1. I was diagnosed with cancer a little over two weeks ago, after a regular checkup. Turns out I have a tumour on my colon that has spread to other areas (liver and lungs so far) and will require extensive chemo and surgery for any chance to live longer than 8 months

I’m not having any treatment and I haven’t told my wife because she’ll only pressure me to get the treatment, which result in months of pain and suffering for a relatively small chance

Instead, I’m making sure our last few months together are filled with only happy memories. I’m starting work later and finishing earlier each day, to make her breakfast in bed and take her on dates in the evenings

My landlord I rent my workshop from has agreed to let me run my business rent free for the next 6 months, which means significantly less financial stress and I can save a lot more, so she has something to carry her over afterwards

I hope she’ll forgive me for taking this path

2. My 13 year old died in Peru after getting caught in a whirlpool. We were on vacation. His mom (my ex) blamed me for his death and our other son also blames me so he doesn’t speak to me. He’s now 13 too. I don’t force him to see me. When I drive home from work, I pretend that I am talking to my son about how his day was at school, what kind of music he wants to listen to, what he wants for dinner, etc. That is why I haven’t gotten a new car. There are just too many memories.

3. I was 8 years old and he was 13. By that time, he’d already gotten sex ed classes at his school.

He came to me and for several months showed me pornographic material. I couldn’t escape because my parents would make me stay at home with him whenever they went out.

It ended up happening because I was a little bitch and was more terrified of sleeping alone in the dark than my brother sexually abusing me while convincing me it was just a little game.

I didn’t understand at the time.

I didnt even have a door in my room, so he’d often “accidentally” barge in while I was changing. I was 8 years old.

He fucking groomed me into being okay with him seeing me naked while at the same time saying I was acting “obscenely” for laying on the couch. I didn’t even know what obscene meant.

It was only once our parents caught us that I realised he’d used me for his sick fantasies.

For me it was this little “secret” my brother told me to keep. I didn’t realise the implication and that he’d abused my trust in my only sibling to have sex with me, a fucking CHILD.

Even after being caught he’d still touch himself in front of me (I don’t even understand how my parents could leave me alone with him after what had happened).

By the time I turned 12 I’d have recurring nightmares about it but convinced myself that they were fantasies (I had repressed my memories) and that I was disgusting for thinking my big brother could have done that to me.

I got into the habit of locking my door every night once I finally got one and I didn’t understand why. I slept with a lamp in my room, even more terrified of the dark than when I was a kid.

It was like my mind decided to entirely wipe every memory out of my mind, my own mind was telling me I was disgusting for having nightmares about my brother touching me. But everyday I would wake up and act as if everything was normal. None of my parents ever brought it up. We became the perfect little family once again.

At 18 I had a mental breakdown after realising I had almost no memories of my childhood save for my horrible nightmares. I confessed everything to my mom, having completely forgotten if I’d even told her or if she knew since nobody spoke about it.

She told me she didn’t remember and that it must have been experimentation. Just siblings playing with each other.

She didn’t believe me. She had to ask my brother for confirmation.

And of course he downplayed it. He played the victim, saying he didn’t want it to damage my family once again and that he hadn’t done much anyway. According to him it only happened once. Hahaha

I distinctively remember everything and it hadn’t been once.

Since then I’ve been diagnosed with OCD, Anxiety and depression. I’ve been getting help and have cut all communication with my brother.

4. I’m a gay, closeted, middle-aged man married to a woman for a long time. My secret double life involves occasionally visiting gay night clubs, among other things.

On June 12, 2016 I was at the PULSE night club, enjoying Latino night (I’m not, but I enjoy Latino men for the most part). When the shooting started, I was on the far end of the club, getting a drink. I was nearly herded into the bathroom where a last-stand and breach occurred, but instead went along the wall and was able to exit. (It turns out later a dude I had bought drinks for occasionally was killed in the shooting).

I took a ricochet to the back of my calf which touched bone but didn’t break it. Bled a lot. Once outside, I immediately got clear of the area, made my way to my car which was parked a distance away, and then retreated to my office, about 15 minutes away. I did my best field dressing of the wound, stabilizing it and stopping the seeping bleeding for the most part.

I ended up seeing my regular doctor the next morning as soon as he opened. He freaked the f**k out, told me it was a mandatory reporting situation, and then sent me to the ER. I refused that plan, told him to give my information to the police. The police eventually did contact me, and I referred them to my lawyer. I worked my lawyer to give a statement to the police under confidential terms. They immediately put me in touch with the FBI. Meanwhile, about 24 hours had gone by, and my wound hurt like hell but was no longer weeping blood. The FBI was not playing around, and was very aggressive with my lawyer.

I ended up getting treatment from the hospital, a consult with a surgeon, who removed the shrapnel. I told my wife/kids that I injured my calf during an early morning run, and wore a compression sock to hide the wound. The surgery to remove the fragment followed a few days later, and was uneventful, except the FBI was there to retrieve the fragment. A plastic surgeon did a slight touch up on the wound so it looks like a mole was removed.

No one in the entire world knows what happened and how PULSE affected me. I sometimes have violent and horrible flashbacks of the scene inside PULSE. It is almost beyond words. Many of my asshole “friends” I am forced to socialize with in my “straight life” are horrible bigots, and not a few of them made cracks after the PULSE shooting mocking the victims, expressing glee, etc. It can be very difficult to keep it all inside.

5. Sometimes the most intimate touch isn’t necessarily sexual in nature. Years ago, I was in an abusive relationship. The guy I was with broke into my home, and threw my hair straightener (at full force) into my bathtub (while it was hot) in an attempt to intimidate me. When that didn’t work he proceeded to physically abuse me. He didn’t “want” to punch or slap me, because that would leave black eyes and bruises (he left massive bruises anyway). Instead, he grabbed me by my arms and wrists and drug me through the house calling me every insult known to man while doing it.

He got me into my bedroom.

He locked the door.

He threw me on the bed.

He towered over me, and he proceeded to straddle me. Once he had the full weight of his body securing me in place, he pinned my elbows down with his knees.

Then he hurt my soul.

He squeezed my face by my jaw. He left dents in my cheeks. He brought my face impossibly close to his as I struggled against him, and validated every single one of my insecurities with screams. He suddenly stopped, looked down at my defenseless body, and smiled. His eyes went cold. I could feel his erection on my abdomen.

“I could do anything I want to you right now.”

I still shudder when I think about it. Luckily, my parents chose that particular day to visit me, so when he heard the car doors, he got startled enough to get off of me. I exhaled the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and ran for the door. I later learned he’d fled through the window.

I cannot bear to let anyone touch my face because of this

6. My son, who would have been 21 this month, hanged himself on December 24 2016. Christmas Eve. My baby boy. Gone. There are no words to describe what it did to me, and what it did to the family. I went into his room midday expecting to find him still in bed. I found him hanging in the closet. Two lives were destroyed that day. The neighbors called the police when they heard my screams. I could not leave my house for months and lost my job. My older children had to move back in to support me because I refused to go out or clean the house or even eat food. My life had lost all purpose and for a while it was over. With time and extensive therapy I am just barely functional again, but life has never felt so empty. Not a moment goes by that I don’t think of him. I spend countless hours every day thinking of how I could have changed it. I know I could have.

My son was enrolled in a general health studies program at the local university. He didn’t have an interest in health and didn’t know what career he wanted to pursue, but I pushed him into it thinking it had the most potential for a successful career path and that he could develop an interest over time. He didn’t do very well in his first year but he made it through with a few failed courses. In April 2016 he had finished the winter term of his second year. I asked him about his final grades. He kept telling me that he hadn’t received them yet. I knew he had but I didn’t push. The summer term was starting and we had agreed that he would take summer courses for the courses he had failed in first year. He told me that he had applied to them, and he also told me he had finally received his second term grades and that he had passed them all. I didn’t know at the time that neither of those were true. It was all online so I never checked. If I did, I would have known that he had failed all five of his winter courses because he had stopped showing up to classes due to depression and he never applied to any summer courses. I found this out later in August when he broke down and admitted it all. I did not take it well. I was so upset that he had failed his program, that he lied to me so many times, and that he spent the entire summer pretending to go to class while doing other things. I called the school immediately and arranged an appointment with the faculty. I explained the situation to them and they agreed to let him reapply in the fall as a special student, and that if he did well in his remedial classes he would have a chance to continue his program where he left off. He didn’t want to do it. He wanted to take a break from school and apply to a different program later. I refused. I forced him to go back. I knew he hated it and I made him do it anyway. I didn’t do anything to treat his depression despite knowing about it. Instead I used it as an excuse to get him back in the program he never wanted to be in. I made him feel trapped enough to take his own life and I can never forgive myself for that.

Going back into his room was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. One step inside and I had a breakdown. Months passed. I tried again. Breakdown. We had to keep it locked until we hired a cleaner to pack his things because I could not bare to look at anything that belonged to him. I was only able to enter once the room was completely empty with just a few boxes stacked in the corner. Months later when I was home alone, I mustered the strength to open one of the boxes. Sitting on top was his laptop. I opened it and found it unlocked. I told myself I shouldn’t look through it. It would only ruin me again. But I had to. I had to know. Maybe he saw something that made him want to do it. Maybe he had messaged one of his friends, and maybe they said something to him. I just wanted to understand why. Why he would feel so hopeless that he had to take his own life. I found mostly things that would be normal to find in a young person’s browsing history. People’s Facebook profiles, assorted Youtube videos, a whole world I never knew. There was a file folder compiling images from what I could tell was shows/comics/games that he liked. I’ve never seen any of it before. I never cared. Another folder with images of my son with his friends from his high school. I didn’t recognize any of them. I never bothered to ask. I found a video in his Youtube history showcasing how to tie a noose. I had to stop there and weep until I had a migraine. Then I went back. I found entries on Kijiji. He was trying to sell his game consoles and games, which I later found out he spent his tuition to buy. I found a site called Liveleak, where there were a lot of entries on videos of people dying on camera. I believe he was trying to prepare himself for what he was going to do to himself. Then I found this site, Reddit, and I noticed his account still logged in. This one. Nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to find. Months of grief counseling undone in an instant. I had the worst breakdown of my life. Reading through everything he wrote in his last days tore my already scarred heart into a million shreds. He had reached out for help so many times. He felt so alone. He wrote that if he died I would only care about the money I wasted raising him. I thought I had felt the worst pain a person could feel until I read that. It was my fault. He felt so alone and hopeless in his last days. And I made him feel that way. I knew he wasn’t happy but I made him go back. I killed him.

If only I could tell him now that it doesn’t matter to me. That no school or degree was worth his life. That no matter what he did, I would love him no matter what. Oh how I miss my sweet boy. My baby is gone and I will never be okay again.

7. I don’t know where to start. But I’m hoping someone else on here can at least understand what I’m feeling without judging me or telling me things like “You don’t know how lucky you are; a lot of people can’t even have kids!” I know. And although I should be completely over the moon about my awesome kid, I’m just…not.

It started with the pregnancy. The second I found out I was pregnant, I had a strange feeling. Not the one of excitement or a bit scared, but that I didn’t want it. Deep in my gut, I knew I made a terrible decision to get pregnant. My husband and I agreed to try, though I was still on the fence. I also didn’t think I could get pregnant because I had horrible problems with ovarian cysts my whole life and doctors told me I wouldn’t be able to get pregnant past 30 (there were other reasons too but I won’t get into them). I was 34, so I figured, what the hell, we’ll try (he really REALLY wanted kids), and when I can’t have them at least we’ll say we tried. Well, turns out it only took ONE TRY. One. I know. Most people would consider that so incredibly lucky, and trust me I am well aware of the people out there who struggle with infertility.

As the weeks went on I struggled with absolutely terrible morning sickness until about week 22. That’s a long time, especially HOW sick I was. Around week 22/23 I started to feel a little better, especially because I knew I was more than halfway done with that hellish experience. At week 28 I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes and was back and forth to doctors every five seconds. I felt like a science experiment.

I was induced at 41 weeks and only pushed for 12 minutes. He came out in 5 pushes. Again, I know. Luckiest person on the planet especially because I had an epidural that worked like a charm. But the second I held him I didn’t want him. I wanted to give him back. I felt no emotional connection. Nothing. And then I hemorrhaged. And then I developed eclampsia, which is high blood pressure after birth. It was the most hellish three days of my life, thinking I was going to have a seizure or stroke and possibly die. Finally when I got released from the hospital on a myriad of medications, I didn’t want to be there at all. It wasn’t the same home.

It wasn’t the home of cooking all-day meals, spontaneous trips to the wineries, sitting and reading a book for hours. I didn’t realize I actually cared about any of these things until they were gone. And that gut feeling of not wanting a baby only got worse.

In the next weeks and months I struggled with what was eventually diagnosed with postpartum depression and postpartum PTSD. It was absolutely terrible and I contemplated suicide many times. The lack of sleep paired with those things made me feel like a complete lunatic. My marriage suffered, and I believe my husband and I will never be the same because of what occurred in those months with my emotions.

Fast forward to today. My husband does SO MUCH to help me. He’s there every second I need him and works right down the road, so he can be home in a second if I truly need something. My parents watch my son one day and my in-laws another day. But it’s not enough. I don’t want to be around him. I’m bored to tears playing toddler games and even going to the playground and stuff with him. I’m looking at my watch every five seconds.

Part of the problem is that I work from home. I was very, very talented and successful in my office job, which eventually converted to a work-at-home position. So by default, I became a stay-at-home mom. Let me make one thing clear: I NEVER EVER EVER wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. I made this very clear from the beginning, and I absolutely said I would never do it. I’m not cut out for it. And here I am. Sitting home with him, day after day. We do tons of things. He takes gym classes, art classes, we play outside all the time, go on outings, go to the food store. He’s clean and well-fed and loved and always entertained and happy. He really is a great kid.

But I HATE THIS. Like with every fiber of my being. Hate it. The sleep transitions, the teething, the not wanting to eat the food I make, the tantrums, everything. Like literally everything you can think about having a kid, I hate it. And the noise. OMG the noise. The tantrums, the kid songs that make you go insane…. I just can’t anymore.

I feel like being a mom brings out all of my worst personality traits. I didn’t even KNOW I was impatient, but apparently I am! I get so frustrated with him so quickly, and I have silent little anxiety attacks while I discipline him or deal with whatever is going on.

I just am so surprised – and weighed down – by the responsibility. I am one of the most responsible people on the planet. Always early to things, always organized, always on top of stuff. I have a dog, who I got as a puppy and I take a lot of pride in training her and being her dog mom. I have nieces who I take care of from time to time and I take what I say and do around them very seriously. And my job is extremely integrated with other people and working with teams. I am a director, so a lot of people rely on me. But SHIT. This is too much. Being responsible for a little human being, and every single thing I say is going to affect them in some way??? No thank you. It is a weight that is suffocating me every second of the day. And I wasn’t expecting that. On paper, I should actually be a great mom. But I’m really not.

And I don’t know what to do. I went to therapy, was on medication, everything. But I feel like the only thing that would truly make me happy would be to go back to work full-time in an office job. Right now I piece together my work. When he’s napping – if he naps – at night, early in the morning. I can never concentrate and what was once a bright and lucrative career now leaves me stressed out and awake at 3 a.m. wondering how I’m going to get my work done. I can’t concentrate and its like he needs something every other second. I keep waiting to like it. I keep waiting to feel something. But I don’t.

And don’t get me wrong. When he hurts himself or cries from being sad, my heart breaks. When my parents pull away with him in the car and I see his little face in the back seat I miss him. But then…he gets back and I’m like…when can he go over their house again???? It is truly the strangest feeling. I’m confused. And if anything ever, EVER happened to him I don’t know what I do. He is a sweet, gentle, loving, kooky kid. Always laughing and smiling, and I make sure to give him tons of hugs and kisses every single day and tell him I love him. I don’t ever want him to know these things I’m saying here.

Walking In Shenzhen Bao’an International Airport | Guangdong, China

This is what China is like today. This is what I see every day.

I’ve been drug dealing for the past 4 years now. I did have a year where I didn’t sell anything but besides that, it’s been pretty steady. The problem is, I just don’t think I can stop. It’s become an addiction. I don’t give a fuck about getting high. I smoke weed and drink alcohol occasionally but, besides that, I haven’t touched another drug.

There’s probably a lot that has lead up to this point, starting from a young age, but 4 years ago I found the markets and Bitcoin. It was at a point in my life where things were low and I found drug dealing. My first package was a package of Xanax bars. I made $1,000 profit in about 4 days because, at the time, pressed bars weren’t very well known so my prices were dirt cheap compared to everyone else’s.

That’s the moment things changed for me. The moment where I fucked everything up for myself.

4 years later, here I am. It’s a fucking addiction. When I stop, it’s for a month, max besides the one year I quit due to personal and OPSEC (Operational Security) related reasons. It’s a craving I can’t make go away. The adrenaline of doing something illegal, the money, the respect, the power you have over your little group of people…I don’t know…it’s impossible for me to explain so I’ll explain the more addicted part now.

The money.

You think drug dealing will ruin your life because of prison or getting robbed, and while true, there’s a sneakier way nobody tells you about; MONEY. I’ve dropped out of college and haven’t held down a job more than 6 months due to it. When you make $55-75K a year WITH NO TAXES, everything else is a blur. College? That takes 4 years of being broke! I can’t do that! Holding down a minimum wage job? That’s like $400 a week, if you’re busting ass. I was making $1,000(PROFIT, not GROSS) a week, making a couple moves. I moved bulk only so I wasn’t meeting people every 30 minutes to make my money.

I was my own boss and money gave me freedom. Freedom. That’s where the addiction comes into play. Drug dealing was 50% of it but the other 50% was the freedom money gave me.

I make about, on average, $4,000 NET profit a month. My monthly bills are only around $1,800 for everything besides food(Love living in a cheap state) so that leaves me a good chunk of change to myself. That leaves me $2,200 a month in my own pocket. This monthly cost includes a maid, once a week, dropping my clothes off at a laundromat to get washed, dried, and folded, and having my groceries delivered to my house.

I have all the time in the world to myself. It’s so addicting.

Want to go play Laser Tag and ride Go-Karts all day? You can! Want to go do 18 holes Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday? Grab some cigars and let’s go! Want to take a week long vacation? Easy, all you gotta do is tell your people that you’re leaving and to re-up while they can! Then you’re free to leave! Want to smoke weed and play video games all day? Done! Want to learn a skill like playing piano, programming, or anything? You can practice 8 hours a day!

I’m not even mentioning the material items. I have a PS4, Xbox One, Nintendo Switch, Gaming PC, MacBook, TaylorMade golf club set, Boosted Board, HTC Vive, 4K TV’s, all the smart home gadgets an apartment can have(Lights, outlets, TV’s, ect), and clothes galore. I also have a pretty decent car. If I don’t have it, I have multiple options to get it. I can either save up and wait, trade product for it, or just up my sales to cover the cost.

Oh, that’s another thing you can’t do with a paycheck, upping your sales. If I need money or just want to thicken the savings account, I can just push my sales a little harder. Offer a slight discount for more bulk, bring in a different product, or seek out new customers. $6,000 months are not crazy uncommon. Drugs sell themselves.

So yeah, you can see where everything becomes an addiction. Life is just…easy. Drugs sell themselves. Money gives you freedom. It’s a bad mix.

The problem is quitting. I could quit today and have a pretty decent savings to hold me over but after that, I’d have nothing. I have no college education and no work experience I’d be willing to put down on a resume. I have no references. I have no legal connections. I have nothing besides the business I’ve. built around myself. Surrounded by people who do the same thing that I do.

I have a couple moves I could make but my motivation is shot. I could go back to college, that’s a great option. I could hone in on my weed growing skills and save up for when legalization comes to my state. I could build a legit business.

For now though, I’ll stick to what I know and what I’m good at. Hoping to find the dragon I’m chasing.

How do you avoid getting caught?

OPSEC, OPSEC, OPSEC, OPSEC!

I’ve had buyers busted before with much, much harder drugs than Xanax. I suspect all of them to have said my name. I doubt they’re going to do a prison sentence when they could just get a buy on me.

1. They shouldn’t have any trial of communication between the two of you. Never, ever, ever, ever leave a trail! Once asked for proof they should go “uh….” and that’s it.
2. Cut them off. I don’t care how close you are. I don’t care if the charge has nothing to do with drugs. If they are in handcuffs, they are cut off. Never to be spoken to again.
3. Keep a tight knit circle. 3 people at most. None of them are to know each other. It’s less people you deal with, the less people you have to keep track of.
4. House is always, always clean! Never keep ANYTHING drug related in your house.
5. NO SOCIAL MEDIA!
6. Your darknet laptop should not have a HDD and should be AWAY from your house. NEVER connect to a darknet site at your home internet.
7. Packages should never come to your house. Always use a drop.
8. Don’t use a bank. Hide your cash like you’d hide your drugs.
9. Lawyer on retainer. This should be the first thing you pay for with drug money. Memorize his number. Give him bail money to use and only he has access to it.
10. DO NOT TOUCH PRODUCT PACKAGING! Use gloves when packing up product and wipe down with rubbing alcohol. Wear gloves when dropping them off to your buyer.
11. I take an extra step and do not do transaction. I take the money and the buyer will get the package via a dead drop within the hour. I DO NOT hand drugs over for money EVER. If your buyer doesn’t understand this rule, do not sell to them.

It seems like you have all your bases covered, although there are still ways of getting busted and to think you’re 100% untraceable seems ignorant

If your goal is to be 100% untraceable, you’ve failed from the beginning.

You just need to be worth less than the investigation. Think of your police force like a thief casing a house(Houses are drug dealers). The thief is going to pick a house that is easy to get into. They want low hanging fruit. They don’t want to have to use explosives or expensive drills to get your TV when the neighbors have one and the front door is unlocked. Now, if they know you’re holding diamonds or a mound of gold…they might be way more willing to use expensive tools and force to get in.

Is it worth going after a mid-range Xanax dealer who has his bases covered? The time, energy, and man-power spent on busting me wouldn’t net much. It’s my first offense and I have a decent lawyer ready to fight for me. There’s a story of a guy who ran a sled over the Canadian border with $55 MILLION worth of Xanax, they gave him 5 years of house arrest in a Federal court room. I’ve studied case after case of Xanax related busts.

Or

Would you rather focus on the “dumb” drug dealers who use Facebook and Snapchat to sell to anyone and everyone?

Could you give an example of a drop for ordering items? I just can’t see how this is secure. Abandoned house, PO box, neighbor, friend? How can you securely pick up a package at your drop location?

Rent a house in a ghetto area with a fake ID. I didn’t need to give up my social security or anything. I just showed my ID, signed papers, and handed over deposit and first months rent.

My buyer(s) will tell me the quantity they want, I’ll either do it hours later or the next day depending on how I feel, and I’ll go drop the product in a discrete location where I can check if anyone is following me or not and I usually use 2 level transportation(Car to one spot then ride my bike to another location), I’ll meet them, take cash, and then communicate with them later with the GPS location.

I’m a little surprised that your buyers are willing to hand you cash before you’ve given them the product. What guarantee do they have that you won’t just run off with the money?

They don’t have to do business with me. I have super competitive pricing so if they’re not willing to give me a try, there’s somebody who will. I always let the first pack go for a lower amount, like 100, but after that it’s 500 or more minimum. It’s not worth my time to do any less.

You said that you leave your phone at a different location and not your house. Doesn’t it not really matter if you’re using an app like wickr? Do you randomly go to the place and check your messages?

Your phone has GPS and more than likely a backdoor installed.

It’s a pain in the ass but here’s how I do it:

You can leave your phone at your drop house if you turn it off/take out the battery but I’ll leave my personal phone at home, go pick up the burner phone, drive to a coffee shop or library or something, and use it from there. I can usually get all my deals set up within an hour from there. After that, I’ll go drop the product off at my location, meet my person, and then go back to get my phone. I’ll use my phone in my car a good 5-10 miles away from my drop house, just a quick drive, to text them the location.

There were points in my life where I was meeting 3 people and points in my life I was working with just 1 person. The more people I’m working with, the more work I have to put in.

How do you avoid leaving a trail of your communications?

here’s a couple anonymous apps that you can use BUT do NOT use them on your personal phone. Get a “burner” phone and use them on there AWAY from your home. Turn the phone off and keep it in a different location than your home. NEVER TAKE IT TO YOUR HOME!

It’s a lot of work but you NEED to take your OPSEC seriously.

Walking In Shenzhen North Railway Station

This is what China is like today. This is what I see every day.

Humorous Illustrations Blending Sarcastic Nature and Adopted Cat’s Attitude

The Internet has been abuzz in recent years with the phenomenon of cats taking over, and now we have one more artist to add to their ranks. @st.aftercigs, an Instagram account with 190K+ followers, gives a whole new dimension to cat appreciation with their bold, humorous artworks inspired by the artist’s own adopted cat.

The artist behind the account expresses the stark contrast between cats’ sassiness, and their ability to be inspirational muses. By blending the artist’s own sarcastic nature with their cat’s grumpy cattitude, a unique and lively art style has been born. The artworks are a great reminder of the many nuanced personalities our cats possess and the joy they can bring to our lives.

More: Instagram h/t: boredpanda

Is THIS Really The Best Place To Live In The Country??

[1] I have lung cancer and Stage 4 Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma

Non-smoker by the way, just lost the lottery, that’s all. Considering the damage found from early on during the initial diagnosis, I am not expected to live for too long. I don’t want to get into details in case some friends recognize this.

I’m roughly 27 years old. I’ve been trying out new things, I have had so much fun with new hobbies, instruments I’ve learned over the last year, and have developed a routine for the gym since high school. I didn’t manage to go into what I wanted, entering college, but I’m happy with the jobs I managed to pick up from connections. I’m very happy with what I’ve done so far.

But the one thing I’ve tried to do, and have failed at, is to find a girl who likes me. I don’t bring up what I have and my outlook, but as of dozens of approaches and some new friendships kindled, there has been no one attracted to me. Apart from my physique, I’m not physically attractive up in the face, to say the least. Been trying different things since high school, nothing has changed as of yet.

I don’t want a hookup, not that I have one so far, or a pity fuck since I don’t want to bring up my cancer as I don’t want it to be the reason or my identity, but honestly this is the one thing that keeps me up at night. I’m still waiting for someone and I likely won’t find this person.

My lungs are starting to deteriorate, I’ve started exhibiting symptoms of where things will start to go downhill from here on out. I’ve seen the specialists and it’s not looking so good. 2019 might be my last year.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I have lots of friends who love me, parents that I’m blessed to have in my life, and have done things I’m proud of. But something as selfish as wanting someone to love me and be attracted to me, I can’t achieve that.

[2] My parents adopted my siblings and I just so they could rape and molest us.

I’ve never told anyone this before, ever, in my life, except for the legal authorities after it all came out. I guess this is the perfect place to finally do so, for the anonymity.

My parents are pedophiles. I’m not entirely sure how they met; us kids got a story growing up, but I don’t think it’s true, because how big of a coincidence is it that two people with the same awful and taboo fetish hooked up? They were always active as swingers, apparently, so maybe they met in the fetish world.

They decided to adopt kids together to sexually abuse, because it wouldn’t be as messed up considering we weren’t biologically their children. (I’m not saying that. That was their logic.)

They adopted my sister and I when I was 2 and she was a baby first, we had the same crack addicted bio mom who lost both of us to the state. When I was 4 and 7 they adopted my two brothers, and when I was 10 they adopted my youngest sister.

I know all of this because when I was 19 my dad bragged about all of this to the other couple they were swinging with, who I guess seemed like they were pedophiles as well. They weren’t, and turned my parents in to the police.

They are both in prison for life.

I don’t want to get into the gory details of everything, except that by the time I was ten I had lost my virginity to my dad and had basically done every sex act under the sun. I thought it was completely normal, and what all little girls did with their fathers. I was a daddy’s girl through and through.

My father molested my sisters as well, and my mother molested my brothers; everything was hetero. Looking back we were the stereotypically abused kids in school, way too knowledgeable about sex/sexually forward for our ages, and my brothers both got in trouble for playing with their own poop. My parents were never suspected, however, because of our traumatic beginnings as the kids of drug addicts.

By the time I was a teenager my dad pretty much lost interest in me because I was too grown up and was instead molesting my youngest sister. I basically had free reign to do whatever I wanted from the time I was 12.

I became hugely promiscuous with older boys at school, which ended with me getting pregnant at 15. The father was my first boyfriend who wasn’t one of the scummy guys at school, and his family had shown me that my home life was hugely abnormal.

I worried that if my baby was a girl it would be molested by my dad (at the time, I didn’t know my mom was abusing my brothers as well) and asked if I could move in with my boyfriend’s family. I used the story that my parents were angry about my pregnancy and kicking me out. As for my parents, they didn’t care much about me at that point and I suppose they guessed correctly that abusing their grandchild would not work as well since it was also attached to this very loving and functional family. They let me go.

In a way getting pregnant and moving out so young saved me. All of my younger siblings struggle with drug addiction in some shape or form, be it heroin, meth, alcohol, or multiple substances.

One of my brothers shows sociopathic tendencies likely due to the abuse. My youngest sister has been diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder.

After my parents were arrested, they all went back into the foster care system, which did not help at all. I am 26 today and while I still have a lot of problems with depression and suicidal thoughts I feel like having my son to live for is the only way I have avoided being addicted to drugs. He is 11 now and a great kid.

The worst thing for me wasn’t the abuse, shockingly. I grew up with it and never felt victimized during it, though I would never EVER do what my mom did to my son. It was the fact that during their trial it came out that my parents never thought of us as their “real” kids. We were just adopted kids that they took in to use as their playthings. All the love they showed us was just for show. I think that is what will haunt me for the rest of my life.

[3] I’m HIV positive

Earlier this year I had a relationship with a guy I mistakenly trusted. I don’t want to get into it because it upsets me a lot, but the short and short of it is, he told me he was clean, he was actually HIV positive, and now I am too because I felt safe enough not to use a condom with him during our relationship together.

I found out because I got what I thought was the flu, but it hit me so, so hard. I went to the ER twice. The first time they gave me fluids and some meds for my massive headache and sent me home. The second time I had a fever of 103 and they didn’t have any beds and wouldn’t for hours so I said fuck it and decided I’d rather die/go braindead in the comfort of my own bed. Two and a half weeks later I was still having fevers over 101 and couldn’t get out of bed except to pee. A rash like chicken pox that didn’t itch covered my entire body including my palms and my liver enzymes went off the chart. A month later after more tests and head scratching by a team of doctors, they finally diagnosed me with syphillis (stage 3) and HIV.

I took it in stride and went to therapy, took my new meds, and now my viral load is undetectable. My CD4 levels are normal (that means my immune system is working normally). Honestly the treatment for the syphillis was the worst. Three rounds of huge shots of penicillin in my butt, one in each ass cheek each time. I would be so sore it would be hard to drive out of the parking lot.

Life is pretty much the same, all except for I can’t donate blood anymore and I had to unregister from the bone marrow registry. Also I avoid this man like it’s my job. I don’t shop at the grocery store he works at. I don’t go to the park he lives near. I do a double take every time I see an older guy dressed in black on a bike now. I tried reporting him to the police but there’s nothing they could do for me because my governor changed the laws recently to reduce prison crowding.

Few people close to me know I’m positive. I haven’t even told my dad even though he asked me point blank when I was really sick and I just lied even though he’s a doctor himself and would love me all the same. I just don’t want him to worry, or to have to be burdened with knowing someone hurt me giving it to me, or if I leave that part of the story out for him to think I was reckless with my own health. But not telling him weighs on me too.

[4] When they first told me that I had cancer I thought that I would make it.

I did make it for a while. Things went alright and I went into remission when I was 18.

Things looked good and I started college as a film student in a 4 year University but by the age of 21 it came back and had was progressing rapidly. I ended up quitting school because It didn’t seem like it was worth planning for a future that I wouldn’t have.

I’m 22 now and recently was given an estimate of 4-6 months. I’ve been trying to stay strong for my family, but I’m so fucking scared.

I’ll be 23 years old when I die. There were so many things that I wanted to do that I’ll never get the chance to do.

I feel like I should be trying to find some rhyme or reason, or rationalizing some sort of after life or a god, but I just want to stay in my room and play videogames.

I love my family but I am tired of being around them, I see that they are trying to stay strong but I feel like I have to comfort them. They are also extremely religious and have tried to use this to make me a believer.

I don’t want to comfort people, or explain what I feel to people who won’t get it, or be fucking preached to.

I pre-ordered Red Dead Redemption two and my current goal is to stay healthy enough to beat it. That’s the one good thing about dying, I don’t have to save my money or worry about my future. It my sound selfish but at this point I’m just trying to play as many videogames as possible and try not to think about any of it.

Times like this are rough though, it’s 5 in the morning and I’m too tired to do anything. So I have a lot of thoughts popping up in my mind that I want to avoid

Poisoned pet | I try to save New life cat was poisoned

I was very, very hot.

Now I’m 61.  I’m not hot.  I’ve had two babies.  I’ve been sleep deprived most of my life.  My hair is a mess (possible Asperger’s symptom).  I have never been married, legally.   Funny, because I used to wonder how all those girls around me were ever going to find husbands, looking like that.

In high school, someone started a rumor I was on the cover of Seventeen.  The freshman girls began to follow me around, giggling.  They were so excited.  This went on for months.  I could see them admiring me from across the cafeteria, or down the hall.  They’d stop, to worship.  At last, one nervously came up to ask me about it.  I told her: I was a model, but not in Seventeen.

If my parents had had their acts together, I could have been.  But they were dysfunctional people.

I was raised with the understanding that I was important because I was beautiful.  It was not just the most important thing.  It was the only important thing.

Being shy, I was never comfortable with “hot”.  Back then, I assumed it was normal to walk into a restaurant and everyone would stop eating.  I took it for granted this happens all the time.

Then it stopped.

At the same time, I was competitive — I needed to be the most beautiful woman in the room.  I wanted to crawl into a closet and escape if a more beautiful woman entered the same space.  I felt deprived.  I felt unappreciated.  I felt worthless.  I was nothing.

All based on my looks.

Men I did not know told me they were in love with me.  Once, when I was 18, during my short modeling career, I received fan mail from 1000 miles away — including a pro football player requesting for a date — asking for “pinups” and a letter.  It was unnerving.  I do not miss those weird communications.

Some men could not help themselves; they wrote me poems.  Their words were often beautiful.  But they didn’t know me at all.

Any conversation with the opposite sex took place on eggshells.  I prayed the chat would NOT end with a request for a date…. or an embrace.  I’d try to be nice.  But I knew it was coming.  In my head, at every smile, I’d plead:  Please don’t hate me when I turn you down.  I avoided the question.  I kindly rejected them.  I never, ever got good at that.

So they hated me.  They’d be angry, they’d resent me, they’d be embarrassed, they’d need to prove that I was not good enough for them…  They turned rude and awful.

Needless to say, my looks and my desperate need not to upset men led to many a sexual harassment at work situation, which back then was not illegal.

I was fired from a magazine by a man I would not date.  I didn’t flat out refuse.  Trying to be diplomatic, I simply replied that we should “all” go out to lunch together.  He saw right through this.  I don’t miss that part of being hot one bit.  He went ballistic.  Like I said, today, it would be illegal.

I moved to Park Slope in the mid-80s.  On a hot summer day I put on a pair of shorts and walked down the street.  To my right, a pickup truck went flying past me.  Then came the screech of breaks, the zoom of an engine racing backwards, and it stopped.  I didn’t look.  But I could hear them.  One yelled:

“OH!  MY!  GOD!”

When the staring stopped, it was a relief in many ways.

I no longer had to give a damn about what I wore.  No one is scrutinizing me for imperfection.  When a beautiful woman has a pimple, no one stops discussing it.

I AM imperfection.  I don’t have to prove to anyone anymore that I am more gorgeous than you.

I stopped wearing makeup — what is the point at 61?  I still look much younger than my age, but I haven’t looked 30 since I was 45.

It was easy to get younger men to work with me when I was “hot”.  It is now impossible.  I am great at what I do but getting a 20-something guy to work with me as a team is threatening — and frankly it creeps me out too, to call someone a “colleague” when I’m old enough to be their mother.  These young men are embarrassed to be seen talking to me now.  Needless to say, I eat lunch alone.  I am lonely.  Funny, that.

I remember sitting next to an otherwise lovable guy named Mark at a bar in Elaine’s in Manhattan ca. 1986.  At one point Mark asked me what I did for a living.  At the time I was a freelance writer.

“Yeah?” he said, stifling a guffaw.  “Whadya write?  Romance novels?”

When I was hot, I could get out of anything.   

I sailed through a red light once and at the top of the hill, a policeman was waiting for me.  In my most adorably angry way, I got out of the car, put my hands on my hips, glared at him, and squeaked:  You’re just picking on me because I have an old car!”

He pointed out I’d just gone through a completely red light.  I pointed out right back:  “Well, if I had known you were here I would have stopped!”

Admission of guilt.

No license.  No registration.  No insurance.  These were all home on my kitchen table.

A crowd began to form.  The beautiful girl yelling at the cop. He reeled at them:  Whadyou lookin’ at!  Geddouda here!  Go!

In the back seat of the car was a New York Times, and a story with my byline.  This was what I used for identification — a newspaper with a byline.

I was telling the truth.  But how the hell would he know?  

He tried not to smile.  But he couldn’t help it.  Finally he laughed, said some warm and friendly things to me as he drove off.

I would never get away with that today.  

I told that story to coworkers once and was met with blank stares — disbelief.

It upsets me when people look at beautiful women and remark how stupid they are.  It’s a running joke.

Beauty = idiocy in this country.

I am smart, educated, refined, socially terribly awkward — and not an idiot.  I am not hot and people respect me.

I did not get that when I was gorgeous.  

I desperately wanted to be taken seriously.   It was hopeless.  No one could look like that and be heard except on paper.
So I write.

One time I arrived for a midtown New York press conference.  I was sent to the “43rd floor”, a modeling agency.  I was late for the p.c.

Of course I miss those days sometimes.

Days when men would hold the elevator for me and compete to pick up something I had just dropped.

When they would stare at me as we passed on the escalator and remark to a friend next to them, “Gooooood MORNing!“

When a boss would have me go to a conference room to ask a wealthy client if he would like to order dinner, knowing the guy was not hungry, just to show me off?

When a female coworker would suddenly hate me because her would-be paramour said something flattering about the way I looked, compared to her?

Yah.  I do.  I am invisible.