Yes. I swear on my blog. I use bad words. I even, at times, throw in an occasional swear word on my facebook updates. This causes quite a stir in some people.
Children could be reading my blog and my facebook updates!
First of all, why are young children on facebook, for fucks sake? There is problem with childhood obesity in this country. Shouldn’t your fat ass kid be on a bike somewhere?
Secondly, it’s not my job to make boundaries for your child about what she/he can or cannot read. Isn’t that your mother fucking job?
It goes the same for t.v. I heard someone complaining about how South Park is confusing for children because it's a cartoon with adult content.
It’s not Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s fault your kid’s a dumbass and can’t figure that out.
Maybe I was a precocious kid. Who the fuck am I kidding? Of course I was a precocious kid, but I’m pretty sure your kid is not that bright. So, all those adult innuendos on South Park and other animated shows simply fly right over your stupid ass kid’s head and probably yours if you’re complaining about the laxity of censorship in the media.
There is a lot of violence on t.v., too. Or haven’t you noticed? I think that may have a bigger impact on the well-being of your child than my occasional cock, fuck, and shit in my writing.
Some people say, “Your opinion will change when you have your own children.”
I don’t fucking think so. My children are going to be half my brilliant genetic makeup, giving them already more intellectual ability than your dumbass kid. I will also (maybe you should try this) teach my kid how to deal and understand with adult material when he/she comes across it, because you can’t shield your kid forever from all the fucks, shits, asses, and bitches, in the world, right? These words will find your children one day. OH. YES. THEY. WILL.
Others say it’s not ladylike for me to cuss so much.
Do you even fucking know me? My blog is 20% content, 10% shit talking, and 70% swearing.
If you don’t like how I write, stop reading it. If I offend you with my swear words, then go back to reading your Harry Potter books.
And if you can’t delineate reality from humor and satire for fucks sake: Walk away from the computer right now!
Please and thank-you.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Now that I'm feeling better, why don't you go f*ck yourself.
I’m a nurse. An ICU nurse to be specific. I was previously the local hospital’s critical care bitch and would float to all the ICU’s and ER’s in the hospital including: MICU, NSICU, STICU, CCU, CTICU, and DDICU.
I also should be a NP if it weren’t for the racist powers that be at a state university, but I dropped out before the academic lynching. (If you dispute this fact, you can take a look at my stellar transcripts and my thesis that earned me two awards.) So, I know a little bit about diseases, diagnosis, and physiological processes.
However...
Despite all this education and experience, I cannot jump out of myself when I am sick, examine myself, come up with a diagnosis, and treat myself.
I am not House, M.D.
And even House couldn’t do this, which is why he ended up with a bum leg.
In any case, I presented with a fever over 3 days, severe head pain, neck pain, neck stiffness, and photophobia. Along with my other symptoms associated with strep throat: exudate on tonsils, fever, throat pain, and ear pain.
Let me repeat: I had no idea what I looked like and could not examine myself.
Was I worried? Ya. Was I experiencing the worst headache of my life along with the inability to turn my head? Fuck yes.
The ER nurse asked me, “What? Did you think you had meningitis?”
I replied, “Well, I’m having the worst headache of my life, neck stiffness, and photophobia. I tried to assess myself for the Kernig's sign or Brudzinski's sign, but you can imagine how hard this is to do on myself.”
She laughed. Most probably because as much as she wanted to come off like a know-it-all nurse, she HAD NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT.
Listen. I wasn’t feeling well. Did I think I seriously had meningitis? I doubted it. Did I think that something else besides strep throat must be causing the head pain, neck pain, and dizziness? Fuck yes, Sherlock.
The nurse then snidely says, “Oh. Was meningitis something you read about? How long have you been a nurse?”
Me: Six years.
Nurse: Where?
Me: Medical Blank of Blank Blank.
Nurse: Really? I used to work there. I don’t remember you there? Are you sure?
Am I sure?
Not only did this bitch criticize my nursing critical thinking skills, which by the way, I don’t suggest anyone apply to themselves when you’re sick, she questioned whether I was lying about where I worked.
Seriously?
I also informed this nurse that narcotics make me nauseous.
She replied, “Oh! You’ll be fine!” as she pushed IV Dilaudid.
So, after dry heaving, crying, and asking the nurse three times for something for my nausea, it took an hour (my brother can confirm the time I waited) for another nurse (not my original nurse) to bring me an antiemetic.
I also should be a NP if it weren’t for the racist powers that be at a state university, but I dropped out before the academic lynching. (If you dispute this fact, you can take a look at my stellar transcripts and my thesis that earned me two awards.) So, I know a little bit about diseases, diagnosis, and physiological processes.
However...
Despite all this education and experience, I cannot jump out of myself when I am sick, examine myself, come up with a diagnosis, and treat myself.
I am not House, M.D.
And even House couldn’t do this, which is why he ended up with a bum leg.
In any case, I presented with a fever over 3 days, severe head pain, neck pain, neck stiffness, and photophobia. Along with my other symptoms associated with strep throat: exudate on tonsils, fever, throat pain, and ear pain.
Let me repeat: I had no idea what I looked like and could not examine myself.
Was I worried? Ya. Was I experiencing the worst headache of my life along with the inability to turn my head? Fuck yes.
The ER nurse asked me, “What? Did you think you had meningitis?”
I replied, “Well, I’m having the worst headache of my life, neck stiffness, and photophobia. I tried to assess myself for the Kernig's sign or Brudzinski's sign, but you can imagine how hard this is to do on myself.”
She laughed. Most probably because as much as she wanted to come off like a know-it-all nurse, she HAD NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT I WAS TALKING ABOUT.
Listen. I wasn’t feeling well. Did I think I seriously had meningitis? I doubted it. Did I think that something else besides strep throat must be causing the head pain, neck pain, and dizziness? Fuck yes, Sherlock.
The nurse then snidely says, “Oh. Was meningitis something you read about? How long have you been a nurse?”
Me: Six years.
Nurse: Where?
Me: Medical Blank of Blank Blank.
Nurse: Really? I used to work there. I don’t remember you there? Are you sure?
Am I sure?
Not only did this bitch criticize my nursing critical thinking skills, which by the way, I don’t suggest anyone apply to themselves when you’re sick, she questioned whether I was lying about where I worked.
Seriously?
I also informed this nurse that narcotics make me nauseous.
She replied, “Oh! You’ll be fine!” as she pushed IV Dilaudid.
So, after dry heaving, crying, and asking the nurse three times for something for my nausea, it took an hour (my brother can confirm the time I waited) for another nurse (not my original nurse) to bring me an antiemetic.
So, now that I’m feeling better, I just have this to say to that nurse that took the time to insult me while I was sick, but did not have the time to bring me something for my nausea,
Go fuck yourself.
Go fuck yourself.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
"You Speak English Well."
I often am reminded that I am not viewed as an everyday ordinary American at the most inopportune times. I abruptly got strep throat Monday evening, which really put an emergency break on all my activities, jobs, work out schedules, and other events on my calendar for the week. I woke up early Thursday morning at 3:30 am with unbearable head and neck pain. (For you medical people: on a scale of 0 to 10. It was an eight.)
I couldn’t pick my head up off the pillow without excruciating throbbing pain. I took Advil and told myself not to be a little sissy baby about it, but I could no longer stand it and worried that it may be something else going on instead of the run of the mill strep throat.
I called my brother and he drove me to the ER. I work nights in the hospital and I didn’t realize how goddamn bright the hospital is unless you are so sick you can’t open your eyes to the ever calming and soothing fluorescent lights.
I hung on to the check-in counter with my elbows, eyes closed, hair matted with grease, sweat, and sick nasty shit that usually gets washed away (but I've been too weak to stand in the shower the past three days). Little did I know that I was undergoing a citizenship test right there.
Registration lady (R.L.):
Your name?
Me:
Imelda Cuison.
R.L.:
Okay.
(Pause)
Is that Cush-in. Or Cuss-in.
Me:
It’s Quee- sawhn.
R.L.:
(Laughs)
Quee-sawhn?
(Laughs)
Okay. Sure.
She went on to ask me a number of interesting and intriguing questions about where I live, where I work, my occupation, my phone number, my work phone number… Basic questions when you check in to the ER.
Before she let me go to sit back down in one of the stained chairs in the waiting room, she commented nonchalantly, “You speak English well.”
I opened my eyes and looked up through the window.
Me:
I’m an American citizen.
R.L.:
What state were you born in?
Me:
Connecticut.
R.L.:
Okay. That will be all. Thank-you.
I left five hours later after Rocephin IV, NS at 75 cc/hr, Decadron IV push, Dilaudid IV push, Zofran IV push , CT scan of the head a neck with and without contrast, dry heaving into an emesis basin, Phenergan IV push, Phenergan IV push again, a diagnosis of tonsillitis, and a reminder that no matter where I was born, what I do, who I truly am, how much education I attain, or how many accomplishments I achieve…
I will always be an outsider in this great American land.
Thank-you, registration lady. I almost done well forgot what I learned from all these here years living in the U.S. of A.
I couldn’t pick my head up off the pillow without excruciating throbbing pain. I took Advil and told myself not to be a little sissy baby about it, but I could no longer stand it and worried that it may be something else going on instead of the run of the mill strep throat.
I called my brother and he drove me to the ER. I work nights in the hospital and I didn’t realize how goddamn bright the hospital is unless you are so sick you can’t open your eyes to the ever calming and soothing fluorescent lights.
I hung on to the check-in counter with my elbows, eyes closed, hair matted with grease, sweat, and sick nasty shit that usually gets washed away (but I've been too weak to stand in the shower the past three days). Little did I know that I was undergoing a citizenship test right there.
Registration lady (R.L.):
Your name?
Me:
Imelda Cuison.
R.L.:
Okay.
(Pause)
Is that Cush-in. Or Cuss-in.
Me:
It’s Quee- sawhn.
R.L.:
(Laughs)
Quee-sawhn?
(Laughs)
Okay. Sure.
She went on to ask me a number of interesting and intriguing questions about where I live, where I work, my occupation, my phone number, my work phone number… Basic questions when you check in to the ER.
Before she let me go to sit back down in one of the stained chairs in the waiting room, she commented nonchalantly, “You speak English well.”
I opened my eyes and looked up through the window.
Me:
I’m an American citizen.
R.L.:
What state were you born in?
Me:
Connecticut.
R.L.:
Okay. That will be all. Thank-you.
I left five hours later after Rocephin IV, NS at 75 cc/hr, Decadron IV push, Dilaudid IV push, Zofran IV push , CT scan of the head a neck with and without contrast, dry heaving into an emesis basin, Phenergan IV push, Phenergan IV push again, a diagnosis of tonsillitis, and a reminder that no matter where I was born, what I do, who I truly am, how much education I attain, or how many accomplishments I achieve…
I will always be an outsider in this great American land.
Thank-you, registration lady. I almost done well forgot what I learned from all these here years living in the U.S. of A.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Strange can clear your mind.
I’ll be viewed as an asshole for saying this and I’m not disputing that I’m a bona fide dickhead for practicing this philosophy at times, but there is nothing like strange to clear your fucking mind.
The kind of strange that’s 21 years old with a six pack, a GQ jaw line, and a very limited range of vocabulary. This isn’t the strange to leave your one and only for, but this is the strange to leave your dude for one night.
I think about all the day to day bullshit of a long term relationship.
The miscommunication:
What did you mean by that? –your significant other
Huh. I didn’t say anything. – you
Why do you always do this?! – your significant other
What? Do what? - you
Do you even care about me? –your significant other
What? What just happened? -you
The repetitive sex as interesting as brushing your teeth:
You wanna have sex? –your signficant other
Um. Sure. Why not? -you
Okay. –your significant other
(Long pause)
Oh! You mean right now? Can we wait until House is over? -you
The long boring conversations about the act of eating food:
What do you want for dinner tonight? - your significant other
I don’t know. What do you want for dinner? - you
I don’t know. What do you want? -your significant other
I don’t know. You pick. - you
No. It’s your turn. You pick. -your significant other
(This conversation will go on for another 10 minutes.)
And the other countless predictable interactions you have with the one you love. Please don’t get me wrong. When you love someone, you tolerate these banal activities with your sweetie. It’s comforting. It’s home.
But sometimes a nice piece of strange lands (literally) right into your lap. You could harmlessly be walking along and then bam! That shit slams right into you. You either pick yourself up and keep walking or let that mother fucker carry you off into the sunset (just for that night).
It’s up to you.
These occasional strange encounters have nothing to do with the person you have a life, a family, and relationship with. I stand by this: Absolutely nothing.
How can that be?
Because when it’s all over, you realize that strange doesn’t love you, won’t have a family with you, and won’t be there with you to experience life together.
Like I said: There’s nothing like strange to clear your mother fucking mind and remind you of the significance of your significant other.
Just keep it clean and don’t get caught. Or you might lose your significant other for good depending on how forgiving and understanding he or she is.
I am on the forgiving side and understand that shit sometimes happens to all of us. If I happened to leave someone on account of a one night mistake, I was lying and just waiting for a chance to hit the door and run.
From the words of wisdom of Chris Rock: Commitment will give you a headache every now and then, but new pussy will always clear your mind.
The kind of strange that’s 21 years old with a six pack, a GQ jaw line, and a very limited range of vocabulary. This isn’t the strange to leave your one and only for, but this is the strange to leave your dude for one night.
I think about all the day to day bullshit of a long term relationship.
The miscommunication:
What did you mean by that? –your significant other
Huh. I didn’t say anything. – you
Why do you always do this?! – your significant other
What? Do what? - you
Do you even care about me? –your significant other
What? What just happened? -you
The repetitive sex as interesting as brushing your teeth:
You wanna have sex? –your signficant other
Um. Sure. Why not? -you
Okay. –your significant other
(Long pause)
Oh! You mean right now? Can we wait until House is over? -you
The long boring conversations about the act of eating food:
What do you want for dinner tonight? - your significant other
I don’t know. What do you want for dinner? - you
I don’t know. What do you want? -your significant other
I don’t know. You pick. - you
No. It’s your turn. You pick. -your significant other
(This conversation will go on for another 10 minutes.)
And the other countless predictable interactions you have with the one you love. Please don’t get me wrong. When you love someone, you tolerate these banal activities with your sweetie. It’s comforting. It’s home.
But sometimes a nice piece of strange lands (literally) right into your lap. You could harmlessly be walking along and then bam! That shit slams right into you. You either pick yourself up and keep walking or let that mother fucker carry you off into the sunset (just for that night).
It’s up to you.
These occasional strange encounters have nothing to do with the person you have a life, a family, and relationship with. I stand by this: Absolutely nothing.
How can that be?
Because when it’s all over, you realize that strange doesn’t love you, won’t have a family with you, and won’t be there with you to experience life together.
Like I said: There’s nothing like strange to clear your mother fucking mind and remind you of the significance of your significant other.
Just keep it clean and don’t get caught. Or you might lose your significant other for good depending on how forgiving and understanding he or she is.
I am on the forgiving side and understand that shit sometimes happens to all of us. If I happened to leave someone on account of a one night mistake, I was lying and just waiting for a chance to hit the door and run.
From the words of wisdom of Chris Rock: Commitment will give you a headache every now and then, but new pussy will always clear your mind.
Monday, January 4, 2010
New York, New York... Big City of Dreams -If You're into That
I’ve been to New York City on several occasions. I even seriously considered moving up there, but after this last trip, I have made an official declaration that I will never move there.
On most trips to NYC, I’ve been a tourist, a wayward traveler, just hanging out and partying with friends. This recent trip was similar, only it was more of an abbreviated excursion due to time constraints, the holidays, and the need to spend time with someone in a very limited amount of time.
You know the New York Minute people talk about? Ya. It’s a lie. It’s actually equivalent to 15 to 50 minutes depending on the day of the week, weather, or some unforeseen event like particular unavailable subway trains that you had no idea would be unavailable until you took 3 trains to get there. Fun.
When you’re milling around, taking in sights and bullshitting on your vacation, who gives a fuck about travel time? But when you are trying to get errands done in a time efficient manner, you might as well go fuck yourself, because the city will fuck you before you get a chance to cross even one thing off your to-do list.
To make the trip more annoying, it was too bitter ass cold. -Too cold to do anything on public transportation. Is this not a PC/ Go Green thing to say? Well, fuck you. 17 degrees is goddamn cold. I’m not one to be lazy and not want to walk somewhere, but I’m sure as hell uncomfortable walking through wind chill that's piercing through my face and my numerous layers of clothes.
Not to mention all the fucking people. No matter where you turn, there’s a mother fucker in your way or you’re in his. I’m not what you call a “people person” and all that non-stop human interaction is not something I can deal with 365 days a year, especially in winter.
On second thought: an addendum to my previous declaration is that I’ll move to NYC, only if I’m a millionaire. Rich New Yorkers don’t ride the subway, deal with hordes of people, or live in unsavory locales. Meaning: if I’m established enough as a writer and get to live in a swanky abode in Tribeca next to Jay-Z and Leo DiCaprio, sign me the fuck up! But until then…
New York is only for vacations.
(I always digged the West Coast more than the East Coast. Take that for what you will.)
On most trips to NYC, I’ve been a tourist, a wayward traveler, just hanging out and partying with friends. This recent trip was similar, only it was more of an abbreviated excursion due to time constraints, the holidays, and the need to spend time with someone in a very limited amount of time.
You know the New York Minute people talk about? Ya. It’s a lie. It’s actually equivalent to 15 to 50 minutes depending on the day of the week, weather, or some unforeseen event like particular unavailable subway trains that you had no idea would be unavailable until you took 3 trains to get there. Fun.
When you’re milling around, taking in sights and bullshitting on your vacation, who gives a fuck about travel time? But when you are trying to get errands done in a time efficient manner, you might as well go fuck yourself, because the city will fuck you before you get a chance to cross even one thing off your to-do list.
To make the trip more annoying, it was too bitter ass cold. -Too cold to do anything on public transportation. Is this not a PC/ Go Green thing to say? Well, fuck you. 17 degrees is goddamn cold. I’m not one to be lazy and not want to walk somewhere, but I’m sure as hell uncomfortable walking through wind chill that's piercing through my face and my numerous layers of clothes.
Not to mention all the fucking people. No matter where you turn, there’s a mother fucker in your way or you’re in his. I’m not what you call a “people person” and all that non-stop human interaction is not something I can deal with 365 days a year, especially in winter.
On second thought: an addendum to my previous declaration is that I’ll move to NYC, only if I’m a millionaire. Rich New Yorkers don’t ride the subway, deal with hordes of people, or live in unsavory locales. Meaning: if I’m established enough as a writer and get to live in a swanky abode in Tribeca next to Jay-Z and Leo DiCaprio, sign me the fuck up! But until then…
New York is only for vacations.
(I always digged the West Coast more than the East Coast. Take that for what you will.)
Sunday, January 3, 2010
2009 - The Year of the Douche Bag
As 2009 has come to a close, it's not just an end of a year, but an end of a tumultuous decade. A decade of fear, rapid advances in technological communication, and the detached human relationships that have evolved from such activities. 9/11 in 2001 started the panic and Homeland Security enforced the legitimacy of fear in 2003. We spent most of this decade searching in vain for weapons of mass destruction while George W. Bush (who I like to call, G Dub) repeatedly reminded us of the War on Terror. Terror. Terrorists. Fear. Fear mongers. War mongers.
In this decade of terror, digital communication evolved rapidly. Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, text, and e-mail use grew to enormous proportions due to our constant state of fear and the irrational need to stay connected. These tools of delayed digital communication simulate "connectedness", but in reality, only bring us further apart as we text away on our LCD screens in public places or stay glued to our computer screens in the privacy of our own homes. We now prefer quick messages instead of engaging in real time conversations with people face to face.
Even sex is curtailed and convenient. Booty calls from the 90's have disappeared and been replaced with the 2 AM mass text "Hey" and whoever answers first, wins! No more drunken drooling voicemails after a night of drinking. -My god! That's just too personal. Convenience is at its peak enabling people, like Tiger, to carry on with dozens of women in the same time frame. A commentator on CNN asked, "Where did he get all the time?" It's easy. You don't have to talk anymore; you can just mass text chicks the same heartfelt message. It saves time and minimizes actual emotional connection.
On a personal note, digital communication has resulted in "The Year of the Douche Bag." Why? Because, I don't ever take the time to have actual conversations with these people or attempt to connect to them on a personal level. I don't have to. Texting and facebook messages are so much easier and simulate that I really care. Before I know it, a year later I'm lying in bed with someone I don't really know, want to know, and have barely ever really talked to.
Anyone can make themselves witty, interesting and highly intelligent through texts. People now have the time to look shit up, re-read text messages 50 times before they press send, spell check, or ask their buddy what they should say. As a result, I plowed through douche bag after douche bag because I just didn't have enough time to get to know them. (Who has the time?)
It's the start of a fresh new decade and I hope for no more arrogant pricks, beautiful dudes that harp on the fact they're beautiful, dirty capitalists that pretend they're anti-capitalists just to go out with me, dudes that call 24 times in one night, little boys that cry (I have the voicemails to prove it.) when they don't get their way, and all other forms of trifling pieces of shit. Good-bye douches. 2009 was your year, but 2010 will not be.
What will the new decade bring? More fear? More ways to communicate in a delayed fashion? Will we become buffoons in real time conversations unable to respond in fast paced dialogue?
As a result of this menagerie of fear and quick piecemeal communication, will we all evolve into douche bags who can't communicate personally, but anxiously feel the need to communicate impersonally through outlets such as Twitter, Facebook, or whatever else comes out?
I hope, my dear friends, that the next decade will not be "The Decade of Douches." It's catchy, but not something we should shoot for. As a member of Generation X, I found the next generation, Generation Y or the Millenials, an interesting, extremely detached and unmotivated bunch, but what will we expect from the next generation coming up, the Gen Z's? All they have ever known is the easy accessibility to instant messaging, text messaging, internet communication, google, WOW, wikipedia, YouTube and cell phones.
Good luck to us all as Gen Y and Z steer us into the age of digital "connectedness".
In this decade of terror, digital communication evolved rapidly. Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, text, and e-mail use grew to enormous proportions due to our constant state of fear and the irrational need to stay connected. These tools of delayed digital communication simulate "connectedness", but in reality, only bring us further apart as we text away on our LCD screens in public places or stay glued to our computer screens in the privacy of our own homes. We now prefer quick messages instead of engaging in real time conversations with people face to face.
Even sex is curtailed and convenient. Booty calls from the 90's have disappeared and been replaced with the 2 AM mass text "Hey" and whoever answers first, wins! No more drunken drooling voicemails after a night of drinking. -My god! That's just too personal. Convenience is at its peak enabling people, like Tiger, to carry on with dozens of women in the same time frame. A commentator on CNN asked, "Where did he get all the time?" It's easy. You don't have to talk anymore; you can just mass text chicks the same heartfelt message. It saves time and minimizes actual emotional connection.
On a personal note, digital communication has resulted in "The Year of the Douche Bag." Why? Because, I don't ever take the time to have actual conversations with these people or attempt to connect to them on a personal level. I don't have to. Texting and facebook messages are so much easier and simulate that I really care. Before I know it, a year later I'm lying in bed with someone I don't really know, want to know, and have barely ever really talked to.
Anyone can make themselves witty, interesting and highly intelligent through texts. People now have the time to look shit up, re-read text messages 50 times before they press send, spell check, or ask their buddy what they should say. As a result, I plowed through douche bag after douche bag because I just didn't have enough time to get to know them. (Who has the time?)
It's the start of a fresh new decade and I hope for no more arrogant pricks, beautiful dudes that harp on the fact they're beautiful, dirty capitalists that pretend they're anti-capitalists just to go out with me, dudes that call 24 times in one night, little boys that cry (I have the voicemails to prove it.) when they don't get their way, and all other forms of trifling pieces of shit. Good-bye douches. 2009 was your year, but 2010 will not be.
What will the new decade bring? More fear? More ways to communicate in a delayed fashion? Will we become buffoons in real time conversations unable to respond in fast paced dialogue?
As a result of this menagerie of fear and quick piecemeal communication, will we all evolve into douche bags who can't communicate personally, but anxiously feel the need to communicate impersonally through outlets such as Twitter, Facebook, or whatever else comes out?
I hope, my dear friends, that the next decade will not be "The Decade of Douches." It's catchy, but not something we should shoot for. As a member of Generation X, I found the next generation, Generation Y or the Millenials, an interesting, extremely detached and unmotivated bunch, but what will we expect from the next generation coming up, the Gen Z's? All they have ever known is the easy accessibility to instant messaging, text messaging, internet communication, google, WOW, wikipedia, YouTube and cell phones.
Good luck to us all as Gen Y and Z steer us into the age of digital "connectedness".
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)