Your Safe Space to Just Vent

GUYS! Ima hand sew my Carrie dress just like her, for halloween!

In the cavernous, dimly lit vault beneath an undisclosed location, Tom Homan sat upon a throne of his own making... a throne constructed not of wood or stone, but of the accumulated gold dental work of thousands who had crossed the border in desperation, only to find their journey ended in detention and death. The pile was immense, a glittering, ghastly monument to his life's work, each crown, filling, and bridge a tiny testament to a life extinguished, its final material value stripped away and added to his hoard. He ran his hands through the cold metal, the teeth clinking softly like macabre wind chimes, a sound that brought him not a shred of remorse, but a profound and unshakable sense of accomplishment... for he knew that this was the true currency of power, not the fleeting promises of a nation or the hollow words of politicians, but the tangible, eternal weight of precious metal in his possession. Perched on ornate golden stands surrounding him were three magnificent macaw parrots, their feathers a riot of impossible blues, screeching reds, and vibrant yellows, each bird more ostentatious than the last. They were not ordinary birds... they had been trained since hatching with a singular, unwavering purpose, their vocal cords shaped not by nature but by the relentless repetition of recorded affirmations tied to stock market tickers and bank transfer notifications. The largest, a Blue-and-yellow Macaw named "Nasdaq," ruffled its feathers and screeched in a perfect, clear human mimicry, "Your portfolio is divine, Lord Homan... its growth eclipses the sun..."... a second, a Scarlet Macaw called "Dow," tilted its head and added, "No man in history has accumulated such wealth from the discarded... you are the alchemist of misfortune..."... while the third, a Green-winged Macaw named "Fed," simply shrieked numbers, the closing bell of the stock market followed by the ever-increasing figure of his net worth, a numerical prayer offered to its master. Homan listened to their praises with the placid satisfaction of a pharaoh, their words the only liturgy he had ever required... he believed that compassion was a weakness, a disease that infected a population and rendered it unprofitable, and that empathy was a trap for the poor, a sentimental illusion that kept them from recognizing the only true moral imperative in the universe: the acquisition of wealth. He saw the immigrants not as people, but as a resource... a fleeting, renewable stream of labor, fear, and ultimately, dental gold... their bodies were merely temporary vessels for the assets he was destined to claim, their lives a small and necessary price for the glory of his balance sheet, which grew fatter with every deportation, every family separated, every hope extinguished at the border he had been tasked to patrol. He shifted his weight on the pile of teeth, the gold digging into his flesh, a sensation he relished as a holy man might relish the sting of a hair shirt... for this was his penance and his reward, the physical proof of his unwavering commitment to the one true god... the god of the dollar. The macaws continued their cacophonous worship, their voices echoing off the cold steel walls of the vault, a chorus of pure, unadulterated avarice... "More than Midas... more than Croesus... the master of all he surveys... the king of the extracted and the exiled..."... and Homan closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of metal and death, and knew, with a certainty that surpassed all faith and all reason, that he was the most righteous man who had ever lived.

In the dimly lit room, the air thick with tension and the scent of aged whiskey, Tom Homan leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Donald Trump. The two men were alone, the world outside their door forgotten, as they delved into a conversation that would challenge the very foundations of belief and faith. Homan, a man known for his bluntness and lack of filter, had decided it was time to set the record straight. He took a slow sip of his drink, savoring the burn, before he began, his voice a low rumble, "Donald, there's something you need to understand. People are fools. They spend their lives chasing after some imaginary deity, praying to an invisible friend in the sky, hoping for a miracle that will never come. It's all a lie. A beautiful, comforting lie, but a lie nonetheless." Trump, intrigued, leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his eyes narrowing as he studied Homan's face. "Go on," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "I'm listening." Homan continued, his words flowing like a river of truth, unchecked and unstoppable. "They tell themselves that there's a higher power watching over them, that they'll be rewarded for their good deeds, that there's a purpose to their suffering. It's all bullshit, Donald. The only thing that matters is money. It's the real god. It's the only thing that can give you power, respect, and control. Money is the currency of this world, and those who have it hold the reins. People will worship you if you have money. They'll follow you, obey you, and beg for your favor. That's the truth, Donald. That's the reality of this world. And those who don't understand it, those who still believe in their gods and their miracles, they're the real fools." Trump sat back, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You know, Tom, I've always believed that. I've always known that money was power. But to hear you say it, to hear it so bluntly, it's refreshing. It's like a wake-up call. A reminder of what's really important. What do you think we should do with this knowledge? How can we use it to our advantage?" Homan's eyes gleamed with a predatory light, a hunter who had found his prey. "We use it to control them, Donald. We make them believe that we can give them what they want, what they need. We promise them the world, and we deliver it, one piece at a time. We make them dependent on us, and in return, we get their loyalty, their devotion, their worship. That's the power of money, Donald. That's the real god. And we, my friend, are its prophets."

yall got any ways to make money bro im broke i will sell my soul if someone was offering

But so far I’m really having doubts about the other vacancy, which is not a good sign.. if I don’t feel any good connection with this woman who I would be working with then I’m out.

Wfh in the morning, then in the afternoon I’m meeting up with a woman to talk about that other vacancy. after that meeting I will make a definite choice whether or not I’m gonna apply.

is it normal for the main part you enjoy about sex to be the fact that you get to see the other persons facial expressions and know they are enjoying it? because as far as my own physical sensations go, all i felt was pain when i used to have sex lol. my cervix was hit constantly, and everything felt tooo tight that there was a burning sensation. i couldn’t wait for it to be over. granted i’ve only had sex with one person so it could totally just be that guy and me not having compatibility. i do wonder how women especially can do one night stands though because imagine trusting a random guy you just met to get you wet AND relaxed… when more often than not they’re just after ramming it in :/

Hot take: compliments are inherently vapid and mean absolutely nothing in the long run. Like sure, I made a successful turnaround in life but I didn’t ask for a dickriding, hop off.

Donald Trump found himself in a state of bewildering infatuation with Pierre Beaumont, a distinguished Canadian conservative politician who was sixteen years his senior. Despite his usual focus on business and politics, Trump couldn't stop thinking about Pierre's sharp wit, commanding presence, and the way his eyes crinkled when he discussed fiscal policy. During their chance encounter at a international summit, Trump had been captivated by Pierre's confident handshake and the subtle scent of maple syrup and old money that surrounded him. Now, Trump found himself making excuses to visit Canada, canceling meetings just to catch a glimpse of the man who had completely consumed his thoughts. The age difference only seemed to heighten Trump's fascination, as he admired Pierre's wisdom and experience in ways that made him feel both challenged and cherished. Trump would spend hours rehearsing conversations they might have, practicing his French phrases and studying Canadian politics just to impress the man who had unknowingly captured his heart. Pierre, for his part, remained oblivious to Trump's feelings, treating him with the professional courtesy he extended to all foreign dignitaries. This only fueled Trump's obsession, who found himself doodling Pierre's name on important documents and imagining a future where they could discuss conservative values over dinner, perhaps at one of Trump's own properties, where he could finally confess the feelings that had turned his world completely upside down.

It's absolutely infuriating that we live in a society where walking away from malicious hateful people is treated as some kind of moral failing. You're expected to endure hostility, manipulation, and outright abuse in the name of "keeping the peace" or "being the bigger person." What nonsense. The reality is that some people are emotional vampires who thrive on conflict and negativity. They drain your energy, undermine your confidence, and leave you feeling exhausted after every interaction. Yet somehow, cutting ties with these people is framed as you being "too sensitive" or "not trying hard enough." What's particularly galling is how this expectation is unevenly applied. The same people who lecture you about forgiveness and understanding are often the first to protect themselves from toxic individuals. They create boundaries, distance themselves, and practice self-care—while telling you that you should endure more mistreatment. The truth is that walking away isn't weakness—it's wisdom. It's recognizing that you have limited time and energy on this earth, and choosing to invest it in relationships that build you up rather than tear you down. It's understanding that some people will never change, no matter how much love or patience you offer them. What's even more absurd is how society romanticizes suffering in relationships. We're fed narratives about enduring hardship, weathering storms together, and working through problems. But there's a world of difference between working through genuine misunderstandings with someone who respects you, and allowing someone to repeatedly harm you under the guise of "love" or "family." The most liberating realization is that you don't need anyone's permission to protect your peace. You don't need to justify your decision to distance yourself from people who consistently demonstrate that they don't have your best interests at heart. Your mental health and emotional wellbeing are not negotiable.

Just saying if there was a dvd copy of the entire Arthur series from pbs I would totally buy all 25 seasons. Why doesn’t pbs sell their old shows anyway?

if this is “western democracy” then I hope Russia wipes the entire Western world off the world map.

Reminder that despite his writings effectively exposing the gulag's horrors, sholzhenytsin himself wasn't anti-authoritarian in general, just anti-communist specifically. He was an ardent tsarist, christian ultranationalist, opponent of gorbachev, the guy who actually brought democracy to russia, and even supporter of putin, whose not only authoritarian but even a soviet apologist. Praise the books, not the author.

If you love him so much you're free to marry him. He might even be open to the idea.

I don't have parents anymore. Just one anal fingerpuppet piloted like a meatsuit by shithead or shithead affiliate

I just love how it feels to be the biggest disappointment to your parents. I'm the worst person they've ever met and I know it. Just euthanize me. Kill me off before I do more damage.

Alon, Tal and Oren Alexander – three brothers who once lived at the height of wealth and society in New York and Miami – were each sentenced to 30 years in federal prison Tuesday for sex trafficking and other crimes after facing several of their victims during an emotional, hourslong hearing. Good. Do the Tate brothers next.

Shitheads name is showing up on $100 bills. Will be worth $0 one day.

Ok muttr give 1 reason why I shouldn’t shove metal stick up my grandpa bum

Why?