Superhero Kitten-Pants: A Poem

Three kittens to save, with only two hands
So he shoved the odd one down his pants.

Down from the tree, there arose a great shout
When the third one peaked its head on out.

The outcry was such, that he nearly died
For it had been in his underwear, right beside--

Though he had not technically broken the law,
He paid a price, for it wasn't declawed. 

So after all the lawsuits and legal fights,
Superheroes now wear only tights.

The Jester's Girlfriend: A Pseudo-Poem

The great burly huntress

had gallantly rescued him 

from thugs trying to steal his beautiful jester-suit.   

By all the laws of chivalry, he now belonged to her.

She told him tender things, 

such as, “I always did love smaller men; 

they’re lighter to lift and easier to discipline.”

She talked about all their strong strapping daughters, 

and wondered aloud if they would have any small and quiet sons.

While she was busy, he saw his chance to run away.

But he didn’t realize that she could track him.

Now, hanging from a snare 

in a tree by his ankle, 

he screams that he is not sorry 

and will never, ever learn his lesson.

(“Easier to discipline…?”)

She cut him down, 

but he couldn’t run away 

when she sat on him.

In the forest there is a sudden slapping sound. 

He stops screaming very abruptly.

She’s still mad at him, 

so she spanks him again and again. 

He can’t say he’s sorry loud enough.

He behaved himself from that day forward. 

Indeed, he was very agreeable. 

And she lived happily ever after…

…And now the jester can’t stop bitching about it.

(But only when she’s not around.)

Oh, yeah, and she also started a blog...

Excert From My New Book, Links, And Back Story

 

The knight sat alone, on one end of the banquet hall’s second table, lost in his own little world of thoughts and troubles. He glanced over to where the King sat, at the head of the largest table, between his two closest advisers. His long gray hair reached down towards his shoulders, cascading from the ornate crown that topped his head.

The man to his right was the knight’s superior, General Mortain, Commander of the King’s Army. To the king’s left sat the Minister of The Realm, Lord Walbrook, tax collector to the King. Weighed down by more than chain mail and armor, the knight could not eat, for he knew both men were coveting the crown.

The letter hidden near his breast - the treacherous, treasonous letter - it weighed far more than the iron mail that covered him. Why had he come here? Why had he not stayed in his safe comfortable shire, sheltered from the politics of the court?

He knew the answer: because he was a knight, raised to be honorable, and he could not simply stand by, knowing what he now knew. Another reason: he had come to save the king’s life.

But how? How could he accuse such high ranking men – lords in the King’s Court, and not get his head cut off? Why, one of them was his own superior, the very man he reported to in times of battle!

“Oh, m’lords, I wish I did not know anything,” he sighed to himself. “And my king, I wish you knew everything.”

His attention was distracted for a moment by the antics of the court jester, in his suit and hat of black and white stripes, eating off the General’s plate without being asked. The General did not seem happy about it, but it amused the king, so reluctantly he had to go along. The knight could just read his thoughts: As soon as this old man is gone, that jester’s going to get it!

Well, that would be one positive side effect, at least. He hated that jester. The little man was like a fly buzzing in his face, which would not cease. He supposed that since the smaller man was not strong enough to be a knight, all he had left was annoying people.

The Royal Idiot (the jester, not the king!) was speaking now. “And let us not forget our favorite glutton, Sir Roger!”

Roger cringed. Not now! He had enough to worry about, without having to relive his humiliations. Earlier that day he had fallen into a huge vat of beer, ruining the whole batch. He was not sure if the other knights avoided sitting next to him because they were embarrassed, or because they were mad at him for not letting them get drunk tonight. And now that horrible jester would not let him live it down!

The Fool hopped over to his table, resting his head on his hands in front of the knight. “Tell us, Honorable Sir Roger, why could you not restrain yourself until a wench poured it in a cup for you?”

The jester was looking into his eyes, and though he was not allowed to smile, the man seemed to take some evil delight in humiliating him. There was a triumph, a gleam in his eye. Was the man crazy? What had Roger done to him, anyway? He knew other knights that liked to make sport of him, but he had always left him well enough alone. Why couldn’t that hated clown at least return the favor?

This only made him more sure of his dislike for the man. He hated having him in his face. “Go away, you stupid ass,” he sneered, quiet enough for only one person to hear, “or I’ll cut your nose off.”

The jester merely cocked his head, didn’t seem to be affected by that threat in the least. He had heard it all before. All knights made threats; they were all the same to him.

“I wonder,” he said loudly as he turned away, “what is the greater shame: Sir Roger’s insatiable gluttony, or the fact that he has created the biggest chamber pot in the world!”

The entire banquet hall roared with laughter - at his expense. The jester had no limits; he pressed further, this time with a new target.

“I even saw His Majesty drinking it! Said it was the best ale he had ever tasted!” More howling and slapping the knees. The King loved it, clearly delighted to be mocked, roasted by his clever Fool.

“If I said that, I would be flogged!” Roger muttered sourly.

“But good General, do ye have to fling knights while testing out your catapults?” the Fool went on. “Why, I would have rather flung your good friend, Lord Walbrook! ‘Twould be a service to the kingdom!”

Roger couldn’t believe what the man was getting away with. And he was treated as a hero for it.

“But, Sir Fool,” the old king smiled happily, “what would I do without my advisers? How would I know what was best for the kingdom?”

“Trade that crown for a jester’s cap, and you will feel wiser instantly!” He was sharp-witted, Roger had to grant him that.

He abruptly excused himself, before his ignorant co-counter-conspirator could turn on him again. As he thought about it, he became more and more excited. ‘Twould be so easy! The kingdom would be saved!

(See The Jester, Thomas Fool, On Amazon)


When you have lived with the Jester as long as I have, you start to dream of wizards and dragons, you start saying things like "'tis" and "'twasn't," and finally, one night, you get bored and ask him to relate his memoirs to you. And once he knows you are interested, he just won't stop talking. The stories keep on coming. 'Tis like a curse.
This is my attempt to heap my own misery on the world.  Enjoy.

I Cry Myself To Sleep, Part Two

My cat had kittens, five of them. Four of them survived, but they were so small, that was almost no big deal. They grew up. My favorite, Elmo, got scared by the dog barking at her, fell off the roof, broke her back, and died right in front of me. Her anus was open like a hole, she smelled of urine, her eyes were glazed and lifeless, and her body became stiff with her head turned at an angle. I wrapped her in a towel and just sat rocking her, with her sister looking on, until my dad came home and took her away. We still have the dog that scared her. Her sister is especially bonded to me.

My horse died last February, a few weeks after my birthday. She had been my friend for eight years, and I have never met a horse that acted so much like a tame dog. She was big and white, all white, and she used to rub her head on me until I had to hold her mane for balance.

And that is all I can think of.

I assure you that all of these stories are completely true, they just look too dramatic even for me, who’s lived them. Sometimes I don’t even know, which one is it this time? Why does my heart hurt tonight?

I function all right. Most of the time I succeed in staying up until I’m too tired to think about it. Even though I know I should cry, I always find myself wondering, “When can I stop crying? When is it going to end?”

Oh yeah, I finally “lost” my religion a few years ago too. I can’t pretend to be a joyful Christian anymore. When I pray about my circumstances, I don’t feel better. The bible isn’t comforting. So I don’t try anymore. I always wished I could be divinely comforted and strengthened, but I got a rude lesson about that very early. God, apparently, ignores me. (I know, I should not think that way. Please don’t try to tell me about God, I’ve heard it all before.)

During “show and tell” in my church youth group, when I was still trying to make it work, Joey Schlabitz said “Let me guess, something died?” when it was my turn.

I said, “No, but something’s about to.” And everyone broke into huge laughter.

His words still haunt me to this day. “Let me guess, something died?”

Maybe I don’t “cry myself to sleep” every night. But even if my body isn’t crying, my heart is. I laughed a few times when I wrote this blog. I also cried, it hurt. I guess that’s how life is.

I Cry Myself To Sleep Every Night

I moved to the country with my parents when I was eleven. Then my dog died. She was old.

We had a new dog, but the cat lost her mind and attacked my new dog and my dad shot the cat. The first cat I ever had, the one I picked out from a litter that my third-grade teacher, who lived on the next street over before I moved, gave birth to. (Or maybe it was her cat…)

I had a bunny but it ran away. The meth addict neighbor bought it for me, then she released three others in her yard for her boys. She thought the horse fence would keep in something as small as a rabbit. My mom thought I put deodorant on the bunny, because of a weird misunderstanding. Dog Number Two would come in my room and eat her poop like candy (the rabbit’s, not my mom’s). Then she chewed her way out of the cage, probably had five dozen babies, and maybe got eaten by now.

Then it all started happening at once.

Meth Addict Neighbor decided she hated my mom and we couldn’t see Helpless Little Meth Baby anymore. He was almost two years old. He would run down the hill to our house and stay for a few hours, maybe every few weeks, before she realized he was missing. Sometimes his four-year-old brother would come down with him and ask for food. He would be in his underwear in wintertime too.

There was a long custody battle in which my mom testified about all the horrible stuff she (we) saw in those three years. Drunken Redneck Dad got custody of both boys, but for a long time it was agonizingly uncertain.

Cute Little Meth Baby was never ours, but we loved him and knew we could take care of him better. We still know it, and he still isn’t ours.

About the time Meth Baby was taken from us, my former horseback riding instructor died of colon cancer. She had been my first adult friend.

I had a baby wild turkey that had been abandoned by its mother in a posthole. This was right after both the baby incident and the riding teacher tragedy, and it lived twelve days. I shook it and poked it, desperately trying to make it get up, but it was too sick to move, so it just closed its eyes and died. When you’re still a kid, this is devastating. I had taken a CPR class recently and once had to “do CPR” and “clear the obstruction” when it tried to swallow a grasshopper longer than its head. I had been so proud to feed it to her, too.

Second Dog ran away, got caught in a coyote trap at the neighbor’s, and he had to “end her pain.” We didn’t find out until after the deed was done. My mom loved that dog because she killed snakes.

My neighbor across the street was moving away and he promised to give me his tiny goat, Rod. My dad, who hates goats, loved him because he looked like “Billy Goat’s Gruff.” This neighbor had befriended and probably had sex or did drugs with the Meth Neighbor. His next-door neighbor’s oldest son was kind of my ex-boyfriend. I don’t know if he knew of the deal or not. But then Rod escaped Mike’s house and visited “Ernie,” and Ernie shot him. “The stupid goat jumped into the bullet.” Yeah, sure, goats jump faster than bullets fly. I hate that kid.

I was in the local “Young Eagles” program as a teenager, in which kids got the chance to fly in a small plane for free. My dad had worked for a friend of the woman who organized it and flew for it, and Sadie took me up twice. Then I got a job covering the county fair for the local newspaper, as a “teen reporter.” I asked her to take me up over the fairgrounds for an aerial picture. She was so nice, she actually did it.

Then, right out of a noval, she died in a plane crash a few months later. A plane crash! She was a pilot—why didn’t she “help” the other guy with his pre-flight? Oh, the drama.

The last time I saw her, I was at the fair with Goat Killer, when I still thought he was a good person. She was wearing a polka-dot dress and bright red lipstick, and laughing at me for being with a boy. She looked so very happy.

Like Sunshine On My Nipples

Ever since I wrote the post “I Want To Feel The Sunshine On My Nipples,” I have been challenged and surprised whenever I come up against my old excuses. One way I have been limiting myself is in regards to exercise. I have often had the thought “Why bother working out? I still won’t be as strong as the average man.” But then, who says I have to be, or that I won’t? I guess I’m harsher with myself than I care to admit.

My grandfather, Papa, surprised me the other day. I like to drive his old pickup truck, a 1964 GMC Jimmy. I’ve even been to the mechanic’s recently with him. He told me the story of his mechanic telling him to put power steering in the Jimmy, because “She’s such a little girl.”

“But I told him, ‘She’s stronger than she looks, boy! She’s tough!’”

He loved telling the story, and it made me feel good to hear it. For years he sort of coddled me, “I’ll get that, Baby. It’s heavy.” It used to bother me, but then I decided it wasn’t that important. I wonder if he changed his mind because I didn’t care anymore.

I used to have a German pen pal, back in my Taekwondo days. I learned two new words from her: “zierlich und zerbrechlich.” I looked “petite and fragile” to her.

I’m afraid my reply didn’t make me seem very smart. I must have used the word “coarse” or “vulgar” for “tough,” and I think when referring to my body I used the word for “corpse!” I didn’t hear from her again, and no wonder. (What’s the German word for “moron?”)

So I guess I don’t look like a body builder. For years it bothered me, and it still does, sometimes. When I was in school I was kind of a pushover. I want to look tough, so no one will pick on me. It’s hard to get over your fears when you’re afraid to be seen as prey. Maybe someday I won’t see potential bullies everywhere I go.

I have noticed that relative muscle strength is actually a variable that changes day by day and hour by hour. The four factors that affect it are:

Diet—sugar bad, protein good. 

Rest—deprivation bad, sleep good.

Exercise—not too much, not too little.

Hydration—plenty of water, but nothing with sugar or natural sugar or caffeine.

It’s that simple. I’m not a fitness nut at all, but I know the factors that affect my strength. If I’m sleep-deprived, dehydrated, tired, and just finished a bowl of ice cream, guess what? I won’t be as strong as I normally would.

I eat sugar, but I try to limit myself. It’s all about balance. It also doesn’t hurt, if you know how your thoughts are inhibiting your potential. Only then can you challenge these unhelpful thoughts and overcome them.

So I lied. There are only five things you need to worry about, on your way to building physical strength. You cannot build physical strength if you do not also build mental strength. And only then, once you feel good about yourself, can you conquer the world. 

 

"Shit On Your Neighbor" And The Value Of Writing People Off

Among my Christian friends, I have sometimes had the impression, based on annoyed but “sad” facial expressions, of being written off as lost, because of something I said or did that wasn’t kosher.

“Well, she’s lost,” I can just see the subtitle of their thoughts. I can read it on their face, that I’m blinded by the devil and they need to pray for me (because of something I said?). It has annoyed me to no end in the past, but now I wonder if they’re not onto something.

There is a value, actually, in writing people off. It frees you from the responsibility of having a relationship with them, changing them, or dwelling on what aggravates you about them. Imagine mentally handing them a note that says, “You’re not my problem anymore.”

Often we assign roles to people and certain expectations along with the roles. We want perfect parents, aunts, uncles and friends. For example, I expect my aunt to get off my case about using psuedo-cusswords like “That was freaking huge,” and calling our card game what it really is, Shit On Your Neighbor.

The teacher in our brain grades people according to how we think they should be, not how they actually are. I am actually in favor of a double standard, as far as this goes. There should not be the same standard for everyone, because some people simply cannot perform well as a parent, grandparent, or person. This is not about letting someone off the hook; it’s about protecting yourself from being hurt.

Hurt feelings only result from unmet expectations. Once you lower your expectations for them, they cannot hurt you as much.

I spent many years becoming sad and emotional over the way people had treated me, until one day I realized that I needed to assign them new expectations.

Now I have new, lowered expectations for people. I expect my grandfather not to be conscientious about taking his supplements. I expect my aunt to get me in trouble for saying the word “pussy.”

We’ve all heard the old clichés of “Love people as they are,” and “Accept people on their own terms.” That’s great advice, but I see little practical application for it, no actual instructions for how to implement it. But I think I’ve actually found a way to do it, though loving them is optional.

But first, you often must stop being in denial about them. You cannot accept people as they are without first acknowledging what they are. And here's how:

Write a list of expectations for each person that bothers you. Think also of how you will protect yourself from them, whether they mean to hurt you or not. Then stick to your plan. Don’t feel guilty about it. As long as they don’t change, you don’t have to. Lower your standards, then set up boundaries.

Then, when they do something that crosses the line, you will be prepared for it. It will not surprise you. It will not be as devastating.

It won’t erase hurt feelings, but the mantra “I expected this” will help you get over most of the shock.

Have your list handy, though out of sight. When they do something that makes you cringe, that bothers you, when you think about them and obsess over “Why are they this way?” “Why do they do that?” refer back to your list and comfort yourself that you actually saw this coming, or put a new item on the list. 

Another important thing to remember is to make this list as impersonal as possible. Use their real names, not family names, or put their family names in quotes. Reducing the emotional to the practical helps you sort through your feelings.

You can do this for anyone. Don’t feel guilty because it’s your friend, mother, sister, husband, pastor or even God. You can certainly love them without thinking everything is rosy, love is a separate issue. After doing this exercise, you may decide that being around them is too much negativity, and limit your contact with them if you can. If you can’t, at least you feel prepared.

I did this for everyone that had hurt my feelings, or aggravated me. Because of my strict religious background, I also decided to make a list pertaining to God. It’s not blasphemy, it’s just my imperfect expectations. God can handle it, I think.

And if they exceed your expectations, if they suddenly become the person you wanted them to be, then that is wonderful! You can enjoy the surprise without comparing them with an impossible standard. In other words, you can relish any kind of progress, however incremental.

  

And if they never change? Then that is fine too. You have more room to live your life, and it’s no longer about them. This practice frees up your brainspace to be creative, to be happy, to come up with ideas and to avoid such negative distractions. It frees you up to live your own life, not theirs.

And don’t forget, the stuff they do may still make you cry. It’s okay to be upset. Just don’t be surprised.

Everyone Should Be A Writer

I love to write, almost as much as I love breathing, but I don’t like to describe myself as a writer, because I think everyone either is a writer or should be. Everyone should compose something, even a little thing only for their family and friends. So why don’t most people bother? What makes those who write, even if they are not published, stand out from the rest, in the fact that they do something? What makes a writer?

Three things make someone choose this creative outlet. They are all important, but the first one is the greatest:

They believe that they can.

They want to.

They make the time.

Most people “don’t want to” or can't find the time because they don’t feel they have something worthwhile to say. They don’t think the world would be interested. But they don’t have to please the world: for every creative product, there is a market. Find your niche, don’t try take on everyone.

What I have noticed is that there are published books that I think are poorly written, but are popular or are bestsellers. I’m sure there’s someone out there who absolutely hates what I put out (or would if I were actually that famous!), and someone else who absolutely loves it.

I see inspiration everywhere. My Papa could write about the time he spends reading the Bible and how that makes him feel, or his perspective on religion or life as a senior of an older, southern generation, or the philosophical aspects of baseball—and he is retired and watches TV all day! He has more interests than he thinks: Baseball, bluegrass, Dolly Parton, his family and what they mean to him. Somebody should tap into the market he belongs in. Why not him?

My cousin could write about the challenges of being married with two children at twenty. My Mom-Mom could write one of those romantic stories she loves. My mother could publish a book on life-coaching or her theories for a happy marriage. My Grandma could post something on websites about recycling or the environment, my Grandpa could send an article to a running magazine. My dad could talk about his favorite knives and guns, his boss about working as a bouncer in a Swedish brothel or meeting Timothy Leary at a love-in.

Or any one of these people could use their imagination and make something up. People love fiction.

But why is it so very hard to convert these people? They have plenty to say, they could find the time if they wanted to, and there is always a market. And now it’s easier than ever to have a blog and self-publish, and it’s free or cheap! (Hell, they even let someone like me do these things! You don’t even have to be competent, and I’m living proof!) So why not?

Because either:

They don’t think they can.

They don’t want to.

They don’t have the time.

But I have found that often the last two reasons are really only excuses for the first.

You make time for what is most important to you, often what you do for others. Many people seem unable to do anything just for themselves, out of guilt or a feeling of unworthiness. I am “selfish” sometimes, because of my favorite creative outlet. But it’s harder to be selfish if you are out of practice.

Of course, I realize that not everyone wants the kind of life I aspire to. I have “written” my own story lines since before I was literate. I would peg the age at about six years old. For many years, I didn’t sleep, I just lay there and thought of the newest exploits of my favorite Disney characters or superherpes (sorry, I meant to say superheroes!). I still do that, only now I’m older and supposed to be more mature. I pretend that I am.

And I’m not judging any of the others as having low self-esteem (well, not everyone). But I want them to be winners with me, when I become one. Why settle for mediocrity?

Find what your interests are, make a list, then narrow it down to your passions. Or, think of a character and build a story around them, maybe based on someone you know who is funny, quirky or annoying. And remember, there is always a market. So find yours.

I Want To Feel The Sunshine On My Nipples!

“Why is Wonder Woman so happy?” I wondered the other day, while trying to stalk her on the internet. “She’s such a feminist.”

Yes, we’ve all heard about the stereotype of the bitter feminist that hates men, and I know some men who can get very upset about it (as if they were forced to date these women, or they were the only ones available). But really, even with all the backwards practices in the world, I think the answer to our problems is not in hating men, but in loving ourselves.

Most feminist theory is just a cop-out against being happy. Yes, I said it. “I can’t have a good life because I’m a woman.” Men don’t have that excuse. They must be short, bald, fat or old instead. But really, even in the dark ages of history (his-story, that’s the root of the word!), there have been women who have had good lives, who have managed to be successful and happy. So why not now, even with all the unfair stuff that goes on?

I am not against feminism. How can I be, if I benefit so much from it? I don’t think women should submit to their husbands or stay home, unless they want to. But why are all these smart, aware women so miserable?

We all have excuses that “prevent” us from having the life we want. We are all handicapped in our own minds. Being a woman shouldn’t be one of them.

I guess what we should really be asking ourselves is “What are my excuses?” Instead of being resentful of nature or of men, our fellow humans (or huwomans), ask, “What are my obstacles really? How can I overcome them?” You will probably find that most obstacles are the ones you set up for yourself. They’re in your own mind, not in the outside circumstances.

What I like to do is think of in what ways I feel slighted personally, not what happened two hundred years ago or what happens in Arab countries. I feel oppressed when a man takes off his shirt and I can’t. Why are my breasts always made sexual, when their function in life is to nourish children? I want to feel the sun on my nipples!

Infantile men make breasts into sexual objects, toys, and women go along with it. If some men can’t handle bare breasts without lust, how is that my fault? Why should I take responsibility for someone else’s faults? “He couldn’t help but rape me, officer, I was wearing a tank top.”

That is the only thing that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, consistently, the male privilege of my father and brother walking around outside or in the house with no shirt.

The important thing, the one thing that will eventually change our circumstances, is voicing the problem aloud. We must complain if anything is to be done—the squeaky wheel getting the grease again. The women’s rights movement began when women started talking to each other about what they thought was injustice. Do you think men thought women wanted to vote, before they said something? Find out what bothers you personally, what you feel is unfair about your outside circumstances, and say something. Voice your concern to other women and especially to men. And remember that happiness is often created from the inside, rather than from how you are treated on the outside.

So, in summary:

1) Create your own happiness—don’t use feminism as an excuse.

2) Find out what bothers you personally, what affects your life, not others’ lives.

3) Speak up about it—but don’t harp on it.

Note to men: A lot of men have oppressed and hurt women, both in the past and foreign countries, and right here in our personal lives. Please understand that it is hard not to think that all men are like this, if this has been our experience.

In one of my short stories, which will be published on Amazon soon (I promise a link), a jester decides that he hates all knights, even as the knight he humiliates thinks that even though other knights have picked on him, he has not. It’s not exactly the jester’s fault; they are both victims, in this case. Please keep that in mind if you are not a chauvinist. Perhaps you will be lucky enough to change a few minds.

Ingredients For A Conversion: Four Emotions Every Christian Experiences And Thrives On

According to my latest theory, based on my own religious background, Christians only experience four basic emotions, which they sadly mistake for their spiritual states. Two of them alternate in cycles; one is a supplement to those two, and the fourth is a tragic side effect of the other three. These are only emotions; the “reasons” given can vary widely, depending on circumstances and individuals.

Please note: This has been my experience of Christianity. It may not be yours, but I’m betting it is. I hope I don’t seem disrespectful in this post.

Despair: This manifests itself as anything from “How can God ever forgive me?” to “I’m no good at being a Christian.” It can also be “How can I ever make this marriage work?” or “Why can’t I stop thinking sexual thoughts?”

No matter what the issue is, low self-esteem is the result.

Euphoria: This is an emotional high caused by a stirring worship service, or an intense prayer session, or really anything that makes you feel “close to God.”

It is not God’s presence, it’s just your emotions, and often it’s false or fleeting. This does not mean God approves of you, that you are in the presence of God, or anything else. It’s just an emotion.

Sadly, most Christian activity is just a pursuit of this high, or a way to convince oneself that you are a good Christian and a good person.

You may have noticed that the typical salvation experience involves both of these two emotions. In fact, the incentive for salvation used by the church is an artificially induced dosage of despair. First, show them how sinful they are. Then, thank God, there is a way to be saved. Most Christians go through an endless cycle of despair-euphoria-despair, all of their Christian lives. How many times have I been saved? About a hundred, maybe. When the euphoria is gone, they worry about their salvation, and the process is repeated. Perhaps it didn’t “stick” last time.

I am not saying Christianity is a false religion. But it helps to know the tactics used within the church.

Suspicion: This is often referred to as “discernment” or “guidance of the Holy Spirit.” This suspicion can apply to other Christians, nonbelievers, churches, movements, pastors, or even physical objects. Other Christians are not truly saved and are used unwittingly by the devil; inanimate objects are demonic or are idols. That pastor is living with hidden sin (the Holy Spirit told me!); unbelievers are spiritually blinded; that church movement believes non-biblical things; why did she do or say that, if she’s supposed to be a Christian?

Too much suspicion can turn people into judgmental, self-righteous hypocrites. It’s not fun being around them.

Suspicion can also apply to having too many rules for one’s conduct. You can’t joke about sex—“I don’t find that funny!” You get other people in trouble for what they say or do, because they have to know you don’t approve. Nothing about God or Christianity is funny.

Tiredness: Finally, the tragic result of all that suspicion, euphoria and despair. You get tired of always seeking euphoria, “God’s presence,” spiritual highs. It’s all too much.

A few years ago I “cracked.” After pushing all my life, I just got too tired to push any more. I stopped reading my bible; I don’t pray anymore. Neither of these things feel natural to me, or ever have. Churches do not feel like welcoming places anymore. I don’t belong there. And I’m generally happier, now that I’ve stopped trying so hard.

No one can say I didn’t try, really hard. And I know many, many people who are only a few setbacks away from cracking like me. The other three emotions keep one from cracking. I have experienced all of them, but no more.

Are you suspicious of me? Perhaps you are tempted to be offended or be sad or write me off as lost. Are you afraid you will be like me, someday? Does the pressure to be a good Christian seem too much? You’re not alone.

Perhaps the bit on suspicion has got you feeling “convicted,” or guilty about a sin. Prepare for another despair session. Please don’t be too hard on yourself.

Believe me, I have been where you are. My heart was truly sincere; I really wanted to please God. But now…I’m just so tired.

Deathbed Classroom

“What if you die and find out it’s not true?” someone asked our fourth-grade teacher, in the Christian school. “What if God’s not real?”

It was an unspoken question that Christian children whispered to each other when adults weren’t around. And it was always on our minds, at least a lot of the time. But mostly it was forbidden to mention it, bad to ever doubt that God, whom we could not see or hear, existed. Worse still to wonder if another religion was the truth and we were going to hell according to its standards.

We had just finished a very philosophical discussion about heaven, hell, animals, and other related matters. But I was very surprised by the flippant, dismissive remark that followed this inquiry.

“So what? You’ve lived a good life,” the teacher, Mrs. Bitter (not her real name, but close, and descriptive) fired off. And with that, the discussion was over. We were back to being children/cattle again. Our opinions weren’t respected anymore.

There seemed to be some sense of letdown settle over us. I noticed this in myself, and thought I saw it in my classmates too. That was it? That was the best answer she could give us? Somehow that remark, and the fact that she thought she had the answer, rubbed me the wrong way. It rubbed me so hard, in fact, that I’ve remembered that rug-burn ever sense. Maybe we did live good lives, but that wasn’t enough.

We knew even then what we were missing. No one had to tell us that life would be easier if we weren’t believers, if we didn’t have to worry about whether whatever we did or chose was a sin or pleased God. Those were my exact thoughts, actually: “My life would be so much easier if I wasn’t a Christian.”

So now I’m on my deathbed, but somehow I’m still in fourth grade too. All around me, my classmates are old and weak and on their deathbeds too. And Mrs. Bitch is still there! She’s still reminding us that we all lived good lives, making us feel guilty for ever questioning the afterlife.

So I’m two hundred years old (I can dream, right? This is fantasy, remember?) and I’m looking back on a long life spent serving God and trying to please Jesus. Was it happy? All these things I did, all my effort, all my abstinence (not just from sex, from anything that could be an “idol”), was it worth it?

Perhaps I had become a missionary and lived among strange people without any comforts, missing my parents terribly and wondering why I had made this mistake. But I couldn’t go back to the States, because there wasn’t enough money, and the other missionaries would hate me, and God would be so disappointed.

Maybe I had gotten married, tried to be a good submissive wife, wore skirts but no jewelry or makeup, and had five kids because some preacher said that birth control wasn’t letting God give you as many kids as you could handle. I gritted my teeth and obeyed some man against my better judgment, even when the welfare of my children was at stake. I resented all the babies that kept me from writing and pursuing my goals.

Maybe I never published anything, because I was afraid God didn’t want me to. Maybe I decided I would only write “for the glory of God,” and wasted my time with Christian novellas that always ended one way: the character gets saved. Or gets saved and falls in love. Never any sex, never any creativity. I would be miserable with so narrow a margin. It always seemed a little forced anyway.

And then I had given ten percent of my money away in “tithes” that I didn’t want to give up. I had spent my life pleasing and serving others, with no time for myself. I had not enjoyed music, art or reading that wasn’t Christian or bland. I had not bought things for myself, stuff that I enjoyed. I had given away things I loved, thinking that God would approve. I had wrestled even with my own thoughts, had thought of my “flesh” as evil, had not allowed myself to enjoy anything too much.

(There may be some denominations out there that promote a different, less strict brand of Christianity that I’m unaware of, but this was what was taught to me when I was younger.)

I relate my life story, and so do a lot of my peers. We listen in our beds as most tell a version of the same tale. A few are gone, maybe—they left the church and never looked back. We pray for their souls and lament that they are lost. And all the while, at the back of our minds, a small, tiny voice asks the question: “Wouldn’t it have been easier…wouldn’t it have been better…what if…”

But we dismiss it, knowing that that voice is the devil trying to make us walk away from God. We don’t trust that voice, even though it’s a part of ourselves.

“Ahem!” Mrs. Bitter finally clears her throat. “All eyes up here! I have an announcement to make. Class is over; you’re all dismissed.”

“But what about Heaven?” Austin, the kid who lies next to me, pipes up. “Don’t we get to go to heaven?”

“No; heaven’s cancelled. God never existed all along, it turns out. But don’t worry, you’ve all lived good lives.”

The disappointment is palpable. So much waste! I could be in a bar with the lost kids, I think. I could be having a good time until the very end. But now it’s too late. I was tricked. My one life, and I was tricked into giving it away.

“But I didn’t live a full life!” I whine. “I didn’t really live!”

My last thought as the darkness encroaches upon me, as I get sleepier, right before I cease existing forever, is, “I hope I get reincarnated.”

Listen To The Voices

I was “writing,” the other day, and I tried to make a play on the cards but it wasn’t allowed.

“Damn!” I thought. “Damn, damn, damn!”

“It’s not damned,” one of the voices told me cheerfully. “It’s only a game.”

“Why, you’re right!” I exclaimed. “It is only a game—I’m so happy. Thank you!”

I was very welcome. What a gracious voice I had—how wonderful that she was looking out for me. I hope that voice comes by to visit again soon. All my other ones are just so negative. This one makes me happy.

I think we all hear voices, if we listen. Most people pretend to be deaf, and they think you’re demented if you open up your ears and allow yourself to hear them. This one was telling me not to cuss so much. Cussing is negative; I should try to be positive.

The greatest problem I have had in my life is fear. The form has changed as I’ve grown older, but it’s still there, usually when I think I ought to do something but don’t want to. My fear made me fail my driving license test four times, and prevents me from taking a fifth test. But then, I don’t like to drive. Funny, isn’t it?

The other night I was lying in bed, trying to go to sleep in spite of the horrible knot in the pit of my stomach. I would not sleep well, I knew it, and I would likely cry myself to sleep. I tried to think of the feelings techniques I read in self-help books, so I asked my fear how long it planned on staying. I didn’t expect a response, it was more of a joke. But surprisingly it came, right away and instinctual. It was so clear. “Until you’re safe,” it said.

Instantly I was overcome with gratitude. My fear wasn’t the enemy! It was looking out for me! All these years I thought it had hated me, and I blamed it for making me miss out on everything, for making me uncomfortable when I shouldn’t have been.

But what had this voice, this fear, been trying to tell me all along? Perhaps it had saved me from situations I wasn’t equipped to handle yet, or that weren’t in my best interest. For years I had fought it, doing hundreds of things I didn’t want to do, with people that made me uncomfortable, all in the name of family. And I hated myself for being afraid. But I wasn’t crazy, it turns out. Nothing was wrong with me. If anything, here was something right about me.

When my fear talked to me, it also helped take the edge off. It didn’t feel like terror so much anymore. I was grateful to my fear. My fear would guide me tomorrow. It would look out for me and my well-being. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I slept better that night than I had in months.

Now I have different ways of dealing with my new friend. Instead of cursing it, hating it and myself, I ask what message it’s trying to give me. Am I doing something that is not in my best interest, even self-destructive? Do I really want to do that? Does that person make me uncomfortable? If so, then maybe being around them isn’t very good for me, is toxic.

“I love you, fear,” I said to it, hugging my new friend in my mind. “You’re a part of me, and you’re looking out for me. Thank you so much. You’re so good. I love you.”

Humans are often self-destructive, but also self-healing. We have other personalities, other voices, to guide us, but we often hate them. We yell and hit them. We criticize and cuss them. But we don’t realize that they are a part of us, that we are really punishing ourselves. So we become anxious and have low self-esteem, because somebody important to us hates us. No wonder society is so screwed up.

But then, sometimes, we stumble across these hated alter-egos, and we realize that they have feelings too, that their feelings are our feelings. And these feelings are killing us. So we try to make peace with the voices, wondering if it’s too late to change a lifetime of habits.

But, to our surprise, we heal. We have peace now. We’re happy. And it feels damn good.

My Ideal Marriage

My ideal marriage is basically a Booty Call For Life.

After seeing so many couples struggle trying to “make it work” with the Conjoined Twins approach (joined at the pelvis, if they’re lucky!), I've worked out a better system. My approach isn’t very “romantic” (in other words, traditional) and is officially banned by several churches (not really, but I can only hope). But it’s insanely practical, enables you to love someone without getting hurt or caught up in their emotional problems, and does not bother with outdated “traditional values” that are rather cumbersome and impractical nowadays.

However it’s not for the faint of heart, nor for codependents. If you need someone to “complete” you, not a romantic but an unhealthy idea, this is not for you.

Separate houses.

I rather like the idea of the Chinese “walking marriage,” where the husband walks to his wife’s house every night and returns to his own every morning. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it’s hard to maintain a fairy-tale image of someone when Prince Charming scratches his ass and picks his nose in front of you. Happily Ever After is a huge pressure and burden when you’re always there to bicker about leaving the toilet seat up and shrinking the laundry. Annoying habits that bug you every day can be overlooked if you don’t see him day to day. Thus eliminating the need to be so picky, to look for that perfect someone.

Separate money.

Finances is one of the biggest fight-causing agents in a marriage. I’ve seen some couples almost divorce over it. If we can eliminate this one, we would all be much happier. So no joint savings or checking accounts.

Unless I want to be a stay-at-home mother, which is temporary, there is no need to be supported by a man (or woman). So why have the stress of what happens when two people who have very different upbringings and money management styles clash?

Here’s the deal: I don’t want a man to take my money for himself. Even if I eventually “buckle down” and have a traditional marriage, I will protect myself with a separate checking account. Especially if they do not know the other person’s credit history or sense of responsibility, both women and men need to do this. Forget “love;” entrusting someone like this is just foolish.

Sleepovers.

Is this technically living in sin, I wonder? This kind of sex sounds much more exciting than “The kids are in bed, you want to do it?”

It could be a standing appointment that you look forward to every week. He would be much more likely to bring over wine or flowers, or dinner, or clean up his own place. Then, when the romance is over, you can each go back to your own lives, without trying to prolong the good feelings. Save them for next week.

Separate bedrooms.

For the sleepovers. Can you honestly sleep good with someone else, maybe a snorer, beside you? Throw the honey in the guest room and grab a good night’s rest. You deserve it.

Or at the very least have a big bed and separate blankets. How many men you know are good at sharing the covers? There’s no need for the heartache.

Divorced-style parenting.

If you have enough support from friends and family, you could make this work. Most marriages do not end in death anyway, so if you want to be cynical, why put your kids through the stress in the first place. My young half-brother seems to think it’s normal to visit his mother on weekends; it’s what he knows.

Yes, it might be difficult, but how is parenting ever easy anyway? Slacking parents will be forced to contribute when the kids come over. And think of this: a few nights a week will be all to yourself.

Separate names.

I spent all my life building up this name; why change it now? I deserve my own unbroken identity, not to be symbolically owned. It may not be an issue for some, but it is for me.

Separate legacies.

Girls named after Mommy, boys named after Daddy. Children should be taught that the female line is important too.

These suggestions are rather radical, but why stop there? I may not even have a ceremony; I may not even make it legal (depending on what benefits there are to a marriage license). There is no need for love to go insane and become something like an obsession.

If you do not have a narrow and outmoded view of marital success, I think these methods, as much as you can apply them, will increase your odds. You will be invulnerable or somewhat shielded from the devastating effects of financial recklessness (though not your own), different parenting styles, cheating, and snoring or sleep-farting.

By eliminating the causes of most arguments, you might just make it where other two-headed creatures have failed.

The Drug Addicts of My Childhood

Here's What A Meth Addict’s House Looks Like:

Nauseating chemical-type smells, overwhelming, probably “cooking” it, mixing drugs on the stove.

Soiled diapers on the kitchen counters.

Bits of food encrusted on the inside of the fridge—the fridge has its own putrid smell. Ditto for the microwave, where she simply shoved food in—no napkin, no plate—and threw it out on the floor for her children. “That’s where it will end up anyway.”

A brand-new $800 washing machine, picked apart piece by piece. It’s in about a hundred pieces on the floor. She does not know how to put it back together. (Sometimes meth addicts like to pick things apart when they’re high.)

Spoons in her bedroom, with strange white stuff encrusted on them. (Meth that didn’t get drawn into the needle and dried there. She mixed it up in spoons.)

There was food bits all over the furniture, crumbs in the beds.

This woman’s housekeeping style was much like that of the hoarders on the documentaries on TV. But TV cannot describe the smells and stuffiness, the sickening atmosphere of it. I was too intimately acquainted with the next-door neighbor and her house. It was like my unfortunate second home for many years in my early teens.

Sure, my mother and I shouldn’t have been so involved, we should have simply called Child Services instead of waiting for her to “get it,” but we were just being good Christians, right? We had to help her out, for she was raising two little boys all alone.

Why didn’t we see at the time that she was on drugs? Was it because she was a mother? Had horses and pets? Lived in the country, spoke coherently (most of the time), drank a lot of coffee and got hyper?

For being so discerning and discriminating as to throw out stuff we thought was demonic or an “idol,” (that we loved, usually), how could we have been so blind?

(I use the word “we” a lot when thinking about that time in my life, for it seemed my mother and I were unhealthily joined at the hip. Thus, it’s “our” life and what “we” went through, even in my own mind.)

Here’s what I learned about “bad” parents, incompetent parents: They don’t reform. My mother was very gifted at taking care of children, and tried time and again to show her how to do it. Eventually she accused my mom of calling her a bad mother behind her back, and took the baby away, the baby that we had raised for almost two years. So no matter how subtly the maternal magician tried to “train” her, to show her, she knew exactly what Mom was doing. And she didn’t like it.

She didn’t learn how to clean her house, after we stepped in and did all the hard work for her, maybe four to five times. She never appreciated it, and once we got in big trouble for “throwing things away” when they were in their proper places after all.

She went through the trash every time after we finished cleaning, probably looking for her lost meth. We might have thrown it away, thinking it was a white rock.

So I learned eventually not to bail people out. I became very cynical for a number of years, depressed and unhappy and angry that I did not have a happy childhood. I had excruciating, unexplainable pain in my right shoulder and arm constantly. Still have a little pain, sometimes, and it’s still painful to write by hand.

I had no energy, could not get up in the morning, struggled with severe constipation, and kept an extremely late schedule. I think all of these things were mostly symptoms of my emotional turmoil.

I was watching a documentary on hoarders recently and flashed back to the past. I wonder how many “hoarders” are on drugs.

So what’s the point of all this reminiscence? The moral of this story is, when you’re in the thick of it, it’s hard to see you need to make changes, that you can’t go on like this. What would have happened if the neighbor had not taken the baby away from us? Would we still be helping her, hoping she would change, never dreaming that she could have a drug problem?

Ignorance is never bliss. Yet so many people choose deliberately not to see what’s right in front of them. I paid a huge price because of ignorance.

Never again.

Antique Toilets, Paul Bunyon, Michael Jackson, and Elvis: The Perfect Orgy?

I’ve always wondered why there is no market for antique toilets.

I recently met a man who claimed to have Michael Jackson’s toilet, the one he flushed the other glove down. I think he’s full of…glove.

I decided right away that I could easily top that, so I said that was nothing, I had the toilet that Elvis died on. If only the porcelain could speak, it would tell me the King’s last words.

I first became aware of how the legend died from a guy at my Taekwondo class who had a crush on me. He swept me off my feet with the words, “He died taking a dump!” At that moment, I knew he was the one for me. I don’t even remember how that came up.

I wrote a poem about Elvis once (sort of). Apparently Elvis killed Babe the Blue Ox (sort of).

I came across one by Robert Frost, “Paul’s Wife,” about Paul Bunyon carving himself a wife out of a tree (He liked wood, I get it, but doesn’t he realize there are dolls that won’t give him splinters?). It was boring and stupid and way too long, and I decided I could do better. So I did better, in just eight lines.

Paul never was one to follow trends

Until, one day, said one of his friends,

“You’ve worked too hard, it’s taken its toll;

You need something new; try rock and roll.”

So Paul left work, and came back the next day

And Paul was there, but where was Babe?

They never did find her, but have you heard the news?

Paul got himself some blue suede shoes!

Voice Lessons

When I was very small a family friend took me to a speech therapist.  I said “tree” and “seat” instead of “three” and “sheet.” Then in a third-grade play I had one line: “We shop.” The play was stupid anyway, but it was still embarrassing.

Later on I was told that I needed to take voice lessons, that I spoke in a monotone, had impressions of me that were unflattering, etc. I got in trouble at school for humming too loud.

I’ll never sing soprano, and that’s okay. A peacock shouldn’t feel bad for not being a nightingale. Our voice can be used to boost our egos, or to humiliate us. Those who hate their voices hate something about themselves, and probably don’t like their image in the mirror.

You can use your voice for good, or for evil. Heal yourself or hurt yourself. I know what I’ve been guilty of doing, and what I want to do in the future. Here’s how I’m going to try it. People really don’t need to change their voices, they just need to make them work for them.

Invite yourself to speak up. If you could say anything in the world, what would it be? Now you have that freedom. “I just want to say…”

Learn to speak louder and clearer. People should not have to ask “What?” all the time. Yell if you have to, at first. Just be heard the first time.

Read aloud. By yourself, if you’re shy. Comic books and poetry are good. Foreign languages are good too.

Babble like a baby. It’s fun. Stutter on purpose too. Only when you’re by yourself.

Role-play your favorite heroes, just like when you were a kid. I’m a superhero sometimes.

Learn to sing and hum—hum loud. No one will get you in trouble now. Happy people hum. You’ll be happy.

Yell and scream, when no one else is around. If you are frustrated, express it. Throw a tantrum.

Write notes to loved ones and heroes, then imagine saying those things out loud. Everything you’ve ever wanted to say—put it all in there, even if they are dead. Love letters, fan mail, sad or hurt letters, angry letters, all of it. Then send them, if they are loving and honest. Imagine in romantic movies where the heroine is writing a love letter and you hear her voice. Never write a note you wouldn’t say aloud.

Say things aloud as you write them—very slowly.

Record yourself reading something, very slowly. Don’t rush it or you’ll sound nervous.

Imagine yourself as a comedian. Again, don’t rush.

Learn to speak more slowly. It will force you to relax.

Interactive listening. Really listen, and paraphrase in your responses. It will make you feel listened to also.

Don’t interrupt other people.

Speak kindly to yourself. I would say, “Alex, I love you, you’re so good,” etc.

Praise yourself for a good job. “I’m so proud of you. You were so brave today.” Remember to say it out loud.

Hold conversations with yourself. “I want to do this.” “Me too, I agree.”

Look at yourself in the mirror—really gaze lovingly at your reflection. This is not a voice thing, but it will make you more confident.

Have a wide stance. Don’t sit with your legs together. The more room you take up, the more you will relax, the better you will feel. In other words, wear pants.

Hold a note. Tuneless humming or singing. I am reminded of a scene in the Disney movie, “The Little Mermaid,” where the witch steals her voice while she is singing a beautiful, wordless song. “Aaah-aaah-aaah-aaah-aaah-aah, aaah-aaah-aaah-aaah-aaah.” You could also sing “hmmm-hmmm-hmmm-hmmm, hmmm-hmmm-hmmmm.” It’s mindless and relaxing.

Sing before bed for a good night’s sleep. Try to sing a happy song. You need to be well rested if you want more confidence.

Speak your mind, whenever you can. But don’t be mean. And be prudent too, with timing and venue.

Speak up. Ask for what you want. “I would like…” “I want…” “I don’t want to…” “It bothers me when…”

Karaoke. If you have access to a machine. Don’t try to sound perfect. Do it by yourself, if you’re shy. Put your finger in one ear, to hear yourself better.

Practice different accents. Be silly. My favorite is talking like Dracula.

Don’t be apologetic. Don’t sell yourself short. My family has the bad habit of saying stuff like, “I don’t know how good it’s going to be, because I’ve never tried this before.” I’m trying to break that bad habit. When I email James Altucher with an idea, I say “This will make your blog more popular,” not “I think this will make your blog more popular.” Talk confidently, and you will be more confident.

Talk about yourself in the third person. Not when other people are around. They’ll think you’re crazy. Complement yourself in the third person, and the second, and the first, and the zeroth.

Learn to laugh in a way that you like. A lot of us don’t like our own laughs.

Change your voice, if you want. Make it more attractive to you, not to other people. That’s your goal.

Affirmations. “My voice is unique and beautiful. I am loved because of it and because the message I have.”

Praise your body, out loud. “My legs are so beautiful.” “I love the shape of my hands.” You must find something that you like aesthetically.

Praise your good qualities. “I’m so good at…” “I love to…” “I’m sensitive and caring.”

“Anything else you want to add, Alex?”

“Why, yes I do. Ask yourself your own opinion, once in a while.”

Whisper to yourself in the dark. Before drifting off to sleep, talk about the day, talk about tomorrow, be hopeful and optimistic.

Not all may work for you; just pick out the ones you like. Learn to love your own voice, and use it to speak up and further your own goals. Those are really the only voice lessons you need to take.

How Not To Teach Taekwondo

I was once in training to become a martial arts instructor (long story, that didn’t actually work out). My teacher said that I was already certifiable, but that I needed to do one last homework assignment: Describe ten useful skills for class management. I like to think I learned by example.

1.     Smoke and drink in class.

Nothing sets the mood and tone more effectively than the smell of cigarettes and cheap beer. Lit cigarettes can also be used for student correction.

2.     Carry a working chain saw to class.

The right environment is crucial to student learning. The magic combination of chain saw noises, visible drunkenness and a ski mask help to motivate even the laziest students.

3.     Approach students in such a way as to make them cower.

Demand the respect that you deserve, especially from inexperienced white belts. See previous two skills for ideas. The nervous twitch you picked up when the aliens did an ill-fated experiment on you (or so you tell the students) can also be used.

4.     Set a specific punishment-of-the-day for class.

“The voices tell me that the punishment of the day will be…” This gives the instructor a creative outlet and the students something to look forward to. Be sure that it is embarrassing and that it entertains you and the other students.

5.     Always undermine students’ opinions and beliefs.

Students are always wrong; instructors are always right. Your feedback to student responses should always reflect this principle. Examples of such abuse include, “I have not yet begun to be evil,” “My favorite superhero can beat up your favorite, just like this,” and “He’s not really unconscious. Kick him some more and he’ll wake up.”

6.     Select a candidate for humiliation to use as an example.

This can be a sort of “teacher’s pet,” if you wish. Or you can pick random students each day. Even if he or she does nothing wrong, you have your recipient for “punishment of the day.”

7.     Play “twenty questions” when giving correction and praise.

“What do you think you did wrong with that round kick? If you cannot guess within one minute, I will fetch my chain saw. The rest of you can chime in with opinions on his failures too.”

8.     There is only one form of correction.

Attention student receives for doing something wrong should never be positive. Be on your guard against giving too much praise.

9.     Be generous with humiliating nicknames.

This is your class as instructor, right? Then why should students get to pick their own names during your time? References made to physical appearance, body type or previous embarrassing experiences (e.g. “Barbie girl” for a boy) are ideal. If in doubt, remember that verbal abuse is not a hate crime.

10.                        Teach concept of instructor entertainment.

“As your instructor, I am rooting for your success. I am also rooting for your failure, whichever entertains me the most.” This concept teaches students to compare themselves to others, which is a valuable skill in life and good for their self-esteem.