URBANE

Picture this: you are late, hungry, a little hung over and you have no option but to jaunt over to the bank (activity which you have been putting off for days because of more pressing matters), you struggle for a place to park, grab the pertinent documents including ID and proceed to the entrance of the bank.
There is a woman sitting outside, seudo nun like attire: long white socks, patent white leather shoes, long gray skirt and a white knit sweater, but this is not what really strikes you; what stands out is the unnaturally small head protruding from the neck of the sweater. Her hair is black long and wavy, but it looks too black even for a child and it seems not to fit her face which, if I didn't know better looks like a cadavers, in the first state of decomposition. You can see in her face a life long struggle, her wrinkles ebb deep into her face making it difficult to even make out her eye cavities; if it were not for those small black eyes scanning the side walk.
"Give me a peso, May Christ keep you in his heart" She sqacks this with no hesitation, to no one in particular, over and over. You can hear her recite this from afar in a deep yet certainly not quiet monotone voice, over and over to a point where you cant really make out if she is threatening "May Christ keep you in his heart; gamma a peso" or vice versa.
You can immediately realize why she hasn't been asked off the sidewalk like other beggars, anybody in their right mind would be terrified of crossing a word with this woman, most are so scarred that they fumble in their pockets or purses, accelerating their stride; I imagine in the hope of receiving a quick sidewalk one peso redemption, or some sort of holy cleansing for being in the inmediate vicinity (God forbid in direct contact) to this evil capitalistic, remorse monger.

There are various ways one can deal with defeat, some pro active others not so.
One conceivable way is to sit down and calmly analyze the situation, and in retrospect detail ones actions in the hope of identifying the potential flaw or flaws in the execution; formulate a plan of action that directly counters these alleged flaws from the root, minimizing thus the margin of future error and in turn the probability of defeat.
Another way might be to go to your closest/ cheapest bar or such establishment and proceed to drown ones sorrow away as quickly and efficiently as possible; replacing the dismay with pure unadulterated inebriation. This second alternative might not serve the purpose of dealing directly with the issue at hand and it might even exacerbate it; but it does have a milenary human appeal that cannot be ignored and that is not likley to subside.
Cheers people

I live in what could be considered as a triplex; three small houses situated in the same lot. A young family lives in the house closest to the street, I habituate he middle one and the third one is currently vacant.
There is little interaction between the above mentioned family and I, except when one of us has to move our cars to let the other out; but alas they seem like good people: they have a young son who cant be more than 6 years old and he is the focus of this post.
For the sake of confidentiality I will name this young boy Alberto.
Poor Alberto has had a rough life up to now (and from what I can gather) he seems healthy, he has toys and his parents seem to take good care of him, feed him, clothe him, pamper him; but there is a problem; I don't think that he is over protected or has issues with low self esteem, but he seems to (like thie title of this post suggests) have an invisible thorn stuck on his side.
Alberto cries day and night, he cries because he is scared he cries because he is confused, he cries when he is left alone he cries when he is with company, he probably cries because he feels so sad for himself crying all the time.
Sometimes I am woken up by his yells and banshee screams early early in the morning, he shreeks so loud that if I didnt know his parents (and well the thorn issue) I would testify to the fact that they were burning his small calice less feet with hot irons or that he was subjected to some other mediaeval infomration extraction technique.
I oft feel bad for Alberto and his parents, who, in a very noble and attentive way constantly strive to keep poor Alberto from perpetual weepdome, and I try to think of ways to aleviate Albertos problem; so far I have only come up with one viable solition: leave me alone with Albertos spoiled ass, so I can give him a legitimate reason to whail. Problem solved.