I've seen many gray clouds, not only at the sky, but also in my mind. My eyes have seen people tread lustful ways -- They chase dark shades and shun bright lights. Oh, I beseech thee, dearly beloved, Draw close to me and in my heart sink. Let the shining light of your love Forever be my guide. You found a way to touch my soul; You slipped into my heart. I don't know how you did it. Were you there from the start? I had felt the darkness envelope me, an endless night prevailed,Then I saw your smile before me and dawn broke again. I could not explain what had transpired, I just know I saw you and my heart opened up again.

I long to hold you, touch you. You are always on my mind. To feel your body close to me, your spirit entwined with mine. Yet I must wait, Wait awhile for you. If you knew how I feel for you, You would think me a fool. So, I will wait patiently as time slips slowly by. Someday I will hold you close to me, feel your spirit meld with mine. If you were a teardrop in my eye,For fear of losing you. I would never cry. And if the golden sun should cease to shine its light, Just one smile from you would make my whole world bright. When leaves have fallen from the trees and the sky is filled with storm, Just the thought of your gentle touch is enough to keep me warm. If only i had the courage to speak these words to you. Every one is from the heart and couldn't be more true

VIDEO: The Godfather 2' Ending Scene THIS IS THE FIRST THANKGIVING WITHOUT MY DAD ...AND THIS IS HOW I FEEL

I MISS MY DAD SO MUCH TODAY. I HAD A BREAKDOWN AT WORK.

THE FAMILY WILL NEVER BE WHOLE AGAIN..................................

VIDEO:Jimmy Fallon Blew a Chance to Date Nicole Kidman TWICE

"Dreamweaver" played -- a joke from the movie, "Wayne's World."