tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85496848493002875312011-08-01T19:19:11.490-07:00Miyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13543555478690734257noreply@blogger.comBlogger61100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8549684849300287531.post-32623524695091018372009-07-17T07:47:00.000-07:002009-07-17T07:54:55.654-07:00

Grilling weenies and burger chopson butternut-coated petrified rocksto give it that sweet sweet flava that you sava.Catch the oozy yum from that.Beautiful boy, point to the starsand whisper reassurance in my ear.My smile it reaches wide and high,Pull back – I’m a prism light refraction in your eyeand that made my smile make me sigh.Back on my own, my queendomresurrected, new beginningsand sultry

Miyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13543555478690734257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8549684849300287531.post-21452597729180146262009-07-08T20:33:00.001-07:002009-07-08T21:33:48.464-07:00

As Mom and I sat in the waiting room for Dad to come out of his second spinal surgery, I realized I hadn’t prepared myself at all for the risks that were involved. Partially because I still see Dad as invincible and partially because I just can’t allow my mind to go there. Even for a younger person, two spinal surgeries within two months is high risk. But it was necessary. So when the doctor

Miyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13543555478690734257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8549684849300287531.post-66605153141977086362009-03-01T21:16:00.000-08:002009-03-01T23:25:01.579-08:00

Looking through my tired old CD collection yesterday afternoon, I came across an unlabeled sapphire-blue disc I hadn’t seen in a while. It took a minute to register what it was, and when it clicked, I grabbed up my keys and ran out to my car. I couldn’t load it up fast enough. Soon my car was filled with grimy, new school breaks, given to me years ago by the one breakbeats DJ in Dallas’

Miyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13543555478690734257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8549684849300287531.post-84818943121130445102009-02-19T15:25:00.000-08:002009-02-19T15:33:25.659-08:00

You know how you meet lots of people in your lifetime, but only a small percentage of those people are ones that you hope to still be friends with when you’re hunchbacked, wrinkly and shuffling along with a cane? And within this small percentage, there may be a few who have made such an indelible impression on you that you hold them close to your heart even if you lose touch with them.That would

Miyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13543555478690734257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8549684849300287531.post-44198217486662071652009-02-12T22:02:00.000-08:002009-02-12T22:24:45.549-08:00

So I got my rejection call the other day. My phone buzzes and I see the UNT Brand Manager’s name on the caller ID. I know before I flip my phone that I didn’t get the job. I know this because it’s 6:08 PM and you don't usually get a congratulations call from a new employer at the end of a work day. That time slot is reserved for the sad saps who didn’t make the cut.After I hung up with Ms. Brand

Miyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13543555478690734257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8549684849300287531.post-32263701504871177832009-02-10T15:25:00.000-08:002009-02-10T23:23:41.391-08:00

After a recent viewing of "Gran Torino", I spent some time thinking about why I, and probably 8 hundred million other women and men, love Clint Eastwood. Why his appeal transcends age, race, politics and language. It’s really pretty simple. Because he is a man’s man. Despite the fact that he has long been a lover of the arts, composed the scores for a number of his movies, releases bugs back into

Miyahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13543555478690734257noreply@blogger.com3