In downtown Cleveland yesterday, there was a shooting in a high school. Apparently a multiple-weapon-slinging 14-year-old felt he had run out of options and ran amuck, shooting two students and two teachers before turning a gun on himself. Fortunately, no one sustained fatal injuries, excepting of course, the gunman (gunboy? gunchild?).

As incidents like these rise at an alarming rate, and I myself prepare to enroll my child in public schools (kindergarten next fall), I find myself feeling as helpless and upset as any parent across the country.

What if I do everything right? What if my boys grow to be angels, respectful and peaceable and loving...and just happen to be sitting in the wrong seat in the wrong classroom at the wrong time? THIS is why these incidents are OUR problem. Lay the blame for each individual incident where you will (parents? security?) but in the long run, they are society's problems (are they not society's products?) and will not be ignored.

Here is my suggestion. I propose, no, I CHALLENGE the media never to release the name(s) of the shooter(s). For this, I believe, is what the majority of them are seeking. A posthumous sort of infamy, a martyrdom, a final call for attention to what they perceive to be their insurmountable struggle. While I'm sure it does seem insurmountable to them (hell, I vividly remember the slow, cruel torture of puberty), anyone considering going out in a blaze of glory might reconsider if they knew there would be no "glory." Let us give no recognition whatsoever to those turning to guns and violence. Tell me about the victims, tell me about the families, tell me about the policy changes being enacted to prevent future tragedies...But do NOT tell me the name of the shooter. I could happily live out the rest of my days not knowing.

What do you think? This is my idea. This is just my two cents on an issue that affects us all, so please, if you have anything to add or even care to tear apart my theory, now's the time! We can write petitions, we can lobby our representatives for change...I refuse to believe we are helpless bystanders. We are the righteous majority...Let us not be cowards in the dictatorship of a brazenly immoral few.

Hark! What doth approach on stealthy feet? What foe dare draw so near with hungry mouth under brazen smile? The better to steal your youth with, my dear.

My birthday, that's what. That facade of a celebration designed for people to draw 'round and analyze the shit out of you while making witty little banter, like, Oh, but you don't look a day past (insert random number here)! And all the while, their thoughts clear as ticker-tape across their foreheads...Botox...Botox...Botox...Has no one told this poor girl about Botox...

I may be a tad bitter. Just recently, while attempting to apply eyeliner, I ran into a new obstacle...This prominent WRINKLE at the corner of my eye. Son of a bitch. I fully expect a turkey-gobble-neck and some guacamole arms to match any day now.

In an effort to stave off this alien tranformation at quite this rapid pace, I've enlisted the help of one Carmen Electra. She promises to tone and tighten while teaching me, get this, how to perform a striptease. Because nothing's sexier than rapidly aging guacamole arms wrapped around a pole.

Thank you, dear reader(s), for allowing me this, the most silly, basest of vents. I fully realize that crow's feet indicate a life filled with laughter, and am grateful. For the whole package, still intact, thank God for small favors.

As for aging, I think Forrest Gump had it right when he said with such remarkable insight...Shit happens. Indeed.