PART ONE

There are quite a few things that I simply don’t care about. I don’t care that my hair is shorter than most of men in American (and that is not even factoring in the rampant baldness ‘deflowering" those manly-hairy apes... I mean, men), it doesn’t matter to me a whole lot what I am wearing (although I did go to a party last night in a very classy black sweater and pants only to discover once I sat down that the pants were covered with cat hair), and although I know I look better with at least some mascara on, I have two tubes of mascara that have lasted me (literally) years (and I know the hype about supposedly replacing your mascara every six months because of possible bacteria growth - that’s a rumor put forth by the people who made makeup).

But my entire soul weeps when I read about Kenyans being burned to death in, of all the places in the world, a church. I have to slap my hand over my mouth when I see a parent berating a small child in public for being... well, a small child. A new make of car weaves in and out of 60 mph traffic, never resorting to turn signals, and screeches around the corner of an intersection as a pedestrian jumps back onto the sidewalk to avoid getting hit.

I care about my kids enormously; and my animals. But emotionally-challenged people who derive a great deal of not satisfaction but comfort from being mad/upset/sad and do not want to be rescued from those feelings - in the name of survival, I have trained myself over the years to not care about. They get angry regardless of what I do or do not, I am not responsible for their anger, I didn’t cause it, and I do not have to be a part of it.

It’s nice to be in control of my emotions.