I am going through old blog posts and writings today and came across this piece I wrote one year after 9/11. Thought I would reshare. Enjoy!
September 11, 2002 One Year Later
Today marks one full year. One year since thousands of innocent lives were lost, and the world as we knew it changed forever.
New York City has long been the subject of stereotypes—loud, impatient, fast-paced, unapologetically bold. We’re known for our yellow taxis, crowded streets, unforgettable accents, dirty subways, and towering skyline. But there’s so much more beneath the surface.
I grew up in New York. My childhood was a blur of concrete playgrounds and street games—red rover, lemonade stands, big wheels, and cardboard breakdance mats. I never envied the swing sets or grassy backyards across the river in New Jersey. This city was my playground.
One of my clearest memories is riding the subway into Manhattan. As the train glided over the bridge, the skyline would appear—and every time, it took my breath away. The Twin Towers stood above it all, unmistakable, iconic, untouchable.
I remember the first time I saw them up close. I was so small I had to grip my father’s arm just to tilt my head back far enough to take them in. They were giants—silent, silver giants—with a pulse of their own. People streamed in and out constantly, on their way to work, to lunch, to meetings. Life buzzing all around them, never imagining the unthinkable: that one day, those towers would fall.
Over the years, I grew up with them. Eventually, I worked in the North Tower myself. But even then, walking towards them every morning, that sense of awe never faded. I still felt small beside them, still had to steady myself when I looked up. They weren’t just buildings. They were part of my life—like two silent siblings who had always been there.
They were part of every New Yorker’s life.
And then, one year ago today, they were gone. Two structures that took years to build collapsed in under 60 seconds, taking with them thousands of lives. The very people I used to watch as a child—rushing in and out like New Yorkers do—vanished in an instant.
In just one minute, the skyline was changed. In one minute, hearts broke. In one minute, everything shifted.
Even with a year behind us, the pain feels fresh. I woke up today feeling the same shock, sadness, and anger I felt that morning. Every time I return to the city and see the hole in the skyline, my heart sinks. Every time I hear a victim’s story, my chest tightens.
I feel sorrow. I feel rage. I feel fear. My heart aches for the families still grieving—parents, siblings, children, spouses. So many of the victims were just starting out.
Laura Angiletta, 23, fresh out of college at her new job at Cantor Fitzgerald. Paul Battaglia, 22, working at Marsh & McLennan. Jude Safi, 25, also at Cantor. Robert Tipaldi, 25, same firm. They walked the same streets I did. They chased the same dreams. They felt the same awe, walking toward those towers each day.
Today feels hollow without them. New York feels hollow without the towers. I will carry their memory, and the memory of those towers, and the memory of who we were before September 11, 2001.
I’m proud of where I come from. Proud of our grit, our chaos, our subway grime and short tempers. Proud of the resilience, the way we came together, the way we honored the fallen. No matter where life takes me, I’ll always be a New Yorker at heart.
There is no better place in the world to come from.
We’re tired. We’re divided. We’re scrolling through chaos, swiping through disasters, doom-scrolling into existential dread — and somehow still getting up for work at 7am.
The United States of 2025 is a paradox:
The economy is growing… but your rent is half your paycheck.
Tech is exploding… but nobody can afford a house.
Wages are higher… but so is everything else.
Mental health is on everyone’s mind… yet nobody has the time or coverage to actually fix it.
We’re hyperconnected and more isolated than ever. We’ve never had more “wellness hacks,” and we’ve never felt worse. We’re watching AI write songs, novels, resumes — and quietly wondering if it’s going to replace us too.
And yet… somehow, we keep going.
We’re still building things. Still raising kids. Still fighting for rights, for fairness, for community — even when the news says it’s hopeless. We volunteer. We donate. We show up.
We rage-tweet. We organize. We bake bread again (yes, sourdough is back — call it therapy). We meme our way through crisis after crisis because humor is how we cope.
And let’s be honest — America’s not just a mess. It’s our mess.
We’re a country built on contradictions:
Freedom, but with 80-hour workweeks.
Dreams, but with debt.
Power, but with potholes.
Yet here we are. Still here.
So what now?
Now we stop pretending things are “fine.” Now we check on each other — for real. Now we vote like our lives depend on it (because they do). Now we build systems that don’t require burnout to survive.
Because maybe the most radical thing we can do in 2025 isn’t hustle. Maybe it’s resting. Maybe it’s healing. Maybe it’s finally saying:
“This isn’t working — let’s fix it. Together.”
And maybe, just maybe, we still believe — not in the system, but in each other.
Because the truth is, America isn’t broken. It’s unfinished.
I’ve spent many years in recovery—recovering from drug abuse, childhood trauma, anger issues, defensive rage, adulthood trauma, and more. I invested over 20 years in therapy and anger management classes. And while, at times, I may feel like one the most zen people, it still only takes a split second for those old patterns to resurface—the very ones I’ve fought so hard to overcome.
My childhood was marked by violence and chaos. Not a day went by without screaming, fighting, things being thrown, or physical abuse—and that was just inside my home. Outside, I faced the harsh reality of life in New York City, where chaos and danger were constant companions. By the time I was 15, I had attended over 100 funerals—friends lost to accidents, shootings, suicide, and murder. It’s no surprise that I spent most of my formative years on high alert.
As I grew older, I found myself repeating the same toxic patterns I had witnessed growing up. Physical abuse became familiar, emotional abuse was expected, and I came to see it all as normal. The toll it took on me was heavy—chronic anxiety, sleepless nights, and a constant sense of unease followed me everywhere. I never truly felt safe.
As a child, I would escape in my mind to California. To me, it symbolized everything I longed for—peace, possibility, and a fresh start. It was nearly 3,000 miles from New York City, my family, and the chaos that surrounded my life. That dream became my fuel. I was just a kid from a broken home in Brooklyn, a high school dropout with nothing but raw survival instincts and a burning desire to get out.
The funny thing about trying to escape the patterns of your past is that the harder you fight them, the easier it is to fall right back into them—often without even realizing it. No matter how much work I’ve done—years of therapy, meditation, deep self-reflection—certain triggers still have a power over me that feels impossible to control.
If someone threatens me physically, my instinct is immediate and overwhelming: FIGHT. And not just defend—I go into full-blown survival mode. I see red. I lose control. I’ll scream, throw things, lash out with a rage so blinding it feels like I’m watching myself from the outside, completely detached but unable to stop it. It’s terrifying. It’s humiliating. And despite all the progress I’ve made in nearly 50 years, this one reaction continues to haunt me.
I’m not proud of it—far from it. I’ve spent decades trying to unlearn this response. But in those moments, it doesn’t feel like a choice. That whole “if you come at me, be ready for the storm” mentality has only ever left me depleted—emotionally wrecked, physically sick for days, and sleepless for weeks. It’s a cycle I desperately want to break, but some scars run deep.
That’s not to say I lose control often—because I don’t. Most of the time, I can take a deep breath, recognize what’s happening, and remove myself from the situation before it escalates. Verbal disagreements? I can handle those. But the second someone raises a hand to me or even hints at physical harm, it’s like a switch flips. I see red.
Part of me believes, in certain situations, that reaction might actually protect me. That “Hulk smash” instinct might serve a purpose when real danger is present. If someone sees that I’m willing to go to a level they’re not prepared for, they usually back off. But what happens when they don’t?
Now, at the age of 50, the last thing I want is chaos, drama, violence, or conflict. I crave peace. I want to be surrounded by people who love me, who protect me—not just physically, but emotionally. People who safeguard my heart, my sanity, and my spirit. People who lift me up rather than tear me down.
I want to make better choices than the ones my mother made. I want to be stronger than I once was. And I want to be fearless in walking away from anyone who proves they are not safe for me—no matter who they are. I’m done trying to earn love, approval, or acceptance. I’m not here to please anyone anymore.
I just want peace.
Emotional regulation is a life skill I was never taught as a child. My examples were far from ideal. Yes, I had strong women around me, but I also witnessed things no child ever should. Those memories don’t just fade—they linger. And even now, recognizing when something is wrong doesn’t always mean I feel capable of changing it.
Much of this, I’ve learned, is just part of the hard lessons life hands us. Still, I can’t help but wish I had understood some of these truths sooner. If I could sit down with my younger self, this is what I’d tell her:
“Gloria, you are worth so much more than this. You can’t change people. You can’t control anything but YOU—and you especially can’t control anyone else. What you can control is your attitude, your perspective, and how you respond to the world around you.
Life will be so much easier if you learn this at 20 instead of 50. Don’t waste your time trying to fix or save people. Accept them for who they are. If someone brings you peace, protects your energy, and helps you grow—keep them close. But if they show you who they are, believe them, and walk away. Immediately. No second chances.
Also, don’t smoke. Don’t drink too much. Start working out in your twenties and stick with it—it’ll save you mentally as much as physically. And for the love of God, save your money. Stop giving it away to everyone who asks. You’re going to need it, kid.”
With Love, G
As I write this—sitting in the beautiful dining room of my home in California—I feel deeply grateful. But I’ve learned that gratitude and self-reflection aren’t the same. They’re both hard-won, often born out of seasons when gratitude feels out of reach and self-reflection feels too painful to face.
What I know now is this: never give up. Life is far too short. Always look inward. Always commit to your growth. And remember—protecting your peace isn’t selfish or harsh. It’s essential. You cannot clearly care for others, pursue your dreams, or navigate life with intention unless you first learn to love yourself.
When I was younger, I wrote a book called “Glory Daze.” It was not just about my childhood; it delved deeply into my life experiences, challenges, and the lessons I learned leading up to that point. I was about 25 years old when it was written, full of youthful ambition and raw emotion, eager to share my story with the world and hoping to inspire others who faced their own struggles.
At the time, I attempted to publish it, pouring my heart into crafting the perfect narrative that captured the essence of my journey. Each page was filled with vivid memories and reflections that shaped who I was becoming. I envisioned readers connecting with my vulnerabilities, my triumphs, and the moments that shaped me. It was a raw and genuine effort to lay bare my soul in hopes of forming a connection with others who might feel isolated in their challenges.
However, the road to publication was not seamless. I was given an offer from a publishing house, which I ultimately turned down because they wanted me to shorten the book from almost 300 pages (I know, crazy!) to a mere 150 pages. This felt like a betrayal of my voice and the richness of the story I wanted to tell. I believed every chapter contained essential insights and reflections that deserved to be shared in their entirety. The notion of condensing my experiences into such a truncated format felt like it would erase parts of who I was and what I aimed to convey.
I couldn’t fathom cutting it down so drastically, and that moment became a pivotal decision point in my life. It left me grappling with the impact of that choice for years to come. There are not many things I regret in this life, but this is definitely in the top 3. Had I just put my 25-year-old ego in check, I could have had a life that resembled what I dreamed about as a child. I often think about how that decision altered the course of my journey, leaving me with lingering questions of “what if.”
Not to say my life turned out horribly, because I am lucky and blessed for many reasons, but being a writer was always something I wanted to do professionally. It was a goal that seemed unattainable after I turned down that publishing house. The weight of that choice has stayed with me, haunting me at times, reminding me that sometimes, the greatest risks can lead to the most fulfilling paths. Yet, in my case, it felt like I had forfeited my chance at a dream I cherished deeply.
Fast forward to about a week ago, as I was digging through a box that I have yet to unpack from our move 7 months ago. Among the disarray, I stumbled upon my manuscript of the book, my “poor man’s copyright” version, along with an old hard drive that contained the digital version. Honestly, I hadn’t read it in probably 20 years, so the curiosity struck me, and I thought, “Eh, why not crack this open and see what’s on this drive?”
I brought it into the house, popped it into my Mac, and opened it up. Wow! First, I still think it is a good piece of writing, even if I am biased. 🙂 Second, as I began to read, I realized that it was way too long and filled with a 25-year-old’s vision of what the world was. Boy, was I arrogant! I could see the youthful confidence in my prose, the idealism that only comes with being that age, and it prompted reflections on how much I had matured since then.
Looking back, there was beauty in that youthful ambition and energy, but there was also a naivety that mirrored my understanding of the world. The manuscript served as a time capsule of sorts, taking me back to a period in my life filled with hope, dreams, and a passion for storytelling that was palpable. Re-reading the words I had poured onto the page evoked a sense of nostalgia, coupled with the realization of how my perspective has evolved over the years. It reignited that desire within me to share my story, but with a new understanding of how to convey those experiences authentically and concisely.
This journey hasn’t ended; it has transformed and offered a fresh insight into what it means to be a writer. It has reminded me that every story holds value, every experience shapes us, and sometimes, revisiting the past can reignite the embers of our dreams. So, I have decided to brush it off, tweak it a bit and go for it again! Since I have limited free time, this will need to be a project that I work on in drips and drabs and it will most likely take quite a while to complete. I am more than OK with that timeline, and honestly it is giving me a new sense of excitement that I feel has been missing from my life for a while.
Here is a snippet of the opening paragraphs for your reading enjoyment. 🙂 Feel free to send me some feedback, or thoughts.
“In the summer of 1985, the thick, muggy air poured through the lowered front windows of our bright blue Ford Maverick as we sped down the road toward Boiling Springs Lakes, North Carolina. “One Night in Bangkok” blared from the sound system while my father, Greg, drove much too fast along the dark, one-lane highway through the Dismal Swamp.
My mother, Gail, always prone to nervousness, was especially on edge tonight. As Greg teased her, recklessly swerving the car and even turning off the headlights, her screams rose above the blaring music. “Greg, slow down!” she shrieked. My brother and I, crammed into the backseat with our mid-sized dog, Lucy, laughed at the chaotic scene unfolding before us.
As “Walk Like an Egyptian” began to play, Greg’s driving somehow became even more erratic. He was now dancing out the driver’s side window, much to my mother’s horror. “Greg, stop dancing! Pay attention to the road! Turn the headlights back on!” she pleaded, her voice rising in panic. He finally relented, just as a truly awful smell filled the car. “Who is farting?!” my dad demanded, turning down the music. I, of course, blamed Lucy, even though I knew full well it was me. My dad pulled over and unceremoniously kicked the dog out, assuming she needed to relieve herself. I, meanwhile, was in hysterics in the back seat, listening to them all plead with poor Lucy to “Go potty!”
That is all I will share for now, but this will be a fun adventure for me! Cathartic, exciting, revealing, and any other word I can think of to describe a great experience. 🙂
We had a complicated relationship. That’s the most efficient and truthful way to say it.
He was my step-father, but he raised me from the time I was 2 years old. To me, he was the only father I ever knew and he was my entire universe. We had a special bond that to this day I do not think has ever really been replicated in my life, and probably never will. He recently passed away unexpectedly, and we were estranged. He was 67 years old. While I am not filled with regret, I AM sad. I am not sad for the reasons that one would think I am, but for reasons that are far more complex. Due to this, I am having trouble processing the loss correctly, and the only way I know how to even begin to do that is to write about my feelings. It will be cathartic. At least i hope it will.
My mother met him in Hawaii in 1977. She was a knockout of a lady from NYC, with an attitude to match. She was living in Oahu on the Military base with her then husband, Ronnie. She was 24 years old and working as a bartender/cocktail waitress at a military hotel bar in Waikiki Beach. He walked into the bar wearing cowboy boots, and she was immediately drawn to him. Most people were, to be honest. It wasn’t so much that he looked like a combo of Richard Gere and Harrison Ford, it was more the way he carried himself. He had charm, charisma, personality for days and the minute he walked into a room, people noticed. She noticed.
She took his drink order, and they started to chat. He asked her where she was from, she responded “New Yawk”, lips smacking while she chewed gum. He says “Oh shit, I am also from New York”. She looks down at his boots and says “Not with those boots you’re not” and walks away. He was hooked.
They fell in love, she left her husband and they got married pretty quickly. I was 2, and my older brother was 7. After they married, we stayed in Hawaii for a short while and then moved to Brooklyn, NY where my mother was from. This move would later become a major issue in their relationship as he never wanted to live there and always thought NYC was no place to raise children.
On the flip side, my relationship with my mom was also “complicated” and it was a bit more complex then just the “mothers and daughters” typical issues. When Greg came into our lives, he quickly became my superhero. He spent a lot of his time focused on me, and we grew to be very close. He and my mother had a temultuous relationship, at best. This is not to say there were never any good times, but there were more bad. They fought. A lot. This stress transferred onto my older brother and I and there were many nights of violence, screaming, me hiding and running upstairs to my grandparents apartment shaking and crying from the trauma of it all. I still have lingering effects from this, and not even 19 years of therapy could erase all of it. However, regardless of what he did, I always forgave him. In my young eyes he could do no wrong. I never took my moms side and I blamed and resented her for all of it.
As I grew older, I started to see and hear things. He would stay out all night and she would sit on the windowsill crying. He would then get dropped off in front of the house by random women. He started to inappropriately confide in me and would tell me about all of the [young] women he was cheating on her with and why he was driven to cheat on her. This only made me resent her more, honestly. By the time I was 10 years old, I hated my own mother. I hated everything she stood for, and everything she was. To me she was a weakling. She was mostly a stay at home mom, and I could never understand why she did not have a career or a real job. Her constant crying and drinking of wine disgusted me. He essentially poisioned my young mind against her. In reality, it was him who was a fuck up. She was not perfect, but he was the literal devil to her. It took until I was the ripe old age of 30 before I finally saw her as a human being and understood her side of the story, and I always felt guilty about that. My poor mother.
I digress…
He did my homework with me every single day, he taught me the value of a dollar, a career, a good job and education. He taught me how to be self-sufficent, driven and motivated. He taught me about all of lifes hard knocks and how to get back up when the world knocks you down, and everytime my mom would try to step in, he would demean her right in front of me. He woke me up at 6AM on Sundays so I could mop the hallway steps or clean out the pantry. He took me running every night for miles. I’d write an essay for school and he’d tear it up and make me do it again until it was perfect. Some would say this was all really harsh, but I did not see it that way. He also spent many years telling me that my mother and grandmother loved my brother more than me and that he was all I had. I believed every word of it, because I blindly believed in him.
He was also a neighborhood hero, packing all of the kids into our station wagon and driving them to the park to play football on the weekends. He was “Johnny on the spot” for whatever the neighbors needed or asked for. He did everything for everyone, including my grandmother and helping her to take care of my grandfather who had MS and was confined to a wheelchair. He cooked huge dinners on Sundays, cleaned the house, planned fun family outings and vacations. From the outside looking in, he was the perfect husband, father and son.
He had demons that he hid from the outside world very well. When you think of the worst childhood trauma stories you have ever heard or read about, his were 50x worse. He was the eldest of 4 boys, and his father was chock full of demons as well. He cheated on my poor grandmother, was a rage-a-holic. My grandmother had to work multiple jobs to make ends meet because he refused to and because she had to be away from home so much, my dad was left to take care of his brothers. They moved constantly, and never put down roots anywhere, so making good friends was out of the question. Stability was also out of the question.
He dropped out of school in the 8th grade, but before that he was molested by catholic priests many, many times, molested by his fathers friends, and his fathers mother. As he was the oldest, he bore the brunt of all of the trauma. He got into trouble and was forced to join the Marines at 18, he was then discharged from the Marines for reasons I never really understood. He was engaged to be married to a woman named Jenny, and she was killed in an auto accident 2 weeks before the wedding. Her parents buried her in her damn wedding gown and forced him to see that during an open casket funeral. The man just had it rough, and I knew every detail of all of that by the time I was 10 because he told me everything. He suffered from crippling insecurity, and had no idea what self-love was. His entire perception of love was based on his fucked up childhood examples of it. He spent every day of his life looking to be accepted, loved for who he was unconditionally and by the time he reached his 60’s pretty much burned every bridge, every relationship and died alone. It is a textbook tale of a bad childhood turned into an adulthood plagued with untreated trauma and drug addiction.
When I was 12, he got addicted to crack and left us a week before Christmas. He drained our bank accounts and left my mother with nothing. I also have memories of him doing inappropriate things to me, which I will not get into. He denied most of this, though. Honestly, I think it was just too difficult for him to accept how fucked up he was, and while he tried to be honest about his behaviors and mistakes, he was always just a little bit dishonest and played the blame game. Accountibility was not his strong suit. Nevertheless, I forgave him for all of it.
He spent the years between 1987 – 2024 on a rollercoaster ride of ups and downs. He started many businessness, and at one point was a self-made millionaire. He would work really hard to build his entire life, and then would go on a bender, relapse and throw it all away. I cannot count how many times he crumbled to nothing and then built himself back up. It was quite amazing, actually. He was brilliant and as I mentioned earlier, his charisma and charm took him a long way. But I would be remiss if I did not mention the amount of time I spent looking for him on the streets in Overtown and the shitty parts of Fort Lauderdale in my 20’s. Dragging him out of motel rooms, tents, and nursing him back to health. Being there for him and attending countless NA, AA and Al-anon meetings. Answering to his associates and clients when he would suddenly “disappear” for days on end and covering for him over and over.
I witnessed his epic downfalls and watched him rise up from the ashes every single time. His resiliance was something to be admired, honestly. There was always one thing that nagged at me, though… Everytime he fell, someone was there to pick him up and give him a leg up. His mother, his friends, associates, me, my friends. Because of this he never really learned about having to hit rock-bottom and crawl his way back completely on his own. I always told him that until that happened, he would never really appreciate his opportunities in life. I also believe that if someone continues to fuck up and the conseqenses of said fuck ups are not that life-altering, they never learn and will continue to take advantage of everyone around them. Why should they care? Someone will always save them, so it creates a weird sense of entitilement which in turn breeds a total lack of accountibility for ones own actions.
I spent the better part of 42 years forgiving him, helping him, and loving him unconditionally. He broke my heart over and over, and he played a huge part in mine and my mothers shitty relationship over the years. Three years ago I realized that I was nothing but an enabler and at 45 years old I FINALLY had enough and cut him completely out of my life. It was not easy because while I made that choice, it did not mean I did not love him. Quite the contrary, actually. In those 42 years I always justified his behavior with “But he had a terrible childhood”, “He has untreated trauma”, “He has a disease and it’s not his fault”. In 2021 he landed himself in the hospital because he almost died of an overdose, but yet continued to tell me he was “clean” and “sober” is what it finally took for me to wake up.
When I cut him off he lost his mind. He wrote letters to the founder of my company trying to get me fired, he spent every waking moment telling everyone who will listen what a horrible bitch I am. He went on and on sending novel texts to our family, his friends, people I did not even know. He sent me physcial threats, threatened to kill me in my sleep. The list goes on and on. Even through ALL of that, I still made excuses for him that he was “sick” and did not know any better. I almost broke in January 2024 when I was on a cruise ship in Florida. I was THISCLOSE to calling him, but decided to sleep on it. The next day I decided to keep standing my ground because I knew if I opened that door with him, I would once again regret it. Not to mention, after my mom died I felt a lot of resentment towards him for the way he treated her and how he broke her heart. Something in me just changed towards him when I lost her.
He died all alone with nothing. None of his children had a relationship with him, he burned bridges with so many associates and friends. He pawned everything he had and died all alone with nothing and no one at 67 years old. Part of me always had a sliver of hope that one day he would wake up and fix his life. I had HOPE that someday I would see him again and he would be OK. His death is so final, and while I kind of expected we would end up here, it still hurts.
I cannot deny that for all of his behaviors, he had a lot of great qualities. I would not be who I am today had he not raised me. He made me a strong, independent, firece, motivated and driven go-getter. I am proud of who I am today, and I credit him for a lot of it. Him making the person I am actually wound up causing me to make the decision I made to cut him off 3 years ago, and I think that is why it bothered him so much. I do not believe he hated me, even though he did his best to tell me and everyone around us that he did. You would not give someone you “hate” that much attention, so the joke is on you, Dad.
When he was good, he was great. The best, even. The best father, friend, brother, husband, son. When he was bad, he was terrible. After 67 years of a rough life, I sincerely hope he has found peace and is in a better place. That is allI can hope for.
Rest in peace, Greg Todd. You were loved more than you ever knew.
It’s official, I’ve had 2 panic attacks in the span of 10 days. I am now panicking over my sudden onset of panic. Awesome.
I’ve been experiencing some chest pain on the left side for a few weeks. During the last two days, I’ve been noticing a fluttering in my left groin area near my femoral artery. I had chalked it up to muscle spams and just kind of ignored it, but this morning while on the train going to work, I decided to google it and see what it could be. Big mistake.
I see nothing but hits stating that this could be a warning sign of an impending aneurysm. That’s all I needed to read for full on hypochondria to kick in causing me to have an epic meltdown in the middle of rush hour. I got dizzy, my vision went black, my heart started to race, I broke out into a cold sweat, and my chest hurt. It took me over an hour to calm myself down, and was only able to do that by forcing myself to think about “happy thoughts” of moments I shared recently with someone very important to me.
I’m sure my epic paranoia and hypochondria combined with the fact that I’ve been under an extreme amount of emotional stress as of late, are aiding to my sudden onset of panic attacks.
I need to chill out and remain calm and stay off of Google!
dimentra dot com 