thoughts on life, parenting, news, and crazy shit

Month: August, 2013

Miley. Oh Miley. You Whacked-Out Ho-Bag.



Ok.  So.  I had to really think about whether or not I wanted to write about this crap.  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give it more attention that it didn’t deserve.  But the truth is that I just simply cannot keep my opinions to myself.

I never paid much attention to Miley Cyrus before this ridiculous performance at the VMAs.  Why?  Because she wasn’t part of my demographic.  My children are not old enough to have lived through the Hannah Montana years, and I am too old to really give a fuck.

But I kept hearing stuff about the VMAs.  So I had to look it up.  HAD to.

And, well, we all know what happened.  If you don’t, just YouTube it, and you’ll really, really wish you hadn’t.  Almost in a “two girls, one cup” kind of way.  By the way, don’t YouTube that either.  It will give you porno-nightmares.

Anyway, this is what I think about poor Miley:

1.  Where is the HELL is her manager/publicist and parents?  You would think for someone so established in the industry, she would bloody well have somebody out there advising her against making a total and complete asshole of herself.   She is going to look back on this in a few years and wish she had either died before it happened or entered rehab a wee bit sooner.

2. Whatever point she was trying to make failed.  It was poorly planned, poorly rehearsed, and poorly performed.  If you are going to go acting like psycho-slut on stage, everything about it has to be meticulous. The performance has to be, for lack of a better term, tight.  Perfect.  She looked like she pounded a 26, took off her clothes, and started dancing on the speakers at some Coyote Ugly bar.  Except with giant teddy bears and ugly shoes.

3.  No one should ever try to create the kind of thing on stage that Madonna does unless you’re Madonna.  Or Lady Gaga.

4.  Brooke Shields was right when she called it desperate.  Heartbreakingly so.

5.  There may be no such thing as bad publicity, because we are all certainly talking about her now.  But the difference is that when Madonna wore her underpants over her clothes, we never questioned her credibility.  When Gaga wore a dress made out of beef, we never questioned her genius.  When Miley acted like a coked-out slut, singing badly on stage, we ceased to recognize her as an artist, and started to recognize her as a struggling young adult begging us to forget her as a child.

Seriously.  What is so wrong about not being an asshole?

Billy Ray.  Please.Talk.To.Your.Fucking.Kid.

Before she gets completely naked next time.

11 Things To Tell Your Daughter So She Doesn’t Become An Asshole



I recently read an article on msn.com that was a list of 20 things I should tell my daughter before she’s 20, or some such bullshit.  There are plenty of similar articles out there, so I thought I’d jump on the bandwagon and give you my list of things your daughter needs to know before she’s 18.

11  Things To Tell Your Daughter So She Doesn’t Become An Asshole:

1.  “Don’t be an asshole.”

Seems obvious, doesn’t it?  But seriously, I think it’s easier to just get to the point sometimes.  I’ve discovered that the more words and explanations I use, the more words and explanations are wasted.  When you’re trying to explain for her to be a good girl, blah blah blah, what you really mean is “don’t be an asshole”.  Just say what you mean.

2. “If you really like him, never ever put out on the first date.”

No one wants to think about their daughter having sex one day, but unfortunately, it IS going to happen at some point.  I want her to be in charge of her relationships.  And putting out on the first date makes you vulnerable.  Unless, of course, she’s just using him.  Then the advice becomes “always use a rubber.”

3. “Never wear low cut and short together.”

Low cut on top is fine with a skirt knee length or longer or pants.  Short skirts are fine if you’re covering up the girls on top.  It’s all about balance, and there is a huge difference between slutty and sexy.  Know where that line is.  Sexy is useful to you.  Slutty makes you usable to him.

4.  “Take care of your body because you love yourself.”

Don’t exercise and eat well because you hate the way you look.  Do it because it makes you strong.   Do it so that when someone calls you fat or ugly ( and people are assholes, so someone will one day) you can kick their ass. For reals.

5. “Learn the phrase feminine emergency.

Having your period sucks, but it does have its advantages.  If you ever need to get out of class, or work, and your boss/teacher is male, tell them you have cramps or a feminine emergency.  It makes them all twitchy and uncomfortable, and you’ll be sprung before you can say “I’m outta here.”

6. “Be smart, but know when to play dumb.”

Do your research.  Make sure you have information on every topic and issue that pertains to your life.  From health questions to car troubles.  But know how to play dumb, so you don’t have to do the nasty jobs.  Unless, of course you want to.  Then be the biggest ball buster you can be.

7.  “Become a real sports fan.”

Not just a pretend one, because it’s cool or you want to impress some jackass.  Understand the game.  Love the game.  Appreciate the game.  It’s a safe conversation starter in any social setting, and if you know what you’re talking about, it makes you memorable.

8.  “Be memorable.”

Have a quality that people admire about you and remember you for.  Make sure you live up to your reputation.

9.  “If you don’t have time to do it right, when will you have time to do it over?”

Ok.  So this is actually a quote by John Wooden, legendary basketball coach.  But seriously.  This is not about making mistakes, mistakes are great because they help us learn.  This is about taking shortcuts and doing things half assed.   Don’t do it half assed.   Don’t be lazy. Take the time to go all the way and do things right.  Hard work will get you everywhere.

10. “When you’re wrong, say you’re wrong.”

It’s awesome to be right.  And assuming you’re not an asshole, you’ll be right a lot.  But when you realize you’ve made a mistake, or done something wrong, admit it.  It’s braver than being the douchebag who sticks to their guns when the truth is staring them in the face.

11. “No man will ever love you as much as your dad does.”

I don’t care what kind of car some guy drives or how cute he is or what he does for a living.  His love can’t compete.  remember that when Daddy’s sitting on the porch with a loaded weapon.


Ask me how this goes in another 15 years or so.

Anyone Know Where I Can Get A Tapeworm?



So yeah.   This chick in Iowa swallowed a fucking tapeworm to lose weight.  What a moron, right?

I don’t know.  People use various methods all the time to lose weight without having to work at it.  The diet industry is a multi-billion dollar entity, is it not?

Think of all the gimmicks out there. From Slim-Fast to Jenny Craig.  All the exercise tapes….  Jane Fonda, Tony Little, Richard Simmons, Zumba.  Everyone promises the best results with the least amount of effort.

But here’s the thing.  In this world of instant gratification, we seem to be so determined to never ever dig in and put real effort into anything anymore.  Including our health.  And trust me when I tell you this:  As someone who’s had to struggle and fight and manage and watch the scale go up and down for her entire life, there just is no effortless answer.  There just isn’t.

I’ve tried a lot of things.  In high school I starved.  Effective, but really really shitty. As an adult, I’ve done Atkins a few times.  Also shitty, it works for a time and then you get so fucking fed up that you give up.  I’d probably consider a tapeworm too, just to not have to work so damn hard and be accountable for my choices.

And that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?  No one wants to be accountable for anything anymore.  They always want someone else to fix it for them.  Find a magic cure.

I’d love a little bit of that right now.  I’m finding the baby weight slower to come off this time.  I mean, all the water etc is gone, but now I’m down to the nitty gritty business of dealing with the real weight.  And it sucks, because now I have to pay attention.  I have to make good choices.

My God.  I might have to fucking exercise.

That tapeworm is starting to look a little more tempting.

I think my problem is that the types of exercise I actually enjoy are inconvenient.  I like to ride horse. I like to paddle kayaks. I like to swim.  I like to hike.  Hard to do in the city, without a horse or a boat or a hill.

How much does a tapeworm cost?  And how bad are the headaches? Would an Advil take care of the discomfort?

See?  I’m making excuses.  Because I don’t want to engage in the behaviors I know are the behaviors that need to happen to reach my goal.  Eat less.  Eat better. Move more.

I wonder if the tapeworm actually works?  How long do I have to keep it in?

I guess I should stop being ridiculous and realize that this woman on the news has ruined my chances of acquiring a tapeworm now anyway, and lace up my running shoes.

That bitch.


Don’t Be Stupid Wednesday

Yesterday I re-posted this to my Facebook page.  It was in response to an article suggesting that vaccinations were the origins of allergies and responsible for the increase in severe peanut allergies in particular.

I’m not going to pretend to know whether or not this is the case.  I’m not a doctor or an immunologist. But, I am a science grad, a mother, and a fairly reasonable person capable of reading through the available information and making decent decisions with the help of our doctor.  And if you read my original post on the matter, you’ll know that I have concluded that vaccinating our children is common practice for a reason.  It is an absolutely necessary practice in order to keep our children safe and healthy.

Anyway, this post isn’t really about vaccinations.  Because I’m not really interested in repeating myself.  Rather, I’d like to comment on the extremism that seems to be plaguing the parental population these days.

Parenting is about choices.  It’s about being responsible for making decisions for someone else’s life until which point they are able to make good decisions for themselves.  It’s about helping these tiny humans in our care learn how to make good decisions for themselves.

And what I have a problem with today is the fact that a lot of parents seem to be so extreme about everything.  What ever happened about balance?  What ever happened to finding a happy medium between black and white?  Why is there no grey anymore?

For example, “natural childbirth”.  I am 100% supportive of women allowing their bodies to do what they are built to do.  I am supportive of not intervening unless absolutely necessary.  I don’t think we need drugs all of the time, but acknowledge some of the time we do.  I am supportive of women’s choices to birth at home, with midwives or other trained professionals who can intervene or help in an emergency.  But now women are going ahead with unassisted births.  Because they have to be “natural”.  I understand the desire, but when we know better we do better, right?  Why not have someone there who is capable of preventing serious injury or fatality?   I hated the doctors trying to convince me to have interventions that I felt at the time I didn’t need, but has the door swung to far the other way?  Are we endangering ourselves and our babies by refusing all available help?  I don’t know.

In the case of vaccines, I think the decision should be based on what we currently know about diseases.  A friend of mine asked if I had vaccinated my kids against the stomach “flu”.  In this case, we chose not to, because the worst risk from a stomach virus is dehydration, and seeing as we live in a first world country with reasonably good access to medical care we decided it wasn’t necessary.  We felt that in this specific case, catching a stomach virus would help to build a robust immune system down the road.  But it was an informed decision after discussion with our doctor.  See?  Grey area.

In the case of standard vaccines?  We’ve ignored the fear mongering and inaccurate correlations between vaccines and things like autism.  The science is strong.

I think that in this day and age of the internet, we need to be very, very careful where we get our information.  Because people like drama.  They like to stir shit up.  And when you’re basing your decisions on unreliable sources, you are likely to make unreliable decisions.  Know your sources.  Find peer reviewed literature.  Look for scientific journals, and ask the right questions at your next appointment if the scientific jargon is unclear.  A good indicator of the article being sound is that it will have no fillers, no unproven opinions.  It will state a hypothesis and outline the evidence either proving or disproving it.  It will not be written in a sensationalized way.  It will be strict fact.

And I think we owe it to our kids to do better.  We owe it to them to teach them to make decisions based on fact, and discussion, not fads and extremist parents.

There is a huge difference between natural living and stupid living.

Don’t be stupid.



Two’s Company, Three’s A Crowd

This totally what would happen to us if we tried for a third mentalfloss.com

This totally what would happen to us if we tried for a third

I know it’s kinda early to be thinking about this, but we’re already on the subject of “are we done?”. Ridiculous, I know.  He’s only been enjoying life on the outside for less than 7 weeks.   I haven’t even had much time to adjust to two children driving me up the wall, let alone consider the possibility of adding more.

But I guess the thing is that we aren’t in our twenties.  We’re close to the end of our reproductively viable years, so I guess the decision has to be made for reals.  Do we close up the factories?  Leave it to chance?  Wait to see if we win the lottery first?

Here are some points to consider against more:

1.  3 kids means bigger car.  Bigger table.  Bigger house eventually.

2.  3 kids means we are ALWAYS outnumbered unless we can convince one of our parents to live with us. Grandma?

3.  3 kids means improbable that I will ever fucking sleep through the night again until I am 60.  Currently, I’m on pace to sleep at about 50.

4.  There is a real probability of multiples.  Which means instead of a third child, we’ll end up with seven.

5.  Buddy wrecked me. At 9 pounds, it’s like he took every single one of my joints, unhinged them, and they are slowly and painfully putting themselves back together.

6.  The baby will probably be 11 pounds.  My vagina doesn’t want to go there.  Neither does my perineum, if I ever find out where that is.

7.  I think Husband doesn’t want any more kids. I’d have to trick him, and I don’t like to be sneaky.

8.  I’m not sure I could drink enough alcohol before passing out to really believe it’s a good idea anyway.

9.  Can I give birth to a 6 month old with a full set of teeth that’s potty trained so I don’t have to deal with the newborn stage, teething , potty training or anything else that sucks? NO?  Dealbreaker.

10. After 35 means greater chance the child is retarded for real.  Not just in the cute Destroyer way.  But in the real medical way.

Points for more:

1.  My hormones are telling me that my womb is empty, and I must fill it.

2.  My hormones are telling me that birth is awesome and I want to do it again and again.

3.  It’s nice to be fat and eat everything you want and have everyone tell you you’re beautiful anyway.

4.  Babies are cute.

5.  I’m obviously insane.

Realistically, I think this is it.  I’ve even started bagging up my maternity clothes.  But there is something in me that keeps telling me no.  Don’t decide yet.

Thoughts?  Did you? Would you?  How many kids did you have, and how did you know when you were done?

Go Away. I Will Eat You Tomorrow.

You know what I hate?  People who are trying to sell me something.  Or convince me of something.  Or guilt me into to something.  Or who want me to support their cause.

Guess what, assholes of the universe?  I don’t want to buy your crap.  I don’t want to support your team if you’re a stranger.  And by the way, I have my own fucking cause to support right now.  It’s called two children under the age of two who need to nap.  And when you ring my doorbell trying to get me to support your cause, it sends the dogs into a frenzy and wakes up my children.

AND guess what your chances are of getting my money now?  They used to be 0%.  Now you’re at minus 1000%.  Try digging yourself out of that hole, Dicksmack.

Seriously.  Are we in the 1950’s still?  Do people actually go door to door to peddle their shit?  Why don’t you go on Dragon’s Den or get an infomercial like everyone else out there, and leave me alone?

Furthermore, I have not one, but, TWO signs on my door saying “No solicitors, agents, or peddlers” and “no unsolicited flyers”.  Why is it that every single person trying to get my money thinks these signs apply to everyone except for them.

Because you know what?  It’s not that your charitable organization isn’t worthy.  It’s not because I’m a scrooged out old bag who can’t part with her money.  I support plenty of fundraisers and make plenty of donations whether it be items or money.  The signs mean that I don’t want a stranger ringing my bell and waking up my babies that finally went to sleep after they have been driving me up the goddamn wall all morning.  It’s about me having one small window during the day where both of my children are momentarily satisfied enough with life to leave me alone long enough to have a sandwich and read a book.  It’s about you disturbing my peace.

So pardon me for asking you to go away or telling you to go fuck yourself if I’m feeling overly irritated. Which will happen when you don’t accept the word “no”, by the way. I don’t think I need to be nice to you when you have clearly disregarded my wish to be left alone.  I’m sorry if I offended you or if you think I’m a bitch.  But you earned it.

I think I’m going to change the sign on my door:

“Babies sleeping.  Ringing this bell will trigger the trap door which lets my guard dog out to chomp on your balls.”


“Go Away. I will eat you tomorrow.”  (thank you Paper Bag Princess for this lovely phrase..)

I wonder if people would get it then?

Hot On The Titties Is Back!

www.meetup.com  Also, I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Also, I just threw up in my mouth a little.

I bet you think you know what I’m going to write about today don’t you?  Since the restaurant in Washington has banned children under 9 in the evening, you figure I’m all hot on the tits about this again.  But I think I’ve exhausted my opinion on it.  If you want to read about it, click here.

NO, bitches, today I want to talk about something else that irritates me.

I. Fucking. Hate. The Word. Playdate.

It is seriously the most ridiculous term that has ever entered our common vocabulary.  It sends gross chills up my spine it’s so stupid. And the reason it annoys me so much?  It is indicative of just how retarded we have become when it comes to over-scheduling not just the activities of our children, but of our lives in general.

Since when do babies and small children need to have social coordinators? Let’s face it.  What’s actually happening is two parents needed some adult companionship so they throw their children together in hopes that they will entertain each other while we have a coffee.  It’s not a play date.  It’s two adults making plans.

I don’t know, maybe I’m just really old fashioned, but I also think it speaks volumes about the loss of community in this generation.  I remember walking across the street after dinner as a child as ringing the doorbell to see if my friend could come outside to play with me.  I don’t remember our parents having to get together and planning something two months from now and calling it a fucking date.  It just makes me sad that we don’t know and trust our neighbors enough these days to be able to do that.

Or maybe the problem is that there is never anybody home.  Everyone is in their car, driving their kids to their 10000 registered activities during the week.  So we can ring the doorbell all we want, but no one will answer.

In any case, you can call me to see if we’re busy today, but if you call it a playdate, I won’t make you any fucking coffee.  Because I like to go dutch on dates.  Unless you’re paying.

The other thing on my mind today is carseats.  It is recommended that children be strapped into a fucking booster until they are 100 pounds.  Destroyer will be lucky to be hundred pounds by the time she goes to Driver’s Ed.  Do they make boosters for the driver’s seat?  Furthermore, carseats are considered “expired” after 5 years.  We just bought a convertible seat that turns into a booster and is good up to the magic 100 pound mark.  She has finally hit 25 pounds at age 2.  What do you think the chance is that she’ll be 100 pounds within 4 years?

It’s nothing but a fucking money grab.  AS IF i am going to throw the thing out in 4 years.

I hate rules.

When they are stupid.  And I didn’t make them.

And playdates. Because they are make believe.



Destroyer the Hero

www.rookiemoms.com  This is not Destroyer, FYI.

This is not Destroyer, FYI.

I can only imagine how hard the past few weeks have been on my Twee Destroyer.  Life changing event?  NO problem?

Well sort of.  She has changed a lot.  Of course, she’s also turned two and been busy growing a new molar, which I am determined to use an the excuses for her new ability to throw an absolute shit fit over the smallest thing out of the blue.

But she’s changed in some other ways too.  Her vocabulary has finally started to grow with more real words and less animal sounds, thank God.  And she is able to express her sweet loving self in such a way that I feel like I know why people have kids, and then have more kids even when already spent the last so many years sleep deprived and covered in someone elses spit up.

It is indescribable to be loved back so purely by a child.  And in those moments of true love, you don’t care about the jam in your hair or the 5000 crayons all over the floor.

The other night I was have a really tough time with Buddy.  The kind where he’s screaming, and I’m crying and contemplating my escape route.  And little Destroyer looks up from her book that I was unsuccessfully trying to read at bedtime, and strokes my arm.  Then she stands up and wraps her arms around me.

How she knew that it was exactly what I needed in order to keep my sanity, I don’t know.  But it helped me to realize that infants aren’t infants forever, and the screaming nights won’t last forever.  They will eventually turn into that.

Yesterday I handed Buddy over to Daddy and spent a big part of the day just her and I.  I needed to care for someone who is able to give back a little more ( no offence Buddy) and we had a really great day together.  Shopping, visiting, bike ride and just one on one time.   I have really missed her.

Then it happened.

We were playing next door with a tennis ball and the dogs when my daughter dropped to her knees on the pavement and picked the ball up in her fucking mouth.  Like a dog.

And I laughed really, really hard.  Kids are super retarded sometimes.

I also decided that it meant we need to spend more time with other children.  So she knows that she is a child, and not a dog without a tail.

Oh Destroyer of Hearts.  You save me from my shit sometimes.  My tiny superhero.

World Breastfeeding Week?

www3.sainsburys.co.uk  This is OK too, you know.

This is OK too, you know.

Did you know that it’s World Breastfeeding Week?

I have a little bit of a rant about this.  Maybe it’s because I wasn’t able to breastfeed either of my babies, despite my efforts.  Maybe it’s because I feel like we don’t high five the girls out there who give up on it because at some point it becomes more about the mom and not about a thriving child.

Don’t get me wrong.  I wish I could have breastfed.  In fact, I tried like hell this time around.  Everything short of attaching myself to a milking machine.  Some people probably think I didn’t try everything then, and shame on me.  But you know what?  I have a toddler to care for as well as a newborn.  My husband works long shifts.  And at some point, I refused to cut off my nose to spite my face.

Here’s the reason why I feel a little Hot on my Tits bout this.  As much as moms out there support one another in breastfeeding, whether it’s public, private, discreet, pumped milk, donor milk or whatever, there is not much mention of supporting those moms who feed their babies formula.  When moms talk about it, they make it seem like it is the last resort, and that you are hurting your child by making this choice.

And I find that really fucking frustrating.

How is it that my doctor is supportive of my choice and even confirmed that nutritionally formula is almost the same as breastmilk these days, and yet all these moms out there can make me feel like such shit about it?

And not even directly.  It’s comments like “I broke down and gave him a bottle in the end” after listening to their baby scream in hunger for hours when their milk was drying up that do it.  As if letting them suffer because formula is poison is an awesome parenting choice too.

A generation ago, it was really common to be bottle fed.  It’s not like we all turned out to be moronic monsters.  Or did we?

Anyway.  I support breastfeeding moms. I am envious of that ability.   I applaud those who try hard and find success.  I support the choices that we all make in order to care of our babies, but also ourselves.  If you are trying to breastfeed and it’s not working for whatever reason, it shouldn’t feel like a failure.  And if it does, I think it’s time to stop, because that’s SELF CARE.  And we, as mothers, tend to be martyrs sometimes.

But you know that saying?  “If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy”?

If you aren’t taking care of yourself, you’re not doing your baby any good either.

So yeah.  World Breastfeeding Week.  How about World I Love My Child Week?  How about World Women Supporting Women No Matter How They Feed Their Baby?

I just wish that sometimes, we knew how to be supportive of one thing without demonizing another.

And yes, I am a little jealous of the breastfeeders out there.  I missed out on something special with my children.  And if you think it’s convenient to have to make bottles all the time and plan how many to take to the park, think again.  I wish I had the luxury of unbuttoning my shirt and providing for my kid.  But I don’t.  So please, please, please, be as respectful of MY feelings and right to do what what’s best for my child as you are all expecting the rest of us to do for you.

Rant over.


Babies Are Jerks, But Sorta Awesome



I am going to share with you some very important information about having children.  Something my very wise friend told me that I didn’t want to believe.

Babies are jerks.  I love them, but they are jerks.

And I don’t think they mean to be, but little people really are total assholes sometimes.

Two days ago a couple of my girlfriends brought their toddlers over to play ( notice I DID NOT say playdate, and that my spell checker is telling me that it is not a word, because it isn’t) and we thought it would be a really lovely morning.  Think again.  I would estimate that the three little 3 Footers cried about 75% of the time they were in each other’s company.  Over nothing. Over everything.  Over fucking reacting, much?

It didn’t matter what was available to play with, they always wanted what the other had.  They would each grab on, and despite our parental protest, proceed to beat the living shit out of one another until one of us broke it up.  Sometimes, one would just sit one the other.  Other times, one would just sit in a chair and cry.  Other times, one would scream MINE! no matter what item was being touched.

Yup.  Little people are assholes sometimes.

And then there are the tiny people.  The ones who can’t even sit up on their own yet, but can smell when dinner comes out of the oven or sense that your coffee is still hot.  Oh no you won’t, Mommy.  Because I’m in charge of this shit-show now, and there will be no eating or drinking anything at a temperature other than “room”.

Or, I’ll trick you into thinking that I am perfectly on schedule.  No fussing, no gas.   Then it will be bedtime, and just when you think you can taste the wine, I will get some gas trapped somewhere and scream for a couple of hours.  Because there will be no relaxed, wine induced slumber, bitches.  It will be fall on your face, did I remember to go pee before bed, totally exhausted sleep over here.  Just to make you appreciate how adorable I am.

I’m pretty glad that I still have my sense of humor through all of this.

Maybe it’s cause he made up for it by only waking up once in the night to feed.  Thanks, Buddy, that was a real treat.  All is forgiven.

Why is it that all is forgiven with a gummy smile and an extra couple hours of sleep?

Cause babies are also awesome, somehow.

So.  Should we get started on Number 3, or what? Husband?  Husband?




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A personal potpourri of thoughts

Supporting Birth Diversity

Celebrating the Tapestry of Motherhood


frightfully wondrous things happen here.

An Early Start

Meet Jax a funny, kind, and smart preschooler who was a micro-preemie born at 23 weeks. Now that Jax is older, the scariness of the NICU has faded, but we're still learning how to manage the lasting effects of prematurity including chronic medical issues, ADHD, and Autism Spectrum Disorder. This is our story of love, hope, and survival.

Writings From Dr. Oolie's Pond

Poetry, Prose, and Random Thoughts

You're Wrong and That's Okay

Helping those who should really learn to help themselves...

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