#new york city workers comp

[jonsmith234]

How Can We Choose The  Right Workers' Compensation Lawyer in NYC

Choosing the right workers' compensation lawyer in NYC can be a daunting task, especially if you are unfamiliar with the legal system and the various options available to you. However, it is important to take the time to research and choose a lawyer who is experienced, knowledgeable, and dedicated to helping you get the compensation you deserve.

When looking for a workers' compensation lawyer in NYC, it is important to consider their experience and track record. Look for a lawyer who has a history of success in helping clients like you get the compensation they deserve. You should also consider their knowledge of workers' compensation laws and the legal process, as well as their ability to communicate clearly and effectively with you.

It is also important to choose a lawyer who is dedicated to your case and willing to fight for your rights. Look for a lawyer who is responsive to your needs and concerns, and who is willing to take the time to listen to your story and understand your situation.

Finally, consider the fees and costs associated with hiring a workers' compensation lawyer. While it is important to find a lawyer who is affordable, keep in mind that the most experienced and successful lawyers may charge higher fees. It is ultimately up to you to decide what you are comfortable paying and what level of representation you need.

Overall, choosing the right workers' compensation lawyer in NYC requires careful research and consideration. Take the time to find a lawyer who is experienced, knowledgeable, and dedicated to helping you get the compensation you deserve.

You can get amazing information related to the best Personal injury lawyers in New York City.

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[dnfao3tags]

Hello!

I'm desperately searching for a fic in which George is a factory worker who came to America in search of a fortune but is now very disillusioned and Dream is a rich heir born into wealth. The background of the fic is that the factory workers in the city are coming together in protest of the factory owners' harsh treatments and Dream and others (i think Wilbur was a leader) were helping them, and Badboyhalo was an antagonist. I can't remember the name but I think there was a 'land'/'lands' in it? It was such a great fic with beautiful, vivid descriptions of the time... I need it like i need to breathe air and drink water to live on :')

Any help would be appreciated, even knowing the name will heal my heart a little:')

Thank you and i hope you have a good day/night!

Fic Not Found / Was Found

oh this one is a classic!

— The Wasteland by backtopluto (teen | comp. | 118k | Graphic Depictions Of Violence)

In 1890s New York, Dream is old money rich and George is an immigrant living in tenement row. A murder brings them together, and together they learn to be more.

[nickgerlich]

From Manila, With Love

If you have been in a fast food joint in the last couple of years, you have probably noticed the shift away from human cashiers and ordering, replaced by touchscreen kiosks. They are easy to use, and assuming you don’t use your fingertips to touch those nasty germ-filled screens, make for a quick and seamless transaction. (Pro tip: Use your Proximal interphalangeal joint—that’s your big knuckle—on your index finger. You’re welcome.)

I’m pretty sure we all understand the reasons why restaurateurs have gone down this road. It saves labor, helps solve the problem of finding labor in the first place, and alleviates concerns of whether your employees will bother to show up.

But what about the people who still crave a little human interaction, or have trouble using the technology? Is there a middle ground?

Turns out there is, but not exactly how you thought it might work. Last weekend this newsy item went viral on X and then spread across the social and news graphs. SanSan, a small fast food chicken chain in New York City, has installed not just touchscreens, but also monitors that effectively allow for Zoom cashiers to pop in, ready to assist as needed and provide a thin layer of customer service. It’s just that the virtual cashiers are in the Philippines.

It’s a brilliant idea, to be honest. The minimum wage in the Philippines is $3.75 an hour, compared to New York City’s $16, and once you factor in all other labor expenses here in the States, like Workmen’s Comp, that Zoom cashier costs only about 10% as much as they would in NYC. Ding ding ding.

Naturally, there will be critics, in part because it is still less than personal compared to how we did things in the old days (meaning pre-COVID), and because they are outsourcing labor. The latter is a bone of contention that won’t go away, as long as there are global economies with workers willing and able to perform for much less than their US counterparts.

Lest you think that SanSan has completely stripped the process of American culture, customers are presented with the opportunity to tip the cashier on their screen, something that probably would not happen if you were in the Philippines. Tipping culture is alive and well, even onscreen.

This is not the first time that video cashiers have been used, and the Philippines is not the only labor source. Basically, wherever you have reliable internet and willing workers, this is a very real option. The digital era reveals itself in yet another way.

There is an upside, of course, and that is the face on the screen is connected to SanSan’s ordering system, and can help customers if they make mistakes or have special requests. Not everyone feels comfortable using the technology (I’m looking at old people, myself excluded).

Digital Natives (meaning Gen-Zers) will have no problem placing an order, because it is little different from everything else they have done online and with touchscreens. But for those whom find this all a little bit rattling, having someone to hold your hand and settle your anxieties is a good thing.

What’s next, though? If SanSan or any of the others need or want to trim even more labor costs, the next logical step is a digital assistant like Alexa or Siri. This will require a hefty commitment to AI, but at the same time may still fall short of the human touch who would easily know how to add extra soy sauce or not use fish sauce, for example.

I suspect, though, that this is where we are headed. We can also find some comfort in knowing that the digital naysayers are, sadly and yet quite literally, a dying breed. But know ye this truth as well: You too will get old one day—if you live long enough—and you may very well find yourself as the future grumpy old person who can’t or won’t adapt to whatever is the new thing then.

If I were in NYC, I’d stop by SanSan in a heartbeat, and even go out of the way to do so. I want to see this in the wild, not just in a news report. And if it’s not busy, I’d strike up a conversation with that cashier halfway around the world. There have to be some stories waiting to be told.

Dr “Hold The Mayo, Please” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[pcwpolwrestling]

2/25-PCW Extreme Political TV from South Carolina

Political Championship Wrestling Extreme Political TV Greenville, South Carolina Sunday February 25th, 2024

Announcers: ‘The Voice of PCW’ Johnny Suave AGE: 50 / HT: 5’ 11” WT: 195 HOME: Philadelphia, PA HAIR: Brown / STYLE: Like Ronnie Dunn / FACE: Goatee DRESS: Brown suit without tie

Colleen Crowder of ‘That Big New York Newspaper that Pushes Narrative as News’ AGE: 38 / HT: 5’ 5” WT: 142 HOME: New York City, NY HAIR: Black / STYLE: Curly / FACE:Narrow face with rounded jaw, turned-up nose, faint freckles, and thin lips. Bulging blue eyes, thin eyebrows. DRESS: Black pants suit

Opening: The raucous crowd of Greenville roared with electric fervor as Johnny Suave, the unmistakable Voice of PCW, bounded into the ring with the kind of kinetic energy that could jumpstart a dead 1974 Ford Pinto. His shock of hair stood on end, as if each strand was vying for its moment in the spotlight, and his voice boomed through the arena like a megaphone at a rally.

“Welcome, one and all, to PCW’s Extreme Political TV!” Suave bellowed, his arms sweeping the air with the grandeur of a maestro conducting a symphony of chaos.  “I am Johnny Suave.  She is Colleen Crowder from ‘That Big New York Newspaper That Pushes Narrative as News.’

Beside him, Colleen Crowder, the left-leaning color commentator whose byline also graced ‘That Big New York Newspaper that pushes ‘Narrative as News’, rolled her eyes with such theatrical aplomb that even the back rows could witness her dissent. With a flourish of mock indignation, she pressed her palms over her ears, though a sly grin betrayed her amusement at Suave’s relentless enthusiasm.

“Johnny, I wish you wouldn’t say it like that,” she quipped, “and I’m two decibels away from a workers’ comp claim.”

Ignoring the barb, Suave revved up the crowd further, the pitch of his voice climbing higher, as if he were a human hype machine fueled by the passion of the partisans that filled the stands.

“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we will bear witness to a clash of titanic egos, a battle for the soul of the American Patriots!” He pointed a dramatic finger toward the entrance ramp. “Former PCW CEO Donald Trump, the man with more gold than Fort Knox, faces off against Nikki Haley, South Carolina’s own political pugilist!”

The audience erupted, a cacophony of cheers and jeers crashing against the turnbuckles like a tidal wave of public opinion.

“Let’s not forget,” Suave continued, leaning in with the confidential air of someone disclosing state secrets, “Haley’s coming into this ring backed by many of the Progressive Alliance and with anti-Trump factions of the American Patriots cheering her on!”

As Suave’s words hung in the charged atmosphere, banners emblazoned with the logos of the Progressive Alliance and American Patriots rippled above the crowd like the flags of warring nations. The stage was set not just for a wrestling bout, but for an ideological showdown that would reverberate through the hallowed halls of PCW history.

“Also tonight,” Suave continued, pacing the canvas with the fervor of a preacher at the pulpit, “we unveil the four tag teams who will grapple for glory and gold! Who among them will become the new PCW Tag Team Champions?”

The crowd hung on every word, their anticipation building like static before a storm. Suave had them in the palm of his hand.

Colleen Crowder, having rolled her eyes enough times to risk vertigo, finally seized her moment to interject. The sarcastic slant of her lips belied the confidence in her voice as she grabbed a spare microphone.

“Suave, darling, save your breath and their cheers,” she snapped, the acerbic edge to her tone cutting through the din. “We all know when the dust settles, the Blue Wave will sweep the division clean.  It’s inevitable and all the wishful thinking on your and the American Patriots’ part.”

A mix of boos and applause greeted her statement, but Colleen remained unfazed, her gaze fixed on the hard camera with unshakable conviction. She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, a smug expression playing across her features.

“Mark my words, viewers at home,” she continued, addressing the audience beyond the confines of the arena, “no matter which teams step into this squared circle, the winds are blowing, and just like in 2020 they’re colored deep, deep blue.”

Johnny Suave shot Colleen a look that was part disbelief and part begrudging respect for her audacity. The dance between their contrasting ideologies was as choreographed as any match, each parry and thrust delivered with the precision of practiced performers.

Green World Order Promo A chorus of cheers and jeers erupted as ‘The Extreme Vegan’ Brock Cole Lee emerged, bathed in a spotlight that painted him in shades of earthy green. Flanked by his compatriots PeaceNick, GreenPete, and Peta from PETA, they strode down the ramp with the confidence of warriors on a crusade.

“Greenville, South Carolina! The heart of the resistance beats within your chest!” Lee’s voice was a force of nature, resonating throughout the arena as he seized the mic with both hands. His gaze swept across the crowd—a tempestuous sea of faces, some eager, others skeptical. “We are here not just to win matches, but to change the core of everything you know about PCW. I stand before you as the true progressive champion PCW doesn’t just want… but needs!”

Lee’s declaration set off a wave of reaction, the audience divided yet captivated by his impassioned oratory. He stood in the center of the ring, a beacon of change, his GWO allies nodding with solemn agreement.

Then, amidst the cacophony, Peta from PETA locked eyes with an unsuspecting fan mid-bite of a juicy hamburger. A sneer contorted her face as she pointed an accusatory finger, her voice slicing through the commotion. “You there, with the beefy atrocity! Can’t you see the pain, the suffering, you’re endorsing with every bite?”

PeaceNick glided forward, arms outstretched as if embracing the world, his mantra resounding like a gentle river over the rocks of discord. “Peace to all beings, harmony to the planet. Reject the violence on your plates, embrace a life of compassion and sustainability.”

The message weaved through the crowd, striking chords of unity and discord alike. Some nodded thoughtfully, pondering the implications, while others shook their heads, clinging to their carnivorous convictions.

In this theater of conflict, every action, every word carried the weight of ideology—a battleground where the struggle for hearts and minds was as fierce as any grapple or grudge match. As the chant of “Green World Order” began to swell, it was clear that the battle lines had been drawn, not just on the canvas, but in the very soul of PCW.

The restless energy of the crowd pivoted sharply, as if yanked by an invisible chain, when the arena erupted into a raucous cheer as ‘Not Just Intolerable… not just unbearable… he is JUSTIN SUFFERABLE!’ burst onto the stage, a whirlwind of charisma and defiance, with ‘No Frills’ Chris Escondido, his stoic presence a stark contrast, right at his side.

“Here we go,” Suave bellowed, barely heard over the din, “these are two of the men who were there at the beginning in 2005… two men who helped put the ‘extreme’ in PCW’s Extreme Political TV!”

Sufferable, microphone in hand, didn’t miss a beat, his voice cutting through the clamor like a hot knife through butter. “Listen up, GWO! You think you’re the change PCW needs?” His sneer was palpable. “I’m the original game changer,  I’m a former PCW champions, and I’m here to claim what’s mine- the first title shot!”

Colleen Crowder leaned back, her gaze flickering between the GWO and the originals, a smirk playing on her lips. “Really?  Our narrative states that going back to the past isn’t progressing to the future.”

Lee’s face contorted, a snarl replacing the serene smile as the GWO bristled behind him, PeaceNick’s chants drowned by the deafening approval for the Originals. Peta from PETA, her earlier fervor turned to frustration, crossed her arms in a huff, glaring at the duo who dared to challenge their green crusade.

Before the tension could snap, a figure emerged from the shadows, his robes flowing behind him like dark smoke—Professor McCarthy, clutching the ‘good book of politically correct things, thoughts, and views’ against his chest like a shield. With the Flock (Codee Pink, Emily S. List, The Young Jerks, and The Legion of Anti-Fascists aka…LOAF) backing him up, Professor McCarthy’s eyes were alight with dogmatic fervor.

“Disciples of correctness!” McCarthy thundered, his voice echoing with the zeal of a televangelist. “Behold the doctrine that shall purify PCW!” He raised the good book high, its cover catching the light and casting reflections across the awed faces of his followers.

“Is it me, or did things just take a turn for the spiritual?” Suave quipped, his eyebrow arching in amusement.

“Please,” Colleen scoffed, waving a dismissive hand, “This has nothing to do about spirituality or religion.  This is about conformity and doing the right things.”

The GWO and the Flock, united by a common enemy, stepped forward, the lines between environmental activism and political correctness blurring as they stood shoulder to shoulder, their opposition to Sufferable and Escondido a living symbol of their syncretic alliance.

Sufferable smirked, bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready for whatever sermon or smackdown came his way. And in that moment, the stage was set—a showdown of ideologies, with the PCW ring as its pulpit and battleground.

The Flock, in a wave of zealous conviction, surged forward without warning. Justin Sufferable’s smirk evaporated into the harsh reality of fists and boots as they collided with his chiseled physique. “No Frills” Chris Escondido, ever the stalwart ally, leapt to the defense of his comrade, his own fists cutting through the air like hammers seeking nails.

“HOLY CRAP!” Johnny Suave’s voice pierced the rising cacophony, an echo of the ECW days of old. “The Flock has descended upon Sufferable and Escondido like a biblical plague!”

“Johnny, this has nothing to do with religion,” Colleen Crowder corrected him, her political disdain coloring her commentary even amidst the chaos.

“Green World Order” members stood back-to-back with McCarthy’s disciples, their previous squabbles forgotten in the face of a common adversary. The alliance between environmental fervor and politically correct dogma was a sight to behold—a bizarre coalition formed in the squared circle of PCW.

An unholy union of greenery and correctness trying to impose their will on the PCW Originals!” Suave continued, his voice reaching fever pitch.

“Will” was hardly the word—as Sufferable staggered under a rain of blows, his indomitable spirit kept him vertical. Escondido, for all his lack of frills, was a whirlwind, his every move an instinctive counter to the coordinated assault from the Green World Order and The Flock.

“Can you believe this?” Suave yelled, his disbelief shared by the raucous crowd. “Sufferable and Escondido are standing their ground against the relentless tide of McCarthyism and eco-extremism!”

But the numbers game was against them. As Escondido took a knee, wincing from a particularly effective strike from PeaceNick, McCarthy stepped forward, his ‘good book’ now wielded like a weapon of mass indoctrination.

“Heretics of the ring,” McCarthy bellowed, his voice dripping with a mix of triumph and condemnation. “We will shout you and any resistance to progress down”

“Isn’t that ironic?” Suave mused, a sardonic smile on his lips. “A man preaching about progress with the subtlety of an inquisition.  This conflict is far from over. Sufferable and Escondido have been shouted down tonight, but if I know anything about these PCW originals, it’s that they’ll come back fighting harder than ever!”

“It’s over, Johnny,” Colleen said.  “That’s our banner headline.”

As the scene closed, the image of Sufferable and Escondido, defiant even in defeat, lingered long after the cameras cut away, leaving the fans clamoring for what was to come in this epic clash of principles and personas.

MATCH #1-AMERICAN HEARTLAND COALITION TAG MATCH: Main Street USA vs. The Bi-Partisan Dream Team vs. The Deplorables The air in the arena was thick with anticipation, a heady mix of sweat and excitement that clung to the skin like the heavy humidity of a midwestern summer. In the center of it all stood Kimber Marshall, her voice echoing through the charged atmosphere as she announced the American Heartland Coalition’s three-way tag match.

“Introducing first, representing the very soul of America’s heartland,” Kimber boomed, her tone rich with enthusiasm, “Farmer John Deer and Ken Worth—American Trucker… Main Street USA!”

The crowd erupted as the first chords of a twangy country anthem blared through the speakers. The duo emerged from the back, their boots thumping against the ramp with each purposeful stride. Farmer John, clad in overalls and a straw hat, waved to the cheering masses, his face etched with the weathered lines of countless seasons under the sun. Beside him, Ken Worth, with his trucker cap and denim vest, exuded the rugged charisma of a man who’d spent a lifetime crisscrossing the highways that stitched the fabric of this great nation together.

“If that entrance doesn’t scream ‘apple pie and Fourth of July,’!” Johnny Suave’s voice cut through the noise from the announcer’s table, a hint of wry amusement in his tone. “I don’t know what does!”

As Main Street USA soaked in the adoration, their opponents made their entrance.

“Our next team are The Deplorables… Kimber continued.  “’Red Solo Cup’ Ray McAvay and ‘The Prairie Populist’ William Daniels Bryan!”

McAvay raised his red solo cup high, a symbol of rowdy celebration, while Bryan’s eyes gleamed with the fervor of populist rhetoric.

“And the final team… RINO-The Wonk Machine… Blue Dog D… They are the Bi-Partisan Dream Team!

RINO-The Wonk Machine, a towering figure in a suit jacket tailored to accommodate his muscular frame, strode out beside Blue Dog D, whose moderate blue attire clashed yet complemented his partner’s conservative red. Together, they were a walking, grappling representation of the ongoing struggle to find common ground in the political ring.

“RINO and Blue Dog are about as different as you can get,” Suave noted, leaning into his microphone. “But they are trying to show that they can set aside their differences to work together for this match.”

In the squared circle, these six men faced off, the tension palpable as the bell rang. The audience leaned forward, anticipating the clash of ideologies and wrestling styles about to unfold.

The bell sounded and the clang of steel chair against bone reverberated through the arena as the American Heartland Coalition’s three-way tag match spiraled into a frenzy of ECW-style carnage. Farmer John Deer, his flannel shirt now torn to reveal a tapestry of scars from matches past, swung a haymaker that found its mark on RINO-The Wonk Machine’s jaw. The political powerhouse stumbled back, nearly tripping over a campaign sign turned weapon.

“This match is under way!” Johnny Suave’s voice boomed over the chaos, adrenaline pumping through his veins like the pulsing beat of a rally chant. “The winner will represent the American Heartland Coalition in next week’s PCW Tag Team title match!”

While Main Street USA and The Deplorables exchanged blows with the gritty determination of a filibuster gone rogue, The Bi-Partisan Dream Team struggled to adapt to the no-holds-barred landscape. Blue Dog D aimed for diplomacy, extending a hand to Ken Worth-American Trucker, only to receive a resounding slap of a kendo stick across the knuckles. Cooperation, it seemed, was off the table—unless you counted the one being set up in the corner by ‘Red Solo Cup’ Ray McAvay.

“That’s not going to work,” Suave quipped, wincing at the sight of RINO-The Wonk Machine trying to reason with a turnbuckle before being viciously irish-whipped into it by William Daniels Bryan. “These two can’t seem to agree on a defense strategy, let alone an offense.”

As the match descended into bedlam, the selection process of the American Heartland Coalition became clear – survival of the fittest, or rather, the most extreme.

“Uh-oh, Blue Dog’s caught in a red state… of emergency!” Suave’s voice cracked as Blue Dog D dangled precariously over the ropes, teetering on the edge of elimination. The bipartisan efforts had crumbled under the weight of partisanship, quite literally, as The Deplorables shoved him over the top rope, his fall broken by the remnants of a shattered placard promoting unity.

“RINO’s trying to mount a comeback, but oh! It’s a superkick party courtesy of Farmer John Deer, and RINO is down for the count!” Suave narrated, as the referee slid into position and slapped the mat. “One…two…three! And there goes The Bi-Partisan Dream Team!”

ELIMINATED: The Bi-Partisan Dream Team

The canvas quaked under the relentless brawling of Main Street USA, their denim and flannel a stark contrast to the polished boots and spandex that littered the ring. The crowd roared as Farmer John Deer hoisted ‘Red Solo Cup’ Ray McAvay up on his broad shoulders, setting him up for what seemed like an inevitable elimination.

“Farmer John’s got McAvay high above the cornfields now!” Suave bellowed into his microphone.

Ken Worth-American Trucker was busy tangling with ‘The Prairie Populist’ William Daniels Bryan, trading blows with the ferocity of a trucker defending his last cup of joe. The two behemoths collided with the force of clashing ideologies, neither willing to give an inch.

“Ken Worth is driving it home, but wait—Bryan counters!” Suave’s play-by-play mixed metaphors were as wild as the action itself.

Just then, disaster struck for Main Street USA. In a moment of distraction, Deer’s grip faltered, and McAvay slipped free, landing behind the unsuspecting farmer. With a swift kick to the knee that echoed throughout the arena, McAvay brought the giant down to size.

” That’s gotta hurt!” Suave winced audibly.

The end came swiftly. McAvay and Bryan joined forces, pummeling Farmer John with a series of tactical strikes before launching him over the ropes with a double clothesline—a spectacle that left the audience gasping.

“Main Street USA has been officially closed for business tonight,” Suave declared somberly as Ken Worth, seeing his partner toppled, fought on valiantly but ultimately succumbed to the same fate, eliminated by a devastating Prairie Powerbomb courtesy of Bryan.

The Deplorables now stood unopposed, their grins as wide as the political divide they represented. The referee raised their hands in victory, signaling their advance to the four-way tag title match.

WINNER: The Deplorables (‘Red Solo Cup’ Ray McAvay and ‘The Prairie Populist’ William Daniels Bryan

“McAvay and Bryan have done it! They’ve secured their spot in the match! Suave said, while Colleen Crowder, clutching her notes like a lifeline, struggled to hide her dismay.

“Another dark day for the PCW,” Colleen muttered, her voice tinged with defeat as she cast a sorrowful glance toward the fallen heroes of Main Street USA. “They helped Donald Trump defeat Hillary Clinton at Extreme Election Night 2016 and prevented the first eve woman PCW CEO.”

“Controversial or not, The Deplorables are heading to Extreme Election Night with momentum on their side,” Suave countered, trying to maintain neutrality despite the charged atmosphere.

As the victors celebrated, the resonating boos from half the crowd mingled with cheers from the other, mirroring a nation divided, while Colleen’s expression spoke volumes without uttering another word.

“Well, the American Heartland Coalition has chosen their team… by earning it in the ring,” Suave said.  “Let’s see who the Progressive Alliance choose.”

Progressive Alliance Choose Their Tag Team The camera cut from the raucous ringside to the calmer, but no less tense, backstage area. Hakeem Jeffries and Chuck Schumer stood before a backdrop emblazoned with the Progressive Alliance logo, their expressions solemn yet determined as they prepared to make their announcement.

“Tonight,” Jeffries began, his voice steady and commanding, “we introduce a tag team that embodies our core values and our vision for a sustainable future. Ladies and gentlemen, The Green World Order’s GreenPete and Brock Cole Lee!”

Schumer stepped forward, adding gravitas to the moment. “These warriors of environmental justice are more than wrestlers; they are champions of the progressive left, ready to grapple with the climate crisis and pin down inequality.”

As if on cue, GreenPete and Brock Cole Lee burst into view, their wrestling attire a vibrant palette of green with ‘GWO’ emblazoned on the front. Their entrance was less about theatrics and more a statement of purpose, their eyes locked forward, determination etched onto their faces.

“WE’RE CHANGING EVERYTHING!” Brock Cole Lee bellowed again.

“Great,” ‘The Voice of PCW’ Johnny Suave quipped, his tone dripping with cynicism as he watched the proceedings on a monitor. “Just what we need, eco-warriors in spandex preaching cap and trade between suplexes.”

“Johnny, don’t be so cynical,” Colleen Crowder chided, her voice laced with reproach. “They represent a vital message and a crucial part of our political spectrum. It’s about time the ring reflected the diversity of thought that shapes our world.”

“Sure, Colleen,” Suave sighed, rolling his eyes. “I’ll sleep better knowing that GreenPete hit a frog splash for climate change.”

“Mark my words, Suave, they’re going to make waves,” Colleen retorted, unfazed by his sarcasm.

In the midst of this back-and-forth, Professor McCarthy emerged from the shadows, clutching an aged tome to his chest—the ‘good book’ of wrestling lore. He studied the new tag team with a gleam in his eye, nodding approvingly as though recognizing the dawn of a new era.

“Indeed,” he murmured, loud enough for only a few nearby to hear. “Let the ideological conflict commence.”

As the chapter closed, the air buzzed with not just the anticipation of a wrestling match, but the undercurrents of a brewing political storm, with the ring as its tempestuous epicenter.

The Sports Entertainment Corporation Choose Their Tag Team The camera panned across the packed arena, capturing the sea of rabid fans waving their signs and chanting.

“The Voice of PCW” Johnny Suave leaned into his microphone, his voice cutting through the din like a razor. “Let’s not waste any more time and send it to the back where the power brokers of the Sports Entertainment Corporation are currently stationed. Believe me, you don’t want to miss what they have to say!”

As the feed switched to the SEC’s lavishly decorated headquarters, the air of expectancy was palpable even through the screen. Corporate Sports(entertainment) Programming Nation reporter Rebecca Morris stood poised, her smile polished and gleaming under the studio lights. “This is Rebecca Morris, bringing you the exclusive scoop straight from the heart of the SEC. The atmosphere here is electric, folks! Today, we’re expecting an announcement that will change the landscape of professional wrestling as we know it.”

At that moment, Triple R swaggered into frame, arrogance exuding from every pore of his tailored suit. The ‘New Sports Entertainment Genius,’ with a sneer permanently etched on his face, stepped up to the mic, his disdain for the American Heartland Coalition as thick as the gold chain around his neck.

“Look, I’m going to make this short because frankly, my genius shouldn’t be wasted on talking about bottom-feeders,” Triple R began, his voice dripping with contempt. “The inclusion of the American Heartland Coalition in our Championship four-way match is like letting a team from the Mid-American Conference or, heaven forbid, the Sun Belt Conference play in the College Football Playoff. It’s a joke! But don’t worry, I’ve got the solution.”

He paused, letting the suspense hang in the air before continuing. “I present to you, the tag team that represents everything the SEC stands for—bought and paid for with NIL money, the finest investment in sports entertainment today: Gator Bates and The Alabama Kid!”

The camera zoomed in on Triple R’s smug grin as he motioned off-screen. Two towering behemoths stepped into view, their muscular forms barely contained by their suits, their eyes cold and calculating. Gator Bates cracked his knuckles menacingly while The Alabama Kid tipped his cowboy hat with a smirk.

“Rest assured, these two men are the embodiment of corporate excellence. They’re not just wrestlers; they’re assets. And come next week, they’ll show everyone why the SEC always—always—comes out on top.” Triple R’s laughter echoed as the scene faded to black, leaving the audience buzzing with anticipation for the clash of titans set to unfold.

The American Patriots Choose Their Tag Team The camera cut to the gritty confines of the American Patriots’ dressing room, walls plastered with faded American flags and posters of wrestling legends. Mike Johnson was pacing back and forth like a caged eagle, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. Across from him, Mitch McConnell sat hunched over a weathered oak desk, littered with papers and a red phone that looked like it came straight out of the Cold War era.

“Mike, we’ve got to get our heads in the game,” McConnell grumbled, pushing up his glasses with a finger as he poured over graphs and charts. “The donors expect results, and the SEC—they’re playing hardball.”

Johnson stopped pacing, turning sharply on his heel to face McConnell. “Mitch, we didn’t claw our way up to the top by buckling under pressure. We consult, we strategize, but when that bell rings, it’s about the fight in the dog, not the size of the checkbook.”

McConnell nodded, picking up the red phone and murmuring into it for a moment before hanging up. “Consultation complete. Our backers trust our judgment, and they’ve greenlit our choices.”

“Good,” Johnson cracked his knuckles, eyes alight with the fire of competition. “Because I’ve got just the pair who can handle anything those corporate cronies throw at us.”

With a dramatic flair, Johnson flipped open a leather-bound folder, revealing two glossy 8x10s: ‘The Original PCW Rookie Sensation’ Starz N. Stripes, draped in Old Glory, posing with an unwavering gaze; and ‘The One Man Anti-Hollywood A-List’ Stone Chism, his chiseled jaw set in a look of defiance against the glitter of Tinseltown.

“Starz N. Stripes, he’s got the spirit of ’76 coursing through his veins. The kid’s a natural, a symbol of what we stand for—grit, determination, and the American dream,” said Johnson, pointing at the photo with a sense of pride.

“Stone Chism,” McConnell added, his voice taking on a rare note of admiration. “A former big Hollywood man who isn’t swayed by the bright lights and false promises any longer. He sticks to his guns, and that’s what we need.”

Their debate had been intense, each move calculated with the precision of a chess grandmaster. They understood the implications of their decision—the pride of the American Patriots hung in the balance. It wasn’t just about winning; it was about sending a message that couldn’t be bought, a testament to their resilience.

In the shadows of the dressing room, the air crackled with the electricity of the impending battle. This was more than a match; this was political warfare in the squared circle, and the stakes had never been higher.

The camera panned back to the ringside where ‘The Voice of PCW’ Johnny Suave stood, microphone in hand, his signature leather jacket reflecting the lights above. With a gleam in his eye and a smirk that suggested he knew secrets yet to unfold, Suave leaned into the mic, the crowd’s roar swelling behind him like a tempest.

“PCW fans!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the arena. “If you thought tonight was extreme, brace yourselves for next week’s political pandemonium! The SEC, those power-suited titans of the squared circle, will step into the ring against the American Patriots’ very own Starz N. Stripes and Stone Chism!”

The mere mention of the match-up sparked a frenzy among the fans, their chants reverberating off the walls. Suave continued, riding the wave of excitement.

“But that’s not all, oh no! This is a four-way dance of democracy—adding to the fray, we’ve got the Green World Order, the Progressive Alliance’s eco-warriors, ready to recycle some pain!”

He paused, letting the audience digest the gravity of what was coming, his hands gesturing as if he were painting the battle before it even began.

“And let’s not forget The Deplorables, the American Heartland Coalition’s rough-and-tumble grapplers who are no strangers to controversy,” Suave added, almost whispering now, as if sharing confidential intel with each member of the audience.

“Next week, these factions will clash in a tag title match where ideologies will be body-slammed and convictions will be put into a sharpshooter submission. It’s going to be a no-holds-barred brawl for the soul of PCW, and only the strongest beliefs will survive!”

His words hung heavy in the air, the crowd on the edge of their seats, each fan with their allegiance, each one hungry for the spectacle to come.

“All right. Trump…”

Colleen booed.

“…versus Nikki Haley…”

Colleen cheered.

“…is next!” Suave declared, his voice reaching a crescendo. “Can Donald Trump deliver the knockout blow tonight? We’ll find out right now.”

MAIN EVENT-AMERICAN PATRIOTS-SOUTH CAROLINA MATCH: Donald Trump vs. Nikki Haley The arena pulsated with the kind of fervor you’d expect from a high-stakes PCW showdown, the air thick with anticipation, as if the very fabric of the political wrestling world hung in the balance. From the back, the former governor of South Carolina, Nikki Haley, emerged into the spotlight. Her gait was one of unyielding confidence, each stride resonating with purpose as she made her way to the squared circle.

“Here comes Nikki Haley!” barked Johnny Suave, the Voice of PCW, his voice cutting through the roar of the crowd like a steel chair smacking against the unforgiving concrete floor. “Look at this, folks! She’s got backers from both the Progressive Alliance and some of the staunchest American Patriots walking alongside her. Now that’s a coalition!”

Indeed, flanking Haley were figures who would normally be at loggerheads, united behind her in a display of solidarity that was as unsettling as it was mesmerizing. The unlikely entourage was a testament to the magnetic pull of her political prowess, a cross-pollination of ideologies all marching to the beat of her drum.

The audience was a mosaic of anticipation, eyes darting to the entrance ramp, breaths held, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And drop it did, with the bombastic flair only one man could muster.

“Wait for it…” Suave teased, his voice barely audible over the mounting buzz.

And then, he burst onto the scene—Donald Trump, or should we say, the Trumpinator, clad in the iconic garb of the silver screen cyborg, complete with faux metal adornments and an exaggerated swagger. As he made his entrance, the red seats erupted into a cacophony of cheers and chants, a tidal wave of excitement crashing down upon the arena.

“Good God Almighty!” Suave hollered. “The former CEO is in the house, and he’s dressed like the Terminator! This is classic Trump, always knowing how to make an entrance and work this crowd!”

Trump raised his arms, soaking in the adulation, a smirk etched across his face as he locked eyes with Haley across the ring. It was a moment that transcended the spectacle of wrestling—it was a narrative spun out of the very threads of American politics, a satire playing out in real-time.

“The stage is set,” Suave said.  “Donald Trump versus Nikki Haley. And this match is under war.

The bell clanged, cutting through the charged atmosphere like a verdict from on high. Nikki Haley squared her shoulders, eyes fixed on the looming figure across the ring, as the audience leaned forward, every breath held in collective anticipation.

As if summoned by some primal instinct, Trump lunged forward, the persona of the Trumpinator now fully animated within the confines of the squared circle. He moved with a brashness that belied his years, a titan reawakened, each stomp towards Haley echoing a campaign promise of old.

“Trump is bringing the power game early!” Suave roared, narrating the unfolding drama. “He’s not here to debate; he’s here to dominate!”

With the agility of a seasoned pro-wrestler, Trump scooped up a steel-folding chair, its cold gleam reflecting the arena’s lights and the hunger for victory in his eyes. Haley dodged the first swing, but Trump was relentless, his offense as aggressive as his politics, each strike a headline, each grunt a soundbite.

Not to be outdone, Haley rolled away from a crushing blow and sprang to her feet, her hands finding the grip of a Singapore cane hidden under the ring. The weapon sang through the air, meeting Trump’s chair with a clangorous symphony of defiance.

“Look at Haley! She’s not backing down from the Trumpinator!” Suave’s commentary matched the frenzy of the crowd.

The two political gladiators clashed amidst the sea of signs and slogans, their weapons an extension of their wills. Every impact sent shockwaves through the stands, the thuds and crashes a percussive backdrop to this most American spectacle.

Haley managed a strike that sent Trump reeling into the ropes, the momentum shifting like a swing state’s vote. But the Trumpinator was not to be underestimated; he rebounded with a clothesline that stopped Haley’s rally cold, a reminder of the raw power behind the showman’s facade.

“Trump’s showing why he’s the headliner, the main event!” Suave’s voice was hoarse with awe. “He’s got the resilience of a political campaign that just won’t quit!”

Amidst the sound and fury, the real narrative emerged—not merely a contest of strength and skill, but a metaphorical melee, a wrestling embodiment of the body politic itself. As steel met cane, as flesh met canvas, the true face of Political Championship Wrestling was revealed: unyielding, outlandish, and utterly captivating.

The raucous crowd’s energy surged as the Trumpinator, with calculated precision and a showman’s flair, began to orchestrate the downfall of Nikki Haley. The fans, a motley crew of die-hard political wrestling aficionados, were on their feet, chanting his name in a rhythmic cadence that reverberated off the arena walls like a war drum.

“Trump! Trump! Trump!”

Each chant was punctuated by another deft maneuver from the former PCW CEO—now donning steel-toed boots, he landed a punishing stomp to Haley’s midsection, leaving her gasping for air. Johnny Suave’s voice boomed over the PA system, matching the intensity of the crowd, “He’s not just building walls; he’s building momentum!”

The diverse sea of supporters had become one entity, united in their anticipation of the spectacle unfolding before them. The Progressive Alliance members, some still clutching their ‘Haley for Change’ signs, could only watch in dismay as their champion struggled under the relentless assault. The American Patriots, however, roared their approval as Trump flaunted his dominance, a gloat etched onto his face.

“Look at him, folks!” Suave cried out, his commentary slicing through the cacophony. “He’s playing this ring like a chessboard, and right now, he’s got Haley in check!”

The atmosphere thickened with tension as Trump, sensing the end was near, backed into the corner of the ring. He began to shadow box, throwing jabs into the air, each mock punch drawing a wave of excitement from the spectators. They knew what was coming—the Trumpinator’s famous finishing move—and they braced themselves for the climax of this political satire made flesh.

“Here it comes!” Suave’s voice reached a fever pitch. “The Art of the Deal Drop!”

Trump charged forward like a bull, his eyes locked on the staggering Haley. With a swift motion, he scooped her up and slammed her down with an earth-shattering powerbomb, his signature move executed with devastating precision. The referee slid into position, hand raised, ready to tally the decisive pinfall.

“One! Two! Three!”

The bell clanged, echoing the finality of the moment. The crowd exploded, half in jubilation, half in shock, the sound nearly peeling the paint from the arena’s rafters. Trump stood victorious, arms raised, basking in the adulation of his fervent supporters while the red seats thundered with applause.

“Can you believe it?!” Suave was nearly breathless, the sweat on his brow visible even from the cheap seats. “Trump has done it again, he secures the win with the Art of the Deal Drop!”

As the Trumpinator soaked in his victory, the crowd’s reaction spoke volumes about the state of PCW—a world where politics and pro wrestling collided in a spectacle so extreme, so surreal, that it could only exist in the imagination of its most passionate fans.

WINNER: Donald Trump

The roar of the crowd still reverberated through the arena as Nikki Haley’s form lay grounded, her chest heaving with the effort of breath. Yet, even in defeat, a spark kindled behind her eyes—a flame that no slam to the mat could extinguish. With gritted teeth and a warrior’s resolve, she forced herself onto trembling knees.

“Boy, oh boy, folks,” Johnny Suave was quick to remark, his voice a mix of awe and anticipation. “You can knock Haley down, but you cannot keep her out. This is far from over!”

The noise began to swell again, not for the victor this time, but for the vanquished. As Haley staggered to her feet, her hand stretched out, reaching for something beyond the ropes. A stagehand, empathizing with her unspoken plea, passed her a microphone. The gesture wasn’t lost on the audience; they hushed, sensing that the next round was about to commence—not with fists or steel chairs, but with words as weapons.

“PCW may have seen me hit the mat tonight,” Haley’s voice cut through the silence, clear and strong despite the physical toll. The camera zoomed in, capturing the fiery determination etched on her face. “But let me assure you—I am not out of the fight. Not by a long shot.”

A mixed chorus rose from the stands. The Progressive Alliance supporters looked on with respect, nodding at her indomitable spirit. Meanwhile, the American Patriots, still riding the high of Trump’s victory, jeered and booed, a cacophony of dissent trying to drown out her promise.

“Listen up!” Haley continued, her tone rising above the din. “This match was but one battle in a war that rages on. And I vow, here before all of you, that I will not rest until the ideals we cherish are championed once more in the ring of PCW!”

“Wow, what a statement from Nikki Haley!” Suave’s voice was almost reverent. “She might have lost the bout, but she’s certainly not conceding the war!”

In the stands, the faces of PCW fans were a mosaic of emotion—admiration, skepticism, anger, hope. The Progressive Alliance leaders exchanged looks that spoke volumes—there was much to be done, new strategies to devise. And among the red seats, the American Patriots’ leaders stood impassive, their expressions inscrutable, yet one could sense the cogs turning, calculating their next move in this grand chess game.

As Haley exited the ring, the tension in the air was palpable, electric with the charge of conflict yet unresolved. The chants and cheers evolved into a single, pulsating entity—a living thing that hinted at the battles ahead.

The screen faded to black, the sounds of an arena divided echoing into the night.

RESULTS: -AMERICAN HEARTLAND COALITION 3-WAY MATCH: The Deplorables defeated The Bi-Partisan Dream Team and Main Street USA -MAIN EVENT-AMERICAN PATRIOT’S SOUTH CAROLINA MATCH: Donald Trump defeated Nikki Haley

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Rafferty Lawyer: Everything You Need to Know About This Prominent Law Firm

PO Lawyer - If you're looking for a reliable,prominent, and experienced law firm, Rafferty Lawyer might be the one for you. Based in New York, the firm has been providing legal services for years, earning a reputation for their commitment to clients and impressive success rates. Rafferty Lawyer is a full-service law firm with offices in New York City, Long Island, and Westchester County. Founded by Patrick Rafferty, the prominent law firm has been operating for over two decades, earning a reputation for their professionalism and expertise in various legal fields. They specialize in personal injury, criminal defense, civil litigation, employment law, and business law, among others.

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Best parks in Peoria, IL

Peoria is a city in central Illinois. Set on the Illinois River, the Peoria Riverfront Museum has a striking, contemporary design. It offers a planetarium, a sculpture garden and a collection of fine art. Northeast, near Peoria Lake, Glen Oak Park includes the Luthy Botanical Garden and the Peoria Zoo. West of the city, Wildlife Prairie Park has forest trails and native animals, including bison, cougars and bears.

Detweiller Park

Detweiller park in Peoria is a popular multi-use destination for Peoria area residents who enjoy running/walking, soccer, volleyball, hiking, birding, and many other outdoor activities. Detweiller Drive, which runs through much of the park, features one of the finest, most diverse collections of oaks around. The early spring show of blooming redbuds, as well as the colorful fall foliage should not be missed!

Nature lovers will love exploring one or more of the park’s 5+ miles of hiking trails traversing the Illinois River bluffs. Peoria Park District’s 740-acre Detweiller Park is a popular multi-use destination for folks who enjoy golfing, soccer, volleyball, hiking, birding, fishing, and boating. Detweiller Drive, which runs through much of the park, features one of the finest, most diverse collections of oaks; and the early spring show of blooming redbuds should not be missed. The fall foliage of the oaks, sugar maple, white ash, mockernut hickory, and pawpaw is an eagerly anticipated October event. The park provides access to the Illinois River Bluff Trail, a linear 9-mile walking path through Robinson Park.

Giant Oak Park

At one acre, Giant Oak Park is one of the District’s smallest parks, with a single tree and a giant name. It contains a small parking and picnic area, and is home to a large burr oak tree, believed to be at least 300 years old. Its branches span at least 100 feet and the trunk is 13 feet in circumference. This park features the Historic Easton Fountain as a part of its landscape.

Fast forward to the 1960s, when the Peoria Park District purchased the property and its arboreal resident and established Giant Oak Park. For having lived during the American Revolution, the tree was designated a Bicentennial Tree in 1976 by the International Society of Arboriculture and the National Arborist Association.

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Labor Day

A Little Late (but still important!)

I missed Labor Day on this blog because we were out and about. Although we mostly enjoy it as a great three-day weekend at the end of summer, a chance for one last big cookout or beach trip, it's meant to recognize America's labor movement and the American workers' contribution to the development of our country. So settle in for a story about the woman you should be thanking for things like a safe workplace, a 40 hour work week, workers comp, a minimum wage, and Social Security.

Meet Frances Perkins.

When Frances Perkins was a little girl, she asked her parents why nice people could be poor. Her father told her not to worry about those things, and that poor people were poor because they were lazy and they drank.  That sure made it easy to dismiss them, didn’t it?   Eventually, Frances went to off to Mount Holyoke College. In her final semester, she took a class in American economic history and toured the mills along the Connecticut River to see working conditions. She was horrified. It lit a spark in Frances and instead of teaching until she married (the plan of many a college girl then), she earned a master’s degree in social work from Columbia University.  In 1910, Perkins became Executive Secretary of the New York City Consumers League. She campaigned for sanitary regulations for bakeries, fire protection for factories, and legislation to limit the working hours for women and children in factories to 54 hours per week. She worked mainly in New York State’s capital, Albany. Here, she made friends with politicians, and learned how to lobby.

On March 25th, 1911, Frances was having tea with friends when they heard fire engines. They ran to see what was happening, and witnessed one of the worst workplace disasters in US history. The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire was devastating, killing 146 people, mostly young women and girls. Frances watched as fire escapes collapsed and fire company ladders couldn’t reach the women trapped by the flames. She watched 47 workers leap to their deaths from the 8th and 9th floors. It was at that moment Frances  resolved to make sure their deaths meant something.

A committee to study reforms in safety in factories was formed, and Perkins became the secretary. The group took on not only fire safety, but all other health issues they could think of. Perkins, by that time a respected expert witness, helped draft the most comprehensive set of laws regarding workplace health and safety in the country. Other states started copying New York’s new laws to protect workers.

Perkins continued to work in New York for decades, until she was asked by President Elect Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1933 to serve as Secretary of Labor. She told him only if he agreed with her goals: 40-hour work week, minimum wage, unemployment and worker’s compensation, abolition of child labor, federal aid to the states for unemployment, Social Security, a revitalized federal employment service, and universal health insurance. He agreed. Similar to what she had worked for in New York, her successes became the New Deal, and changed the country and its workers forever. And that, my friends, is who you have to thank for fair working conditions and why we celebrate the American worker with a three-day weekend. 

P.S. This is why women should be in charge.

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Address        :   149 East 149th Street

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Pyrros & Serres, LLP

Address: 111 Livingston Street, Suite 1928 Brooklyn, NY 11201 USA

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Address: 31-19 Newtown Ave, Suite 501 Astoria, NY 11102 USA

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Email: newcasecenter@nylaw.net

Website: https://nylaw.net/

Description: Pyrros & Serres, LLP is a law firm located in Astoria, NY and serves clients throughout the New York City metropolitan area. They concentrate their casework on claims involving workers’ compensation benefits, social security disability benefits, and personal injury cases.

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[kvetchlandia]

Uncredited Photographer     “Uprising of the 20,000,”  International Ladies Garment Workers Union Strike, New York City     1909

(All four of my grandparents were members of the ILGWU in New York City, a pretty typical thing for dirt poor Jewish immigrants, as well as Italian and Slavic immigrants in the early 20th century).

Although Labor Day in the United States was established to distract American workers from the celebration of May 1, International Workers Day, which is celebrated around the world, it’s still worth noting.  So, here is a tiny, by no means exhaustive list of things those of us in the United States can all thank unions and the workers movement for:

The 5 Day Work Week

The 8 Hour Work Day

All Breaks at Work, including your Lunch Breaks

Paid Vacation

Maternity and Paternity Leave

Sick Leave

Minimum Wage

Integration at The Work Site

Overtime Pay

The Elimination of Child Labor

Worker's Compensation (Worker's Comp)

Unemployment Insurance

Pensions

Workplace Safety Standards and Regulations

Employer Health Care Insurance

Collective Bargaining and Due Process Rights for Workers

The Grievance Procedure to Limit Employer Harassment of Workers

Wrongful Termination Laws

Age Discrimination Laws

Whistleblower Protection Laws

Compensation increases and Evaluations (Raises)

Sexual Harassment at the Workplace Rules

Holiday Pay

The Right to Strike

“The capitalist has no heart, but harpoon him in the pocketbook and you will draw blood.“ Western Federation of Miners and IWW Leader Big Bill Haywood

Happy Labor Day, everyone.

[evawilliamson]

( ELIZABETH OLSEN + FEMALE ) — Have you seen EVA WILLIAMSON ? This TWENTY SEVEN year old is a/an BUSINESS OWNER who resides in BROOKLYN. SHE has/have been living in NYC for ON AND OFF HER WHOLE LIFE, and is/are known to be RESPONSIBLE and SUPPORTIVE, but can also be CAUTIOUS and RESERVED, if you cross them. People tend to associate them with SWEATERS and EARLY MORNINGS — ( FINLEY, 21, she/her, none, est )

[ tw: death, drugs/drug use, rehab ]

✿ Has lived in New York pretty much her whole life

✿ Her father wasn’t in the picture so it was just her and her mom most of the time

✿ In high school, Eva put pressure on herself to be the best but she wore herself down pretty quickly. She started abusing Adderall to help her with her studies.

✿ To make matters worse, her mother also got injured at work and filed workers comp. That, and she had to take some time off work and was given pain killers and such to help the healing. Eva would take a few painkillers every so often out of sheer curiosity. She slowly spiraled.

✿ Towards the end of her junior year in high school, Eva was a mess. Her grades were slipping, she slept through her classes and stayed out too late at night and she didn’t do anything to stop it. She loved the feeling of no responsibility and the fact that the pressure she put on herself was now gone. It didn’t feel like she was carrying the weight of the world anymore or that the world would implode with one wrong move.

✿ Her mother tried to help her get back on track, really she did, but Eva wasn’t having it. She some how graduated on time, but her GPA dropped from a 3.8 to a solid 3.0–which really isn’t that bad by any means, but considering who Eva was before she began abusing, it was horrible.

✿ After graduation, Eva basically packed a bag and left. She was still in Brooklyn, but chose to couch surf and live with friends rather than at home. Now that her days were free as well as nights, she really let loose. Drinking, drugs, smoking weed–her inhibitions were gone fairly quickly. She followed her friends and wherever the wind took her. Often times she’d leave New York, travel to other cities and states, other times she’d find herself back.

✿ Her mother died of a heart attack when Eva was 20. At the time Eva had been in Florida spending a few days with friends at one of their beach houses. She was too out of it to really care when she got the news. (If she was completely honest, she couldn’t even remember how she found out her mother had died in the first place). It wasn’t until the morning after that she really tried to process what had happened, but her hangover was too severe for her to focus long.

✿ Next thing she knew, she was on her way back to Brooklyn. Her mother had left everything to her (money, their house, etc), under the condition that Eva go to rehab and get clean and get whatever help she needed to stay clean. With a lot of coercion, she found herself in a rehab facility where she detoxed and became clean.

✿ After a few months of her getting back on track, Eva finally moved back into her house, ready to start making a life for herself. She began working out daily, eating better, saving her money, attending weekly AA & NA meetings. She was fully committed to staying clean.

✿ A year later she relapsed on the anniversary of her mother’s death. She felt horrible and disappointed, but focused again on getting better. It took her awhile to go out to restaurants and bars after relapsing–she was too afraid that she’d give in again, but slowly enough she surrounded herself with better people and places and found herself enjoying her life more.

✿ Eva’s healthy living inspired her to open her own business (aka The Groovy Smoothie). It took a whole year of planning, budgeting, and finding the right people for the job until The Juice Box officially opened. It’s been open for roughly 3 years now!

✿ Eva’s super supportive of all of her friends and is self-labelled ‘the mom friend’ of her group. She truly doesn’t mind it though. Often the designated driver or person-who-makes-sure-everyone-gets-home-okay-no-matter-what, she’s alright with her friends drinking around her some of the time. Some days she might back out of plans or choose to call it an early night. Overall, though, she’s more of a home body and prefers nice nights in than constantly going out.

✿ Her futures goals are fairly simple. She’d like to settle down, start a family, keep up her business (maybe even expand it), and just live as happily as possible.

[queensworkerscomp-blog]

Hurt At Work New York City

Our Queens, NYC workers comp law firm helps injured workers receive compensation. Visit our office location in Queens New York City to learn more about us and to talk to one of our attorneys.

Hurt At Work NYC 96-14 63rd Drive Suite 500, Rego Park, NY 11374 Monday – Friday 9:00am to 6:00pm | Saturday – Sunday Closed 718-275-3660

https://www.hurtatworknyc.com/

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