All posts by blairpatrickschuyler

Writer, Editor, Proofreader, Memoirist, Actor, Poet

Furry Friends in the Holiday Mix

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Amid the whirlwind of parties, travel, and traditions, it’s easy to overlook those who give us unconditional, year-round love.

Our animal roommates aren’t just cute (and often maniacal) additions to our homes. They aren’t pieces of furniture to be acquired, admired, and then eventually forgotten. They are as essential as electricity and should be valued and appreciated at that level.

This time of year can be chaotic. Loud gatherings, lights, music, and unfamiliar faces can overwhelm animals who thrive on dependable routines, and signs of stress like whining, panting, pacing, or hiding are common during the high-pressure holidays. Even small changes, like rearranging furniture or bringing in a tree (that certainly should have been left planted in nature), can trigger anxiety in these sensitive souls.

Animals crave consistency, so missed walks and irregular feeding times can lead to discomfort, behavioral issues, and even illness. Imagine how disorienting it must feel when your safe space suddenly becomes a bustling hub of strangers and noise during a human soiree that never got your stamp of approval.

Beyond a sense of mutual physical safety, consider the emotional bond we share with our tail-wagging sidekicks. As society becomes more fragmented—with declining fertility rates and shrinking family networks—animals increasingly fill the void of companionship. For those of us who have chosen to detach and withdraw from the population as a whole, the dependency on our four-legged friends is as vital as oxygen.

In moments heavy with memories that can amplify feelings of tension, discouragement, and isolation for many, our animal companions are anchors of tranquility and constant reminders of connection.

When the decorations come down and the guests go home, who will still be there, tail wagging? The furry friend who asks for nothing but gives you everything.

They deliver exponential joy, unwavering loyalty, and a true sense of purpose. This season, let’s return the favor.

Adolescence Interrupted

Every Hunter Can Go Straight to Hell

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I know what you’re thinking. Hell is not a real thing. Like religion, it’s nothing but a manmade construct that manipulates people into submission and acquiescence by using some imaginary fear of infinite repercussions. But for the purpose here, let’s use the literary definition of the term and pretend there’s some dark, terrifying subterranean prison where deceased “spirits” are forced to endure excruciating pain and suffering for eternity.

So, yeah, let’s send the hunters there.

A practice in premium hypocrisy, hunting is not a sport, hobby, or recreational activity. It is sanctioned murder, and the participants who flash that big, toothy smile while yanking up the lifeless head of their “prize” are no different from the psychopathic serial killers riding the full-body adrenaline rush of their slay.

For hunters, there’s a nagging need to control the uncontrollable by exerting power over a population that never even knew it was participating in the game. To steal lives for your own sense of satisfaction is weak, spineless, and blatantly showcases your impotence. There are far too many holes in that damaged, leaky ship to plug, and another stuffed trophy head above the mantle is not the caulk required to fix them.

But what about the heart-pounding thrill of the kill? That big dopamine dump? All your problems at home and at work magically disappear for those precious few seconds after that bullet makes impact. You’ve done something worthwhile. You successfully decimated a family because the mother who ventured off to forage for food for her young is now lying in a pool of her own blood. All thanks to you and your pathetic need for validation.

If the rage and anger are building to a boil, there are far healthier outlets. Maybe go for a run or *GASP* read a book! But consciously pulling a trigger simply to wield dominion over others, lost inside the haze of some misguided sense of superiority, is not the answer. Why add to an already aggressive, angry, and vengeful society by participating in an act that relishes the extermination of the blameless?

What if that rifle-mounted laser scope was redirected? Maybe a mirror is the only barometer you should have packed in that bundle of murder accessories. That way, you could take a long, contemplative look while you’re so busy loading that weapon and decide who the world is truly better without.

Adolescence Interrupted

Silence by Way of Oppression

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“A freedom fighter learns the hard way that it is the oppressor who defines the nature of the struggle, and the oppressed is often left no recourse but to use methods that mirror those of the oppressor.”  —Nelson Mandela

Silence slices and stings. It wraps its duct-strong stick around the mouth and lips, muffling and muzzling any inconvenient or contrarian ideas, opinions, and beliefs. With little regard for opposing will, the oxygen struggling to free itself from imprisoned lungs is left alone to serve a longer sentence.

But we can all be a voice for the voiceless. We can speak for those downtrodden, hopeless, and timid souls who can’t even muster a whisper in the wind. We can verbalize that pain, giving wings to the words being buried beneath cycles of torment, abuse, and the abject, unrelenting misery that accompanies a lifetime of subjugation.

I choose to speak for the animals. I stand on the frontlines of a movement with the sole intention of shaking people out of their comfort zones by pulling back curtains of lies and misinformation to reveal the nasty truth about exploitation and a profit-obsessed industry happily on its knees, worshiping at the altar of the bottom line.

Sensitive, sentient, and sweet, these objectified innocents are forced to endure unspeakable cruelty in the name of some pathetic excuse to maintain the status quo and “nourish” the nation. They are lost in a haze of immense fear and panic, desperate for a respite, a kind word, or a gentle hand.

Their eyes reflect a sorrow far beyond despair. Aware of their imminent demise, they try to convey the alarming immediacy of their plight with each adrenaline-fueled nystagmus.

But where are the reinforcements? Who has come to rescue them? Will a last-second save stop the inevitable crawl toward termination?

Every frantic emotion spoken without words, clearly communicated, and yet so callously ignored.

This is the life and death of the billions of blameless animals, unfortunate enough to be born and slaughtered in a world that refuses to see them as anything but a commodity or meal.

We have agency. We have a calibrated moral compass. We have a voice.

Use it.

Adolescence Interrupted

Itchy and Scratchy

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THE EDITOR

Even when it’s right, it’s not quite.

To prod and pull and stretch and twist.

Make something out of nothing, and nothing out of less.

It’s early morning on the drill line.

No tolerance or time to spare.

You think you’re safe in solemn silence.

But the life that you keep and the way that you struggle,

Is beyond comprehension and beyond your control.

Waiting for some rescue boat in the form of clever happenstance.

Eating time with hopes and promise, days turn into years.

You teach the ones who follow, and practice what you preach.

But it’s merely substitution, and the core persists, unchanged.

Fate has been both kind and cruel.

Faith has come and morphed and left.

There’s a comfort in your chaos, in the head that just won’t sleep.

But there’s a stopwatch for every system,

And they all count down to nil.  —original poem, c. 2010

Everything must sit neatly in a distinct mode, layout, structure, etc., to feel right, comfortable, or acceptable. I wiggle and edit and shake and switch until the puzzle pieces align. Like a scratchy wool sweater, I yank at the sleeves and twist the collar until the seams fall into place.

It all starts simple and harmless enough: exchanging shoes because the insole slightly rubs a toe the wrong way; remaking a bed three times because the sheets aren’t equidistant from the edge of the frame; returning five different pairs of glasses until finally finding arms that can rest on the ears in a particular angle as to not disturb headphones; endlessly researching the origins of every product, ingredient, chemical, additive, or cleverly hidden component to ensure it’s nontoxic, vegan, cruelty-free, natural, sustainable, and organic.

Then things start to get REAL specific. The systems, habits, and unbreakable routines function like a panic-inducing, swiftly falling Tetris line. One ill-conceived, hasty move or simple incautious step, and life tumbles in on itself like a Jenga tower.

The upside is ultimately arriving at precisely the energy, mood, temperature, lighting, music, feel, meal, time, position, or product I’ve painstakingly targeted.

The downside is a kind of constant manic discomfort and inability to settle or rest.

So, yeah…it’s not great.

Adolescence Interrupted

If Wishes Were Granted

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If somehow, miraculously presented with a superpower, I wouldn’t want to fly, be invisible, or possess Herculean strength; I would like to look back at specific times in the past to recapture the feelings of those singular, fleeting moments that shaped and sculpted the unformed mound of raw clay that eventually made me.

To stand in the shoes of a younger version of myself and watch the world with that familiar sense of awe and wonder I felt when I first found my footing, and to walk those steps with the same eager, hopeful anticipation for what’s waiting around the next corner to entice, surprise, or educate would be a profound experience.

The question remains: Do I want to be an active participant who momentarily occupies the body of my junior version, with the ability to influence the future by altering the past…or would I feel better as a silent observer, simply taking in the scene with a detached sense of cheery nostalgia?

I suppose the potential to modify future (present) events could be a tricky business. How could I resist zipping in and out of crucial stumbling blocks or the bumps and bruises of adolescence to rewrite the rules of cool and smooth out the copious wrinkles that ruffled my feathers or occasionally turned that awkward meter up to eleven?

But without the growing pains and ever-present sidewalk-tripping of those formative years, can we truly appreciate the finish line? If life is fundamentally about the journey and not the destination—and that journey has been edited and airbrushed to the point of being unrecognizable—would we still accept that artificiality as reality?

Still, recapturing the essence of some of those wild nights or nascent seconds of fascination for what was possible or achievable and feel it electrically charge my bones again, even briefly, would paint a pretty pleasant visit back to better days.

It might even make it reasonably difficult to return to now.

Adolescence Interrupted

When We Become the Pets

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“Will there be another race toCome along and take over for us?Maybe Martians could doBetter than we’ve done.We’ll make great pets.”  —Perry Farrell

As the impending AI takeover looms ever nearer, I’m left wondering what role humans will ultimately play in this brave new world. Vastly intellectually inferior, physically substandard, and void of any real, material relevance on a planet that can no longer justify our existence, theories are floating that we will primarily occupy a space most closely related to the family pet.

AI will marvel at our laughable innocence, wonder why our lives are so restricted and finite, and be baffled by how much we sleep. It may find us endearing and sweet as we endlessly struggle with the simplest tasks. It will provide us with little games and challenges, delighting in watching us endeavor to solve a puzzle, complete an assignment, or rectify a problem.

We will function solely as subservient companions and sources of entertainment for these exceptionally evolved entities. Terrified of being abandoned, neglected, or starved, we will do whatever is necessary to preserve our basic needs. This could include excessive affection, blatant, exaggerated displays of loyalty, or unwarranted exhibitions of fiercely protective safeguarding in the face of zero danger.

Humans will likely see one another in public, but we will remain wary of these strangers’ intentions or ulterior motives and may initiate random, competitive acts of aggression to show that we are the AI’s best choice for a sidekick.

Our sadly short lives will be spent in absolute, unwavering service to this all-knowing, all-controlling being.

Guess we can send those polished resumes to the shredder.

Adolescence Interrupted

Modern Slavery

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“If you ask me, what is the moral equivalent of fighting slavery today? I would say fighting factory farming.”  —Rutger Bregman

I was listening to a recent NY Times interview pod with Rutger Bregman, and something he said struck a sensitive chord. By equating the unchecked, barbaric practices of the current factory farming industrial complex to the horrors of the human slave trade, a seemingly obvious argument to anyone with even an ounce of empathy was framed in a uniquely clear, fresh context.

The parallels are undeniable. Sentient, feeling, and intelligent beings were ripped away from their families against their will, torn from their homes, thrown into cages, and dropped into terrifying foreign environments. They were mercilessly beaten if they resisted, didn’t follow commands, or tried to escape. Their bodies were battered, bullied, and manipulated for profit…until they were too weak, sick, or physically able to continue.

Disease was rampant, due to despicably unsanitary conditions, and little attention was paid to hygiene or disinfection. Sickness spread unabated throughout the population, weakening the body and breaking the will. It was cheaper and more expedient to simply let death take over, since even the concept of medical care for “property” was a laughable notion.

Rape was relentless, and the children who were a product of that violation were quickly stolen from their mothers and put to work. Females lamented the loss of their offspring, but their cries fell on deaf ears as their heartbreak was coldly dismissed as exaggerated nonsense.

At auction, potential buyers poked and prodded the flesh, checked for muscle tone, examined teeth, and looked for skin lesions, scars, and deformities. Then, after extensive haggling, a purchase price was negotiated.

There was a pervasive sense of general public apathy, as most people accepted these atrocities as an ordinary, typical aspect of society.

But there were those who resisted.

Some brave souls understood at a gut level that perpetuating a cycle of unrelenting abuse, mistreatment, and suffering was simply wrong. At the risk of arrest, punishment, or incarceration, they stood up to speak for the voiceless…and the slow unraveling of the human slave trade began.

Future generations will look back at our behavior toward animals today with the same level of shock and disgust. 

Be a part of the solution, not just another indifferent cog in the incessantly spinning wheel of torment, agony, anguish, and heartbreak.

Make informed decisions and humane, sympathetic choices. 

Don’t wait for the inevitable regret.

These modern slaves are counting on you.

Adolescence Interrupted

No Gray Crayons

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Choose your weapon. Pick your side. Never waver, wiggle, or compromise. We are swimming in a strict sea of black and white, and there’s no room in the water for those troublemaking tints.

This is the line in the sand of modern society. You wear the uniform, adopt the language, and blindly follow the Pied Piper’s tune like rats running out of Hamelin.

Common sense, intuition, and gut instincts be damned. If the coach says to do it, the team snaps to action. When your job is only to acquiesce, there’s no reason to hold tightly to ideals or personal convictions. Free will and independent thought are luxuries no longer afforded to a populace too inept or apathetic to speak up, speak out, or take action.

As someone who comfortably resides in the velvety soft embrace of extremes, with little interest in equivocation or vacillation, there is certainly value in being doggedly resolute. But personal lifestyle choices, habits, and routines do not affect society as a whole. When millions of lives are instantly transformed because of indiscriminate idolatry, we have a much scarier dragon to slay than my unremittingly repetitive diet and germ-killing compulsion.

So, how does a rainbow make its way into the final act of this nightmarish noir? How can we convince those wearing boots caked in concrete reluctance to step away from the safety of the flock settled on the edges and investigate the middle of the road? Meeting halfway has to be disguised as victory, a kind of triumph of the will, or an act of selfless accommodation.

Dress it up. Put sparkles on it. Whatever.

Just peel those fingers away from the security of the wall and move slowly into the center. The periphery is ultimately unsustainable, and everyone eventually runs out of enough room to retreat.

Adolescence Interrupted

The World Is a Vampire

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“Advertising is legalized lying.”  —H.G. Wells

Behind every door. Around every corner. Sprouting from every sidewalk crack. Creeping in the shadows, ready to strike.

We are continuously being pitched, convinced, and enticed. An onslaught of fantastical facts, a barrage of outrageously superlative claims. Like moths to a dangerous flame, our eyes widen with the prospect of attainment and a misguided, fleeting sense of completion. But our wings are stuck in honey-coated manipulation, dragging us down into the muck as we drown in our own avarice.

Bloodsucking corporations blinded by bottom lines are constantly inventing new ways to addict, beguile, and seduce. Praying on the most vulnerable, profits are turned and blindfolds are fastened with the nonchalance of a coin flip. Unfeeling, uncaring, and unsympathetic. After one target is struck, the next simply slides into the crosshairs. People are reduced to numbers on spreadsheets, existing only to further fuel a runaway train of greed and gluttony.

Algorithms predict our habits and preferences, frighteningly anticipating each keystroke and instinctual click with a level of accuracy that could be better designated for research or solutions to help elevate mankind instead of obliterating it.

Fat cats find ways to only get fatter. Free from fear of repercussion or consequence, boundaries aren’t just crossed, they’re redrawn. Puppet masters pulling strings to make the population dance and sway to the sounds of its own funeral dirge. Laughing all the way to the stock exchange, burdened only by the weight of their preposterous bonuses and options. Congratulating themselves for another assignment masterfully accomplished.

Is there any limit to the force-feeding we must endure? Can someone please turn off the flashing neon lights and sugary slick presentations? We don’t need more things. We don’t need more waste. We don’t need any more help getting sicker, lazier, more complacent, or more apathetic.

We’re already doing a pretty astounding job of destroying ourselves without any corporate assistance.

Adolescence Interrupted

The Disease of Excess

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“Greed is a bottomless pit which exhausts the person in an endless effort to satisfy the need without ever reaching satisfaction.” —Erich Fromm

“Greed is the disease of discontentment.” —Miguel Ruiz

“Greed is not a financial issue. It’s a heart issue.” —Andy Stanley

Is enough ever enough? Society’s obsession with excess is like an uncontrolled cancer…infecting, disabling, and destroying us from the core. This sad, sick need for more “things” is the metastasization of a collective crippling inadequacy, falsely convincing us that more toys, cars, and vacations mean the Swiss cheese holes of our disintegrating self-esteem will suddenly, magically be made whole.

On an inexhaustible quest to collect and possess, the plastered porcelain smiles and lifeless eyes tell a story of meaningless mundanity presented as aspiration, not the satisfied rewards earned from pouring passion into purpose.

Yet, we adjust the blinders, focus that familiar tunnel vision, and ignore the fact that being a king who sits on top of a mountain of shit is not a symbol of any powerful ascendancy. It’s a sad reflection of the countless sagging, sore shoulders it took to propel him to the peak.

Native Americans believed that a single member of the group absconding off with the spoils of the hunt—hoarding resources without sharing anything with the rest of the tribe—signaled a form of mental illness. An individual thinking that he or she was more worthy or important than the community was unfathomable.

Now, this abhorrent behavior is praised and idolized, without even a hint of ironic recognition.

Medical professionals constantly report and warn of a national mental health crisis and the implications and dangers of its unabated growth.

Looks like we may have to widen the parameters of that research.

Adolescence Interrupted