I have rich white girl problems. I have discretionary time, almost enough of it. I have discretionary income, almost enough of it. I have a car that is almost paid for and still looks and runs well, although it's also nearly eight years old. I have health insurance and life insurance, although I take these benefits for granted. I have a job at a good company and I like the people I work with, although I wish they were interested in the things I'm interested in, and didn't spend so much time dwelling...

I was surprised at how upset I was to hear an acquaintance insist that empathy doesn't exist. She asserted that experience is so individual that it can't be "appropriated." What follows are excerpts of the essay I wrote and bound under the cover shown above.

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I have a problem with both the ownership...

I really like work. Work has mostly been in cubicle farms, being paid to think and write for other people. There's been a fair amount of saying things others need to know and don't want to hear, and the attendant drama; hilarity doesn't always ensue, and it doesn't always end in my favor, but I sleep well at night, and I look myself in the eye every day.

There are times when I do wonder if it's worth it. This time, for instance.

Agile project management makes job roles...

Hello.

My chosen name is gelofogo, which can be translated as "Coldfire." It seems to fit my temperament. It feels of a kind with "Cassius Hueffer" from the Spoon River Anthology:

"Life was not gentle to him,
And the elements so mixed in him
That he made warfare on life,
In the which he was slain."

I am not slain, but I find myself arising over and over again from my own ashes, like a befuddled phoenix wondering why its tail smokes....