Your Safe Space to Just Vent

Kyurt is Mamba is Slayah??

ANNOUNCEMENT: IF YOU ARE READING THIS...YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH ANON IS OVER. ANON DOES NOT WANT YOU. ANON WANTS NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU. SCRAM. DON'T LET THE DOOR HIT YA WHERE THE GOOD LORD SPLIT YA. BYE BYE. 👋

can someone break up with my boyfriend for me so i dont have to

Honey Im home

The thing about Brenda was that she loved her kids in theory. She loved the idea of them, the way they looked in the Christmas card photos, the way they sounded when they said "I love you, Mommy" in a way that was still clear and high and hadn't yet been corrupted by the public school system. She loved them as assets, as proof points in the great argument she was having with the world about her own virtue. She did not, however, love the work. The work was the problem. The work was the endless, grinding, unbillable labor of wiping and feeding and listening and driving, a constant drain on her most precious and finite resource: her own time. Her name was Brenda, and she was a Republican in the way that some women are Republican, which is to say with the ferocity of a convert. She had been a liberal in college, a brief and regrettable phase she now referred to as "before I learned how to do my own taxes." Now she ran a small, aggressively curated "lifestyle" blog called "The Fiscal Fortress," where she posted pictures of her children in monogrammed smocks next to captions about personal responsibility and the corrosive effect of entitlement programs. She had two children, a boy named Kyle and a girl named Lily. Kyle was seven and could be reasoned with. He understood the concept of an allowance and the value of a dollar. Lily was four. Lily was a liability. Lily wanted things. She wanted juice, and she wanted it now. She wanted to be picked up, and she wanted it now. She was a walking, talking, demand-generating machine with no understanding of the market forces that produced her apple slices. The breaking point was the state preschool. It was free. Or rather, it was taxpayer-funded, which in Brenda's lexicon was the same as free, and therefore worthless. But it was also a half-day program, which meant it created a childcare gap. A gap, Brenda knew, was a market inefficiency, and inefficiency was a tax on the productive. The solution, proposed by the local school board, was a subsidized after-care program. It would cost fifty dollars a week per child. Fifty dollars. For Kyle, it was an investment in his future productivity. For Lily, it was a subsidy for her own uselessness. Brenda sat at the kitchen table with the notice in her hand and felt a cold, clear rage settle in her chest. This was how it started. This was the slippery slope made manifest. First, you pay for the after-care. Next, you're paying for their college and their therapy and their gender reassignment surgery. It was a bailout for bad parenting, and Brenda refused to be a bad parent who needed a bailout. She did not formulate a plan. Plans are for people who expect opposition. Brenda simply saw a problem and began to work toward the most efficient solution. The problem was Lily. The solution was the final, permanent reduction of the Lily-related overhead. The thought arrived not as a shock but as a quiet, satisfying click, like the last piece of a puzzle sliding into place. It was not a moral thought. It was a logistical one.

this site has too many mentally ill people on it for moderation to be as lax as it is. these crazies are multiplying and spamming. nothing is being done about them.

Trump rally regular Adam Radogna faces 10 felony charges in Ohio over alleged child sexual abuse material following a file-sharing investigation. The average drag queen is infinitely more trustworthy around kids than your average MAGA man There's a direct correlation between defending or practicing pedophilia and supporting Trump

A list of nearly 800 Republican sexual predators can be found here https://www.dailykos.com/history/user/CajsaLilliehook

Let's be honest about the dynamic here, because it's getting too loud to ignore. The Republican Party has spent the better part of a decade engaged in one of the most aggressive, public, and frankly, anatomically confused political performances in modern history. They talk a big game about fucking the Democrats. It's their go-to metaphor. They're going to "own the libs," they're going to "destroy them at the polls," they're going to ram legislation so far up their asses they'll taste it. It's a constant, throbbing, homoerotic monologue about dominance and penetration, all delivered with the chest-thumping confidence of a man who's never had to ask for directions. They paint themselves as the party of real men, the alpha predators of the political jungle. Their rhetoric is a non-stop barrage of masculine posturing. They're the hunters, the providers, the ones with the guns and the trucks and the unimpeachable right to tell everyone else how to live. They posture on stages, they flex in front of cameras, they build entire identities around the idea that they are the ones doing the fucking. It's a primal scream of projected potency, a desperate need to be seen as the dominant force in a world that keeps laughing at them. And yet. And yet, every time you turn around, one of them is caught with his hands somewhere they absolutely should not be. And it's never with the enemy they've been so loudly promising to conquer. It's not with the Democrats. It's not with the "libs." It's with a goat. It is always, without fail, a goat. Or a sheep. Or some other barnyard resident that lacks the capacity to consent or the political affiliation to make the conquest meaningful. They build up this whole elaborate fantasy of being a political ravager, a Genghis Khan of the culture war, and then, when nobody's looking, they're out behind the barn, fondling a goat named Gerald. The metaphor is just too perfect to be an accident. The goat represents everything they claim to hate and everything they secretly are. It's not a sophisticated opponent. It's not a worthy adversary. It's a simple, dumb, easily overpowered creature that can't fight back and can't tell anyone what happened. It's a target that requires no skill, no intelligence, no real effort at all. It's the perfect victim for a bully who's all talk. They promise to take on the entire Democratic establishment, but their actions betray a preference for opponents who can't even file a lawsuit. So you have this bizarre split personality in the modern conservative movement. On one hand, you have the loud, performative, hyper-masculine fantasy of fucking their enemies into submission. On the other hand, you have the quiet, pathetic reality of a man in a field with a goat. They're not ravaging the opposition; they're just ravaging the local livestock. They're not alpha predators; they're just predators of opportunity, and the opportunity happens to have hooves and a vacant stare. The whole movement is a cry for help from a bunch of men who want to be seen as dominant but keep getting caught with their pants down in the petting zoo. They want to fuck the country, but they can't stop fucking the farm animals. It's a tale of two conquests: the one they talk about, and the one they actually get. And the second one is a lot smellier.

i fucked up. I went into a manic episode and ended up moving across the country, getting married, buying a car, and quit my job... WTF DO I DO HOW DO I FIX THIS MESS

Bernie Sanders urges Democrats to reform the party, curb billionaire influence, end Citizens United, and fight for working people if they win Congress. To get the Democratic Party to actually want to do that, they need the sweeping reforms Sanders is talking about. The party is entangled with too many corporate interests that don’t want them to make things better for the working class.

Hey “slayah” You actually think you could undo the fact that I can, and would, destroy you in a fight by writing a little report on how you feel about it. Classic educated idiot. My knee would be on your neck after you hit the ground when I knocked you out. Case closed. I gave you my location and this is your response. Whether it’s now or on the battle field when the next civil war your side has been pushing for starts, you will be on the ground looking up at the real men you couldn’t handle. You and every other little beta boy who fucked around and found out.

The bear was a black bear, a sow with two cubs somewhere behind her in the scrub, and she had been raiding the dumpsters behind the lodge for a week and had lost her fear of people somewhere around the third night. Satya Nadella was at the lodge for a leadership retreat, the kind with a fire pit and a facilitator and a laminated agenda, and he had stepped out onto the deck at dusk with a glass of wine and his phone in his other hand, and he had walked down the steps and out toward the treeline because the light was good and he wanted a photograph of the ridge. He got the photograph. He was looking at it on the screen when the sow came out of the scrub at a heavy, rolling trot, and he looked up and said, out loud, to no one, oh, and then she was on him. She hit him in the chest with her shoulder and he went down flat on his back in the pine needles and the glass went one way and the phone the other, and then she was on top of him, all four feet, and the weight of her was a weight he had no frame of reference for, a crushing, total, breathing weight that pressed the air out of him in one long wheeze. Her head came down beside his and he could smell her, a smell like wet dog and garbage and something sweet and rotten underneath, and her breath was hot and rank on his cheek, and he lay very still, because everything he had ever read about bears had said the same thing, which was to lie still, and he lay still, and she did not go away. She nosed along his ribs and down his side, and then she found the pocket of his jacket, and she tore it open, and there was nothing in it but a pen, and she huffed and dropped her head lower. She nosed at his belt. She nosed at his waistband and then under it, and the wet of her snout came through the cloth, and Nadella, pinned and breathless and staring up at the underside of a bear's jaw, felt her take the fabric of his trousers in her teeth and worry it, and then she bit down and shook her head and the trousers tore open from the fly to the knee and the cold evening air came in on his skin. She worked her way down. She nosed at his thigh and then at the soft inside of it and then, with a grunting, rooting persistence, at the front of his shorts, and she pushed her snout in and huffed, and the huff was hot and wet and startling, and Nadella's whole body jerked and she paused and then pushed again. Then she took the fabric of the shorts in her teeth and pulled, and the elastic gave, and she pulled again and it tore away, and she dropped her head and nosed in close and found what she was looking for, and she took it in her mouth. Nadella made a sound. It was not a word. It was a short, high, astonished sound, the sound of a man who has just discovered a new category of experience, and his hands came up off the pine needles and hovered uselessly in the air above the bear's ears. She held him in her mouth and did not bite down, and for a moment it was almost pleasant, almost tender, the warm wet of it and the rough of her tongue, and Nadella thought, absurdly, that he might come out of this with a story and nothing worse. And then she bit down. The teeth were not sharp, they were blunt, and that was the horror of it, because a blunt tooth does not cut, it crushes, and she crushed, and Nadella felt the pressure build and build past the point where pressure becomes pain and into a place where it becomes something else entirely, a white roaring nothing, and he heard himself yell and it seemed to come from somewhere outside his own body. She worried at it, gnawing, grinding her jaw, and the thing stretched and flattened and gave, and she pulled her head back and it stretched further, and she pulled again and it tore, and she pulled a third time and it came away, and she lifted her head with it and stood there chewing, unhurried, with her ears working and her eyes half closed and a little blood on her muzzle.

He ran for the truck, because the truck was the nearest thing with a door on it, and he ran badly, in work boots, with his arms pumping and his cap coming loose, and he could hear the hooves behind him on the hardpan, a heavy irregular clatter that got louder and then louder still, and he could hear the bull breathing, a wet snorting sound like a bellows with a hole in it. He got a hand on the truck door handle and got it half open and then Samson hit him. It was not a full ram, it was a shoulder, a shove, a ton of animal arriving at speed and deciding at the last instant to be polite about it, and it put Dale through the gap of the door and across the bench seat and up against the far door with his cap over his eyes and his coffee coming back up his throat. The truck rocked on its springs and settled. Dale lay across the seat and gasped and laughed, one short barking laugh, the laugh of a man who has just been reminded that he is made of meat, and he pushed the cap off his face and sat up and looked out the open door and said, okay. Okay. You made your point. Samson stood in the open door and looked at him. And then Samson, who had been thinking about this for six years, did the thing that neither of them had expected. He turned around. He backed up. He backed up until his rump was at the door and his tail was in the door and his hind hooves were on the running board, and then he came backward into the cab, and Dale scrambled across the seat and pressed himself against the far door and said, no, no, no, and Samson kept coming, folding himself into the cab of a 1998 Ford F-250 like a man folding himself into a bathtub, and the truck groaned and sank on its springs and the mirror came off the door and the whole cab filled up with the smell of bull, which is a smell like hot hay and wet leather and something underneath that is not quite either. And then Samson lowered his head. He lowered it and turned it and brought it back between his own hind legs, and the left horn, the one that curved out and up and in, found the hem of Dale's jacket and the waistband of his jeans and the soft place behind, and Dale felt the cold of it against his skin and then the pressure, and then the horn was in him. It went in an inch and then two and then it kept going, because Samson was still coming backward, still folding himself into the cab, and Dale was pinned against the far door with nowhere to go and the horn had nowhere to go but into him, and it went in deep, and then deeper, and Dale made a sound that was not a word and not quite a scream, a high thin tearing sound, and his hands came up and clawed at the roof liner and his boots scrabbled at the floor mat and the horn went on into him like a hand into a glove.

Why do humans have to eat? Why do we feel hunger and the urge to eat? Ugh i hate it so much I wish I didn't have to eat anything

Here is the case, laid out plainly: the Republican Party has spent the better part of two decades demonstrating, through policy and posture alike, that its collective anatomy is small, shriveled, and fundamentally unserious, and that the only reasonable disposition of it is amputation followed by a brief and unceremonious trip through a meat grinder and into a dog bowl. This is not a metaphor. This is a diagnosis. Consider the evidence. A party that controls the machinery of the most powerful nation on earth and uses it to fight about gas stoves, Dr. Seuss, and whether a drag queen read a book to a child has clearly lost the plot. A party that spent seven years promising a beautiful health care plan and never once produced one is not a party with a plan, it is a party with a vibe. A party whose entire governing philosophy amounts to "cut taxes, cut regulations, and see what happens" is a party that has never once thought past the next fundraising email. Small. Shriveled. Unserious. The anatomy matches the record. And the behavior is worse than the record. Watch them in a hearing. Watch the performative outrage, the props, the poster boards, the fake indignation over a procedural motion. Watch a man with the intellectual range of a talk radio host lecture a decorated general about military readiness. Watch them lose vote after vote and then claim victory anyway, because the base does not check. This is not the conduct of a confident institution. This is the conduct of something compensating, something that knows it is small and has decided to be loud instead. Loud is what small things do. Then there is the cruelty, which is the real tell. Small creatures are cruel because they are frightened, and the Republican Party is frightened of everything: immigrants, trans people, books, cities, young people, the future, the weather. So it bites. It bites the poor by cutting food assistance and calling it reform. It bites children by separating them from their parents and losing the paperwork. It bites the sick by suing to strip away coverage and then pretending the courts did it. It bites the elderly by threatening the one program that keeps them alive and calling it a hard choice. A frightened animal in a corner will snap at anything that moves, and the modern GOP snaps at everything, constantly, and calls it principle. So yes, cut it off. The whole apparatus. Take the small, shriveled, frightened thing and put it out of its misery, and then grind it up and set it down for the dog, because that is all it is good for now, and the dog will at least be grateful, and gratitude is more than the Republican Party has shown anyone in twenty years. The dog will eat it in one gulp and lick the bowl and look up expectantly, and we will all feel a great sense of relief, and the country will be lighter for it, and somewhere a consultant will bill someone for the paperwork. That is the whole story. Small, shriveled, cruel, and fit only for the bowl. Cut it off and be done.

Let me be blunt: the modern Republican Party is a machine that runs on two fuels, stupidity and malice, and it has spent the last decade proving that the two are not opposites but partners. The stupidity is structural, not incidental. This is a party that spent years promising to repeal and replace the Affordable Care Act and never once produced a plan, then acted shocked when people noticed. It is a party whose flagship economic theory, that tax cuts for billionaires pay for themselves, has been falsified so many times that the only people still repeating it are either lying or too lazy to check. It is a party that ran on fiscal responsibility and then blew up the debt ceiling for sport, that ran on law and order and then nominated a man with thirty-four felony counts, that ran on family values and then defended a guy who paid hush money to a porn star. At some point you have to stop calling it a coincidence. But stupidity alone would be forgivable. The evil is the interesting part. The malice is deliberate, and it is aimed with precision at people who cannot fight back. Take the cruelty as policy: separating migrant children from their parents and then losing the paperwork, so that toddlers became orphans of the state by bureaucratic accident. Take the trans panic machine, which manufactures a fresh outrage every news cycle and legislates against a population so small that most voters have never met one, precisely because they are an easy target and the base loves a victim it can feel superior to. Take the war on the poor dressed up as budget discipline, the constant squeezing of food assistance and Medicaid and public schools while the Pentagon gets whatever it asks for and the top bracket gets a permanent holiday. Take the climate denial, which is not really denial anymore but a lazy shrug, a decision to let the bill come due on someone else's watch. And underneath all of it, the thing that makes it evil rather than merely wrong, is the contempt. Republicans do not argue with their opponents, they sneer at them. They do not persuade, they own the libs. The whole political culture has been reduced to a performance of disdain, where the measure of a man is how thoroughly he can humiliate the other side, and where empathy is treated as a character flaw, a softness, something to be cured by a good hard election. They have built a movement that gets its kicks from watching people squirm, and they have gotten very good at making people squirm, and the worst part is that it works. It keeps them in power. Cruelty is popular. And a party that has learned cruelty is popular will keep being cruel, because why wouldn't it, and the rest of us just have to live in the wreckage and vote and hope and get called stupid for it. The real tragedy is that it did not have to be this way. There was a version of the Republican Party, not that long ago, that had actual ideas and actual adults and could govern without setting anything on fire. That party is gone, replaced by a reality show with subpoena power. And the people who did it are not sorry, and they are not finished, and they will do it again the moment they get the chance.

The courtroom in lower Manhattan had been packed since dawn, and by the time the foreman rose to read the verdict the air was so thick with heat and anticipation that the gallery had stopped shifting in its seats and simply sat, rigid and sweating, watching the defendant's face. Guilty, the foreman said, and then again, guilty, and again, thirty-four times, the word falling like a hammer on an anvil, and the room broke into a sound that was not quite a cheer and not quite a gasp but something caught between the two. Donald Trump stood at the defense table with his hands flat on the polished wood and his jaw set and his face gone the color of a boiled shrimp, and when the judge gaveled the room to silence and asked whether the defendant wished to say anything before sentencing, he said yes, he did, and he spoke for eleven minutes about witch hunts and rigged systems and the greatest economy in the history of the world, and the judge let him finish and then folded his hands and looked at him over the top of his glasses with the weariness of a man who had long ago stopped being impressed. The sentence, when it came, was read in a flat and measured voice, and the first part was what everyone had expected: fines, probation, the usual architecture of consequence. But then the judge set down the paper and took off his glasses and said that in light of the defendant's long and public contempt for the institutions of the republic, the court had decided that the punishment ought to be memorable, ought to be the kind of thing that a man would carry with him, and that the court had therefore taken the unusual step of consulting with the Smithsonian and with the head keeper of the National Zoo. A murmur ran through the gallery. The judge picked up the paper again and read the final clause of the sentence aloud, and the murmur became a roar, and in the front row a woman put her hand over her mouth and made a sound like a kettle coming to boil. The defendant, the judge said, would report to the elephant enclosure at the National Zoo on the first of the month, and there he would be fitted with a harness and lowered, headfirst, into the anus of the oldest and largest of the resident Asian elephants, a cow named Shirley, and he would remain in that position for a period of not less than four minutes, timed by a sworn officer of the court, and the whole of it would be broadcast live. The morning came, and it was grey and drizzling and the zoo was closed to the public but the press pens were full and the cameras were up on their tripods under plastic sheeting and a crowd of several hundred had gathered anyway along the fence on Connecticut Avenue and would not be moved. Shirley was brought out into the yard at nine, a vast and ancient animal with a hide like cracked riverbed and a trunk that moved with the slow deliberation of a thing that had all the time in the world, and she was given a mash of oats and apples to keep her occupied and she ate it with her eyes half closed and paid the gathering no attention whatsoever. Trump arrived at half past nine in a dark overcoat and a red tie and stood at the edge of the enclosure with his hands clasped in front of him while the keeper explained the procedure, and the cameras clicked and whirred and the crowd along the fence called out things that were mostly encouraging and occasionally not. The harness was a broad canvas sling with leather cuffs at the wrists and ankles and a steel ring at the center of the back, and two keepers fitted it to him while a third ran a cable up to the crane, and Trump stood with his arms out and his face working through a series of expressions, defiance, then resignation, then something that looked briefly and alarmingly like fear.

The goat was called Gerald, and he belonged to a small farm in upstate New York where Microsoft had recently broken ground on a data center, and Satya Nadella had been persuaded by a local councilman to visit the site and shake hands with the neighbors and pose for photographs beside a freshly turned furrow. It was a bright, cold morning in late October, the kind that makes the sky look scrubbed and the grass look dead, and Nadella stood in a borrowed fleece vest with his hands in his pockets while a woman in a Carhartt jacket explained the history of the property and the lineage of the goats that had grazed it for four generations. Gerald was the last of them, a heavy, barrel-bodied animal with a beard like a frayed broom and a coat the color of wet cardboard, and he had been brought out for the occasion and tethered to a fence post with a length of orange twine, and he stood there chewing and staring at Nadella with the flat, unimpressed gaze of a creature that had seen better men and would see worse ones. The councilman, a large man named Dale with a handshake like a vise and a laugh that arrived a beat too early, insisted that Nadella get in the pen with the animal. It's good for the cameras, he said. Shows you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. Nadella, who was not afraid of much but had never much considered goats, climbed the rail and dropped into the pen, and Gerald turned his head and regarded him with a slow and terrible patience. The photographer crouched low and started shooting, and Dale said, go on, pet him, he's gentle, and Nadella reached out a hand and laid it on Gerald's flank, and the fleece was coarser than he expected, greasy and warm, and the animal shifted under the touch and leaned into it, and Nadella, encouraged, ran his palm along the spine, and Gerald's tail gave a single, mechanical wag, and the small crowd along the fence laughed and clapped. Then Gerald turned, all at once, with the suddenness of a thing that had been planning it, and pressed his heavy skull into Nadella's thigh and pushed. Nadella staggered back a step and Gerald followed, and pushed again, and again, driving him backward across the pen until his shoulders met the rail and there was nowhere left to go, and the animal planted his forelegs against Nadella's shins and leaned his whole weight in and began, methodically, to rub. The photographer was laughing too hard to hold the camera steady. Dale was doubled over the fence. Nadella, pinned and helpless, put his hands on Gerald's shoulders and tried to push him back and Gerald took this as encouragement and pushed harder, and his beard scraped against Nadella's trousers and his breath came hot and damp through the wool, and Nadella could feel the whole warm bulk of him working, a slow and grinding rhythm, and he looked out over the fence at the assembled neighbors with the expression of a man who has just realized that the universe has a sense of humor and has chosen him as its instrument. Gerald finished as abruptly as he had begun, stepped back, shook himself all over with a great rattling of fleece, and wandered off toward a patch of dead clover as though nothing had happened. Nadella stood against the rail, breathing hard, his fleece vest askew and a long damp smear down the front of his trousers, and the crowd applauded, and Dale climbed into the pen and clapped him on the back and said, well, he likes you, and the photographer said he'd got the whole thing and it would be gold, absolute gold, and Nadella looked down at the wet patch and then at Gerald, who had not so much as glanced back, and he said, quietly, to no one in particular, that he supposed this was what getting your hands dirty looked like. Dale laughed and said that was a good line, a really good line, and asked if he could use it, and Nadella said yes, use it, and climbed back over the rail and stood on the good side of the fence and did not take his eyes off the goat for the rest of the morning.

You want my empath gone so badly. It's gone. I will never show kindness to any Republican ever again no matter what. If one is about to be hit by a bus I'll let it happen