Original Wingman

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This is the story about a little girl and her Robin at the beach. 

This little girl preferred pigtails and skinned knees over frilly dresses and Mary Janes. She favored trees and man hunt to dolls and playing house, and her favorite Barbie was a little action figure Robin from the DC Comics with limited motion and the paint chipping off his face. She kept him in her pocket, and he knew all her secrets. She loved him. He trusted her. 

One day, her family went to the beach. She was very excited because she and Robin were sent on an important, top secret rescue mission. She knew she had to send in her best operative, so she did. She scouted the area, Robin did some recon, and when they found the target, they knew what they had to do. She buried Robin in the sand. 

“You’re going to be okay, Robin.”

I know I am, silly. It’s you.

“Of course it’s me. I’ll be right here the whole time. You just call out if you need me.”

I’ll get them out. I’ll save everyone. 

“You always do. Be careful.”

I don’t need to. I’ve got you. 

“Always,” and with that, she covered him. 

This is where it gets foggy. Somebody or something distracted her mid-extraction, and she didn’t dispute, for even as a girl, she wasn’t very contrary. By the time she got back to her mission, it could have been seconds, it could have been hours, and by the nature of the tide, and the nature of the ocean, and the nature of the magic of the sand crab demons underneath, she couldn’t unbury Robin. 

Now, it might have been a normal day, with the sun shining and the beach full, but in her memory, there was only a gray breeze and wet sand and chaos as her heart pounded in her ears and panic set in. She frantically dug through the sand, then methodically, then frantically again, then everything stopped. All sounds, mute. All thoughts, blank. Her breath stopped and started, shallow in her throat as she realized that Robin was lost. 

Her mother pulled her arm, forcing her to her feet. She reached out to him. She told him she was so sorry. She never said anything to her mother; she never told her, never could. The guilt was unbearable. She buried her best friend. She abandoned him in the sand. Alone. Forever. Lost.

Back at the house, she took her remaining two best friends, Blanky and Mutsy, into her arms. “I’m so sorry,” she said with tear-soaked words, promising she will never abandon them the way she did Robin. Twenty years later, ragged, ripped, and ratty, she whispers these words to them still. 

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Christmas Greed and Thanksgiving Gratitude

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I’m upset with the whole concept of Black Friday happening on any day but Black Friday. Call me a conventional girl (not too often, please), but I feel like that tradition should stay as it has been for the last twenty (or so) years.

Black Friday has always been a terrifying situation for me, but I understand the need and want for it. I understand consumerism and capitalism, as it is, in America. I don’t quite know how I feel about it, politically, but I have grown up with it, and, therefore, understand and accept it, for now. Christmas is about a lot of things, but, for the sake of this conversation, it is about presents. Ok – only because I’m, pretty much, required to say it — Christmas is about love and gratitude, family, kindness, generosity, and charity. It’s about big hearts, empathy, and sparkles and snow (and sparkly snow.) Within all of that, it’s been about consumerism. It’s been about Ps3s and Macbook Airs, the new iPad and a brand new polly pocket (isn’t it 1996? no?).

I, for one, want nothing more than to buy my best friend a Superman onesie & pocket watch combo, a metal, life-sized R2D2, and a ticket to NY so he can visit me. I want all these things because I know it will bring a myriad of giggles (to a guy who doesn’t usually giggle), shrieks, and happiness to his life, which, as of late, as been rather bleak and disappointing. (which, for the record, devastates me.)

So, call it consumerism, but, actually, it’s coming from a very generous place. It’s when assholes and spoiled brats take it for granted that it gets really spoiled – when stupid teenagers cry because they got a white iPhone 6+ instead of a black iPhone 6, or the new ps4 instead of whatever the newest Nintendo is.

Which brings me back to my original point. ATTENTION EVERYBODY: BLACK FRIDAY IS OCCURING ON THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 28TH, 2014. ON THANKSGIVING. NOT ON BLACK FRIDAY. BUT ON THANKSGIVING THURSDAY. Stores are opening at morning-hour for Black Friday shoppers. Last year, my New Jersey cousin had to leave Thanksgiving Dinner (yes, both capitalized) to work at Hollister in the NJ mall where he worked. He couldn’t even finish his Thanksgiving meal. He had to be there at Hollister to sell overly-sexualized, overly-small pairs of jeans and shitty t-shirts to asshole consumers who wanted a jump-start on Christmas. How is 12 hours a jump-start on Christmas? You’re already shopping a whole month in advance. Want a jumpstart? Shop in the summer.

When did our desperation for consumerism get to this point? When did we become this? Polluting a holiday about gratitude and family and love with consumerism greed and blackness? (for lack of a better word.)

I have a few friends who are forced to work this Thanksgiving because Black Friday starts early. I find myself in Revo-Mode. For those of you who don’t know me personally, I am a revolutionary. I am an indigo-child. I am born and bred to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves. To fight for the causes that lose traction, but are equally as important as those that don’t. I am a Revolutionary, and there are a few who have joined me in my fight in the recent years. We call ourselves the Revos, and I am still fighting!

Unless you work at a grocery store or a coffee shop in your town. you should not be working. Nobody should be shopping for Christmas on Thanksgiving. You should only be buying coffee for your dinner guests, or getting the Turkey your mother or father forgot to order, perhaps even buying canned gravy because – let’s be honest – nobody can make a perfect Turkey stock gravy.