I occasionally get these ‘Bots that try to communicate with me. usually disguised as a woman. With the standard boiler-plate profile; single-mother two kids (usually boys), and wants to know me, as they found what I had to say about XXXX so great.
Then they plot themselves down and try to maintain a conversation. Today, a lot of the conversational stuff is AI generated, and you can tell…
Eventually, they will continue to prod and prod until a dialog is established.
Then eventually will come a request for something. That something will be a hook to use me, or my resources…
I just let them sit there.
If I want to chat, there’s a few neighborhood cats that I see when I go out jogging int he morning.
Anyways, this latest chick-bot is digging hard.
And up comes the questions about money, property and finances…
But my main rule is absolute. I NEVER talk about money, finances, investments, stocks, bonds, or anything about fiances AT ALL… unless I have physically sat down face-to-face with you or whomever eating a meal together.
Then, and only then, can some of this boring stuff be breached.
Anyways…
Today, a “female” scam-bot is parked on my Quora private messaging. And I’m just gonna let ‘er dangle for a spell before I <…TERMINATE CONNECTION…>.
Modern life.
AI is getting good, but you can tell a ‘bot generated content. Don’t you know.
Today…
RUSSIA’S SHOCKING DEPLOYMENT IN VENEZUELA CHANGES THE GAME
Russia in Venezuela.
What is something you have tried, but will never do again?
Even when I wasn’t active on Quora, my inbox remained open. People often reached out to me with their problems and queries, and whenever I had the time, I replied to them. Not to everyone, but to most.
A few days ago, a guy messaged me on Instagram to thank me because he had gotten married. I was confused at first—why was he thanking me for his marriage? When I checked our old chat, I realized our last conversation had taken place in 2019.
Curious, I started reading through the old chat and everything came back to me.
He had come to me with a very unusual problem. He said he had a girlfriend and wanted to break up with her, but she was sweet, lovely, and innocent. I asked, “Then what’s the problem?”
He replied, “The problem is, she’s not very understanding. She wants to talk to me all the time. She doesn’t give me space. The more I try to distance myself, the more she chases me, and it’s suffocating. I want to break up without hurting her.”
I was puzzled. Here he was, asking for advice from someone who was perpetually single. Was he trying to make me jealous by describing a girlfriend who was so devoted to him?
But regardless, after hearing him out, I said, “It seems like you have commitment issues. No relationship can survive if you’re not on the same page. If you want to break up without hurting her, here’s what you can do:
- Be available for her.
- Instead of running away, start chasing her.
- Reply to her texts immediately.
- Call her before she calls you.
- Basically, be there for her 24/7.”
Then I added, “Come back to me in a few months, and you’ll have your breakup without hurting her.”
Now it was his turn to be puzzled. He asked, “Aren’t these the things guys do to get into a relationship with girls?”
That’s a good question, but ask any girl if they’d actually get into a relationship with those kinds of guys.
I replied, “People love to chase. They want someone who seems out of their league. There’s a sense of achievement in pursuing someone who feels unattainable. But when they realize that person is just like them—with their own flaws, failures, and frustrations—the chase loses its appeal. Show your girlfriend who you really are instead of running away.”
A few months later, he messaged me again and said, “Finally, we broke up. And she was the one who ended it.”
It had worked, but I felt terrible. I had essentially advised him to manipulate his girlfriend into breaking up with him.
I asked, “Are you happy?”
He said, “No.”
He continued, “When I started getting to know her better, I fell in love. When I stopped chasing her and began loving her honestly, we had a lot of fights—fights I couldn’t understand. Until one day, she was done with me.”
And that’s where our conversation ended.
So, when he thanked me for his wedding, I asked, “Have you moved on?”
He said, “No. I married the same girl. Thanks for stopping me. Those fights helped us understand where we stood and how much we truly loved each other.”
This was one of the weirdest pieces of advice I’ve ever given, and it was in response to an equally weird problem. But I’ll never do it again. I’ll never advise anyone to manipulate someone else. Even though it both worked and failed in this case, I was certain it wouldn’t—and it shouldn’t but it did.
“I Joked ‘I’d Cheat If I Knew I’d Never Get Caught’—My Husband Heard & Handed Me Divorce Papers”
Would you be able to explain China’s reluctance (publicly anyway) to support any action against Somali & Houdi rebels, since it is to China’s interest to maintain that Suez commercial corridor open?
As we all know, the United States has no economic interests in the Red Sea and the Arabian Sea. American merchant ships mainly travel on the Atlantic and Pacific routes and rarely use the Suez Canal. Therefore, no matter how the Houthi armed forces make trouble, they cannot affect the United States.
In contrast, China’s trade with Europe mainly passes through the Suez Canal, and the Houthi armed forces’ attacks on merchant ships in the Red Sea and the Arabian Sea will only have an impact on China and Europe.
Now it is very strange that China does not say anything about the Houthis, on the contrary, the US military has fought with the Houthis.
It can thus be seen that the United States is China’s lackey and cannot bear to see its master suffer the slightest indignity. Without waiting for an order from its master, it took the initiative to launch an attack on the Houthis, who are threatening China’s trade routes. 😂
It seems that Trump is not only involved in the Russia Gate, but also the China Gate! The red scarf on President Trump’s chest… Oh, no, it’s a red tie, it looks more colorful!
Goetta
Goetta, a breakfast sausage, was originally a peasant dish, meant to stretch out servings of meat over several meals. It is very popular in the Cincinnati, Ohio, area.
Ingredients
- 1 pound ground pork
- 1 pound ground beef
- 8 cups water
- 2 1/2 cups steel cut oatmeal
- 1 large onion, sliced*
- 1 to 4 bay leaves (optional)*
- 2 teaspoons salt
- Pinch of pepper
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Instructions
- In a large pot with a lid, boil the water, add salt, pepper and oatmeal. Cover and let cook for two hours, stirring often.
- Add the meat, onion and bay leaves. Mix well. Cook for another hour, stirring often. Remove bay leaf.
- Pour into any size bread pans. Refrigerate overnight.
- To serve, slice the goetta and fry it until crispy or just until heated through.
- Goetta may be served with pancakes and eggs, on sandwiches or in place of meat at dinner.
Notes
* Two teaspoons of savory may be substituted for the onion and bay leaf.
Reflections Between the Pages
Submitted into Contest #290 in response to: Write about two characters who meet and/or fall in love in a bookshop, café, or at a wedding.… view prompt
Denise Walker
On the other side of the bookshelf, Daniel felt her presence. He wasn’t sure why he had suddenly become hyper-aware of someone else in the shop, but he could sense her—hovering, watching, just as he was pretending not to do the same.
She’s trying to decide if she should acknowledge me, he mused. Maybe she thinks I haven’t noticed her. Perhaps she’s debating whether to walk past me or go the long way around.
He reached for a book at random—Dickens’s Great Expectations—and flipped it open without really reading it.
What would I say if I did talk to her? he wondered. “Nice weather we’re having” would be a lie. “Come here often?” Too cliché. Maybe something clever—”You ever think bookshops are like airports? You can travel anywhere, but you don’t actually go anywhere.”
He almost smirked at his own ridiculousness. Instead, he returned the book to the shelf and moved to another section.
Claire noticed.
He’s leaving, she thought. But not too quickly. Just enough to see if I’ll follow.
She wasn’t sure why she did, but her feet carried her forward. Not directly toward him, of course—that would be too obvious. Instead, she veered into the classics section, running her fingers over leather-bound covers, pretending to be lost in their beauty.
Daniel let his gaze flicker toward her again, subtly taking her in. Her reddish-brown hair was loosely tucked behind her ears, revealing delicate features—sharp cheekbones softened by kind eyes. She had a thoughtful yet distant expression as if lost in her world.
What does she do? He mused. A writer, maybe? A teacher? No, not a teacher. She has that look of someone who lives in her head too much. An artist, then? Someone who sketches people in cafés, wondering what stories they carry?
Claire, meanwhile, was making her own quiet observations. His jaw was defined, shadowed slightly from not shaving that morning. There was something contemplative about him, the way his lips pressed together like he was constantly lost in thought. His eyes—deep brown—lingered on the books longer than necessary.
A writer, maybe? A professor? Or something completely unexpected, like a musician who plays in quiet bars and never tells anyone his name? He has that look… someone who listens more than he speaks.
He picked up a book—The Catcher in the Rye. A classic, but one that often divided people.
Is he the kind who relates to Holden Caulfield or the type who finds him unbearable?
Daniel glanced at the book in his hands. She’s judging me based on this; I know it. Should I pick something else? No, that would be obvious.
She reached for a book. Austen. Pride and Prejudice. A safe choice.
Ah, so she likes the timeless ones, he thought. Does she love the romance of it, or does she roll her eyes at Mr. Darcy’s brooding?
She flipped a page, knowing full well she wasn’t reading. Instead, she was thinking.
Does he know I know he’s looking?
He took a step closer, stopping just short of her aisle. The space between them was thin now, like the edge of a turning page.
A silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken words.
At first, neither moved, and neither was caught in a game—neither had agreed to play. Then, as if on cue, Daniel turned slightly and started toward the front of the store.
This is it, Claire thought. He’ll leave if I don’t move now, and we’ll never speak.
And so, she followed.
They reached the counter simultaneously, standing side by side, neither looking directly at the other. The shopkeeper was ringing up another customer, giving them both a moment of pause.
Daniel stole one final glance at her, and she did the same. Their eyes met this time without the barrier of bookshelves or fleeting glances.
And then, finally, at the exact same moment—
“Hi,” they said.
The word echoed strangely—not a normal echo—delayed and distorted. The sound didn’t match their lips.
Claire blinked. The moment stretched too long like time was pausing between frames. Something was wrong.
Daniel felt it, too. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. His stomach twisted, a sensation like vertigo but without movement. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the words never formed. Instead, he saw it—
Her face flickered.
It’s not an expression change. Not a shadow passing. It was a glitch, a distortion, like an image caught between two frames on a screen. For a split second, she was someone else.
Claire inhaled sharply.
He was flickering, too.
The shop itself pulsed. The bookshelves warped at the edges, and the hanging light overhead buzzed and dimmed in and out of sync. The rain outside slowed unnaturally, with droplets hovering midair before continuing their descent.
Claire turned to the shopkeeper, but he wasn’t there anymore.
The counter was empty. The entire shop was empty.
She looked at Daniel, panic creeping into her throat. He was staring at her the way she was staring at him.
“Do you feel that?” she whispered.
His lips parted, but before he could speak, the room stuttered—like an old film reel skipping frames. The air thickened, the scent of old books turning sharp and metallic. Claire stepped back, her body suddenly weightless, like gravity wasn’t fully holding her.
Daniel reached for the counter, but his fingers passed through it.
The shop wasn’t real.
Or rather… it was unraveling.
Their gazes locked, and a silent understanding passed between them.
This wasn’t just a coincidence. This wasn’t a trick of the mind.
They weren’t in the same reality.
Claire turned toward the door. The bell still hung above it, but something was off—it was too far away as if the shop had stretched. When she stepped toward it, the floor rippled beneath her feet, like she was walking on water’s surface.
Daniel tried to follow, but the space between them expanded. The distance that should have been three feet became ten. Then twenty.
“Claire!” he shouted, though he didn’t know why he suddenly knew her name.
She reached for him, but their hands passed through one another like mist.
The bookshop trembled, the shelves warping into elongated shadows. Claire felt herself being pulled back, weightless, like something was trying to return her to where she belonged.
Daniel reached for The Catcher in the Rye on the counter, gripping it tightly as if it could anchor him.
Then—
The world blinked.
And everything was normal again.
The shop was full of people. The bell chimed as someone walked in. The shopkeeper stood behind the counter, counting change. The smell of old books had returned.
Claire stood alone in front of the register.
Daniel was gone.
She spun around heart racing. The shelves were as they had been. The rain tapped against the window. But he—he was nowhere.
Had she imagined it? Had he?
Her gaze dropped to the counter, where a book rested—Pride and Prejudice, which she had picked up earlier.
But there was another book beside it. One that Claire hadn’t brought to the counter.
The Catcher in the Rye.
She picked it up slowly. Her hands were trembling.
There was something written on the cover.
A name.
Daniel.
Her breath caught.
The shopkeeper looked up. “Everything alright, miss?”
Claire hesitated. She wanted to ask—Did you see him? But something in her gut told her it was pointless.
Instead, she swallowed and nodded. “Yes. I just… I think I was looking for this book.”
She bought it without another word.
And as she stepped outside, the rain falling steadily against her coat, she turned her gaze to the street.
For a brief moment, in the reflection of the bookshop window, she saw him.
Daniel.
Standing there.
Watching her.
And then—just like before—
He was gone.
What is the biggest and most mysterious secret that you have not revealed to anyone?
During my school days I had a friend who wasn’t good looking or attractive. So because of this he had developed some sort of inferiority complex .He was short and very dark dark skinned so because of it he used to think that he would never be able to have a girlfriend.I used to feel very bad whenever I found him sad or depressed.
One day an idea struck me. I bought a new SIM card and started messaging him telling him that I am a girl and I am his secret admirer. Daily I used to message him like any girlfriend would do and I kept on talking about any random topic whenever he would ask for my name.
The effect of all this was very much visible as he seemed jubilant most of the time. He got back his lost self confidence as now he knew there was someone on earth who liked him. Though I was really happy that I was able to help my friend but somewhere I feared what happen when he would force me to tell my name or would want to meet me.
All this continued for around 2 months and than one day I decided to end all of it.
I stopped messaging him and broke the simcard. I was very nervous from than onwards as to what effect it will have on him. But to my surprise he never seemed depressed and still remained the same way he used to be when I used to message him.
It was as if know he had realized his self worth.
I never revealed this to him even after 10 years and today he is a software engineer in us and married to the love of his life.
Manly images
Why are many Chinese people not driving cars in the major cities?
I live in Shanghai, a bustling town with a population of 25 million people and around 5 million private cars.
Despite owning two cars, my wife and I do not rely on them heavily for daily transportation. My wife drives her car to work on weekdays, while I typically commute by bicycle, as my workplace is only 7 kilometers away—a ride that takes about 30 minutes. I only resort to using my car in bad weather conditions.
Cycling such a short distance has many advantages. It doubles as a form of exercise, saves me from paying parking fees, and allows me to avoid traffic congestion. On occasions when I need to travel downtown, I prefer taking the metro. It’s a fast, reliable, and convenient option that eliminates the hassle of finding parking lot, which is often both time-consuming and challenging in crowded areas.
I’ve owned my car for seven years, yet its mileage is only around 35,000 kilometers, averaging about 5,000 kilometers per year. This reflects a lifestyle choice that many others in Shanghai share. While owning a car is relatively common, the high population density, well-developed public transportation, and other practical considerations lead many residents, like myself, to explore alternative modes of transportation.
The seat was adjusted very low so that my daughter could also use it nicely during weekends.
Pepe Escobar: Putin’s Bold Reply to the U.S.
Which seemingly beautiful photo actually has a very sad ending?
“Burst of Joy” is a Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph.
It was taken by Associated Press photographer Slava “Sal” Veder on March 17, 1973, at Travis Air Force Base, California.
The image depicts U.S. Air Force Officer Robert L. Stirm reuniting with his family after spending more than five years as a prisoner of war in North Vietnam.
The focus of the photograph is Robert’s 15-year-old daughter, Lorrie, who can be seen with her arms outstretched and a huge smile on her face as she runs toward her father.
“You could feel the energy and the raw emotion in the air,” the photographer recalls. The photograph has become a symbol of the end of U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War.
According to Wikipedia, however: “Despite appearances, the reunion was not a happy one for Stirm. Three days before his arrival in the United States, the same day he was released from captivity, Stirm received a letter from his wife Loretta informing him that their marriage was over. Stirm later learned that Loretta had been with other men during his captivity , receiving marriage proposals from three of them.
In 1974, the Stirms divorced and Loretta remarried , but Lt. Col. Stirm was still ordered by the courts to provide her with 43% of his military pension.”
Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Missing Underwear: A Tale of Laundry, Larceny, and Luminous Cucumbers
Ah, dear reader, prepare yourself for a tale so bizarre, so brimming with absurdity and intrigue, that even the most imaginative of barnyard animals might question their sanity. Today’s story is one of missing laundry, avant-garde fashion, and a secret society with a penchant for performance art. So, grab your detective hat and a sense of humor, as we dive into Sir Whiskerton and the Case of the Missing Underwear: A Tale of Laundry, Larceny, and Luminous Cucumbers.
The Disappearance of the Farmer’s Drawers
It was a crisp morning on the farm, the kind of day where the dew sparkled like diamonds on the grass, and the animals went about their routines with the usual mix of chaos and charm. Sir Whiskerton, the farm’s self-appointed detective and philosopher, was perched on his favorite sunbeam, pondering the mysteries of the universe—or at least why the farmer insisted on wearing polka-dot boxers with striped socks.
“Perhaps,” Sir Whiskerton mused aloud, “the farmer is making a bold statement about the futility of fashion. Or perhaps he’s just terrible at matching.”
“Matching!” echoed Ditto, the ever-enthusiastic kitten, who had taken to repeating Sir Whiskerton’s words with the precision of a malfunctioning parrot.
But the tranquility was shattered when the farmer burst out of the farmhouse, clutching a laundry basket and looking utterly distraught. “My underwear!” he cried. “It’s all gone! Every last pair!”
The barnyard erupted in murmurs. The farmer’s underwear? Missing? This was a mystery of the highest order.
Sir Whiskerton sprang into action. “Fear not, dear farmer,” he said, adjusting his monocle. “I, Sir Whiskerton, shall solve this case. But first, I must ask: were there any witnesses?”
The farmer shook his head. “No, but I did hear some strange noises last night. Sounded like… singing?”
“Singing!” Ditto echoed, though he seemed more interested in chasing his tail than solving the mystery.
The Clues Begin to Unravel
Sir Whiskerton began his investigation by examining the scene of the crime: the farmer’s clothesline, which now stood eerily empty. The detective’s keen eyes soon spotted a trail of glitter leading away from the clothesline and into the woods.
“Glitter?” Sir Whiskerton muttered. “This is no ordinary theft. This is… art.”
Following the trail, Sir Whiskerton and Ditto soon stumbled upon a peculiar sight: a group of squirrels, dressed in avant-garde outfits made entirely of stolen underwear. They were gathered around a makeshift stage, where Sir Gherkin, the glowing cucumber, was delivering a passionate monologue about the “transcendent beauty of fabric.”
“Ah, Sir Whiskerton!” Sir Gherkin exclaimed, his glow pulsating with excitement. “Welcome to the Underground Society of Underwear Thieves and Performance Artists! We are the vanguard of a new artistic movement—one that challenges the very notion of what it means to wear clothing.”
“Clothing!” Ditto echoed, though he seemed more interested in chewing on a stray sock.
Sir Whiskerton raised an eyebrow. “Sir Gherkin, while I admire your… enthusiasm, I must inform you that stealing the farmer’s underwear is not art—it’s larceny.”
Sir Gherkin waved a leafy hand dismissively. “Larceny? Nonsense! We are liberating these garments from the shackles of mundanity. Behold!”
With a dramatic flourish, Sir Gherkin gestured to the stage, where Nutters and the Squirrel Gang were preparing for their next performance. The squirrels, dressed in elaborate underwear ensembles, began a synchronized dance routine set to the tune of “La Cucaracha,” played on a kazoo by a particularly enthusiastic raccoon.
“This,” Sir Gherkin declared, “is the future of fashion.”
The Moral of the Story
As Sir Whiskerton watched the performance, he couldn’t help but feel a grudging admiration for the thieves’ creativity. However, he knew that the farmer’s underwear had to be returned—preferably before the next laundry day.
“Sir Gherkin,” Sir Whiskerton said, “while I appreciate your artistic vision, I must insist that you return the farmer’s underwear. Art is all well and good, but it shouldn’t come at the expense of someone else’s comfort.”
Sir Gherkin sighed, his glow dimming slightly. “I suppose you’re right, Sir Whiskerton. But before we return the garments, allow us one final performance—a tribute to the farmer’s polka-dot boxers.”
Sir Whiskerton agreed, and the squirrels launched into their grand finale: a interpretive dance titled “Ode to Elastic Waistbands.” It was, without a doubt, the most bizarre thing Sir Whiskerton had ever seen—and that was saying something.
As the performance ended, Sir Gherkin handed over the stolen underwear, now transformed into works of art. “Take these back to the farmer,” he said. “But tell him to wear them with pride. They are no longer mere undergarments—they are masterpieces.”
“Masterpieces!” Ditto echoed, though he seemed more interested in playing with a pair of socks.
A Happy Ending
With the farmer’s underwear safely returned (albeit slightly glittery), the barnyard returned to its usual rhythm. The farmer, though initially confused by the avant-garde alterations to his wardrobe, decided to embrace the change. “Maybe polka dots do go with stripes,” he mused, slipping on a pair of glitter-encrusted boxers.
Sir Whiskerton returned to his sunbeam, content in the knowledge that he had once again saved the day. The farm was at peace, the air was filled with the faint hum of kazoos, and all was right in the world.
And so, dear reader, we leave our heroes with the promise of new adventures, new mysteries, and hopefully, no more missing underwear. Until next time, may your days be filled with laughter, love, and just a little bit of feline genius.
The End.
Why would someone want to live in a hotel permanently?
I worked at a hotel that had a guest/resident who had been there for 17 years. His company had asked him to come here on a temporary basis; he liked it so much he stayed. His hometown property became his vacation getaway.
Our guest chose to stay with us because he was single and didn’t want to maintain a residence. He got housekeeping service, free breakfast and evening appetizers. The housekeeper collected his personal laundry and a local laundry service picked it up and delivered it back to the front desk. Then Housekeeping returned it to his suite. Of course, the bed linens and towels were all maintained by the hotel. Additionally, we had free wifi and cable, along with an office with computers and printers for business guests. He didn’t have to pay utilities, lawn care, etc. Really, his only extra expenses were his cell phone and lunch. He preferred to walk to work, if the weather was bad we had a shuttle van and would drive him over.
In other words, hotel living suited his needs and he was comfortable in the suite he lived in. A contract was negotiated, I think every other year. Since his hotel stay was over 30 days, he was legally a tenant and no taxes were charged. It worked well for him.
Trump Just Triggered an Economic Apocalypse: US Recession Risk SKYROCKETS
What’s one of the strangest but most interesting things you’ve seen?
Diogo Alves’ head
Diogo Alves was a 31-year-old Spanish man who was executed in 1841. Born in 1810 to a peasant family, he suffered a head injury at a young age after falling. When Diogo was 19, he was sent to work in Lisbon, Portugal. He changed jobs frequently and was known to enjoy drinking and gambling.
A few years later he decided to become a serial killer. In Lisbon he killed 70 people between 1836 and 1840. His modus operandi included robbing poor and less fortunate people he met on the streets, then blindfolding them and taking them to the top of tall structures (e.g. the aqueduct) where he had them thrown from, making their deaths look like suicides. As you can see, Diogo was not a good man and his actions were nothing short of evil.
The people of Lisbon noticed many dead bodies appearing at the bottom of the aqueduct, at first, they were attributed to suicides, as Diogo would have wanted them to believe. However quickly people testified and the actual evidence mounted. It wasn’t long before he was discovered. Diogo Alves was arrested, tried and sentenced to death for murder. He was officially executed on February 19, 1841. That’s the end of Diogo Alves, right? Not exactly.
Due to some early fascination of psychology with serial killers, Diogo Alves’ head was separated from his deceased body in an attempt to study his brain and perhaps understand what went on in Mr. Alves’ mind. His head was preserved in a jar, where it still resides today. 180 years later. It is fascinating to see the face of a man who lived nearly 200 years ago, his facial features and youthful appearance remain. You can still clearly see his long red hair, his pale white skin and his icy blue eyes that now stare eternally.
WHAT KINDERGARTEN REALLY LOOKS LIKE IN CHINA
Yuppur. Real talk.
Blue Eyes in A World of Gray
Submitted into Contest #290 in response to: Set your story in a world where love is prohibited.… view prompt
Annsley Smoak
Except today it was not.
Today, there was a girl standing on the sidewalk ahead of him. She was not very tall, nor very thin or what some of the Old People would have called pretty – but she was in his way, and that made him take as intense notice of her as if she had been the Superindentent’s trim, black-clad assistant who was always the one docking the points in his spreadsheet.
Girls were never seen around these Ministry buildings. They were never seen within them, either – their designated service areas were on the other side of the compound entirely. Jacen wasn’t sure of the last time he had even seen a girl. That might have been in the before times, too – and he was pretty sure the girl had been his mother. He couldn’t be sure, though, because all he could recall were wisps of brown hair and two cold, hazel eyes.
This girl had brown hair, too, but her eyes weren’t hazel. They were blue, and staring off to his left, trained on an object in the distance or perhaps nothing at all. When Jacen glanced in that direction, he certainly couldn’t see anything interesting. There wasn’t supposed to be anything interesting, there or anywhere else.
When he looked back, she was still staring. But this time her blue eyes were fixed on him.
His heart began pounding as he lost himself in those deep blue irises and his brain somehow managed to be very foggy and exceedingly clear at the same time. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from hers, no matter how badly he wanted to – which he was beginning to understand, he didn’t. He didn’t want to look away from her. For once, he wanted to meet someone’s eyes and see them, not as just a co-citizen but something…something else.
Those bright blue eyes blinked at him, confused and wondering, another word Jacen hardly knew the meaning of and wasn’t quite sure how he had learned. Then her lips curved into something like a smile, and it shone directly onto him.
Jacen forgot about the Ministry, strangely, within a moment. He forgot about the Superintendent and his assistant. He even forgot about the SS monitor clipped onto his shirt and the two points that would be docked from its total if he lingered on the sidewalk for even a second more and was late to his station. He forgot about all of it and somehow, he didn’t care.
And suddenly, with an earth-shattering clarity that he had not had since he was months old, since before the New World came, Jacen realized he knew what love was. It was this feeling that kept his eyes fixed on the girl’s, the thing that forbade him to look away.
It really was a shame about the Old World, he thought again, this time with more conviction that he had known his body housed. Because the Old World had allowed love. In the Old World, the Old People had been encouraged to love.
As he stared back at the girl with the blue eyes, Jacen was quite sure that he would have liked it there very much.
For liberals and leftists, what is your opinion on the “self-made man”?
It’s horseshit.
I’m a low-tier one percenter.
I inherited nothing. I got a scholarship and student loans. I served in the armed forces to pay for more of my education and as a point of pride. No one handed me a construction company, a real estate empire, or an emerald mine. No one paid for me to start a business.
I have received no direct welfare and the only public pension I receive is my veteran’s disability payments.
Shouldn’t I be the right-winger’s definition of a self made man? Ha! What arrogance if I thought that!
I am grateful for each and every sacrifice that helped me. I am determined that those who follow shall find a world improved by my passing through it.
Were there no teachers who slaved away to help me learn? Were there no cops protecting me as I slept? Did I build the roads I drove? Did I feed myself, did I build the universities, did I make the medications that helped me live, did I create the world that helped me flourish? Did I create the freedoms that allowed a son from the working poor to make their own way? Did I make the hospitals where I trained?
Did I earn the good fortune to be born in a prosperous nation, to have parents who cared enough to work to give me a chance? Did I create the free society that allowed me to prosper?
Sure I strove – in an environment I did not create, and it allowed me to flourish.
What hubris, what sanctimonious crap comes from anyone claiming to be self-made. Not one of us is an island, complete and entire of ourselves.
Cincinnati Chili
Have your chili 3, 4 or 5 ways, Cincinnati style. This is also great on hot dogs, smothered with shredded cheese.
Yield: 5 to 6 servings
Ingredients
Chili
- 1 1/2 pounds lean ground beef
- 2 medium onions, chopped
- 1/2 cup chopped celery
- 6 cloves garlic, minced
- 2 tablespoons mild chili powder
- 1 tablespoon paprika
- 1 1/2 teaspoons dried basil
- 1 1/2 teaspoons dried oregano
- 1 1/2 teaspoons dried thyme
- 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
- 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
- 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
- 1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
- 1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 teaspoon black pepper
- 2 (14 1/2 ounce) cans diced tomatoes
- 1 (8 ounce) can tomato sauce
- 1/2 cup water
Have It 5 Ways
- 1 pound spaghetti, cooked
- 1 medium onion, finely chopped
- 1 cup finely grated Cheddar cheese
- 1 (15 1/2 ounce) can kidney beans, rinsed, drained and heated
- Hot sauce (your favorite)
Instructions
- Brown ground beef, onions and celery in a large skillet, drain off all fat.
- Place slow cooker ingredients into a slow cooker and stir well. Cover slow cooker and cook for 7 to 9 hours on LOW, or for 3 1/2 to 4 1/2 hours on HIGH, stirring during last part of cooking if using HIGH setting.
- Cook spaghetti 1/2 hour before chili is done.
- To have chili 3-ways, serve it with spaghetti, chili and cheese.
- To have chili 4-ways, serve it with spaghetti, chili, onion and cheese.
- To have spaghetti 5-ways, serve it with spaghetti, chili, beans, onion and cheese.
- Douse chili liberally with hot sauce, if desired.
Why do the Chinese always insult Vietnamese women whenever they get stuck in the discussion with the Vietnamese?
15 years ago I had a friend who lived in a Chinese border city. He’s a businessman, relatively affluent. One day we talked about Vietnamese prostitutes, he said there were many in his city, but they weren’t popular, the locals didn’t like them (I know, if the Vietnamese prostitutes had no business there they wouldn’t stay so that’s kind of contradictionary). People in the border city were rather poor by Chinese standards.
10 years ago I came to know what nude Filipina and Vietnamese women were like (as I was never interested, except some random videos of their local female celebrities who happened to have their sex scenes recorded and made public). There were sex diary series, mainly some white hairy fatso paid SEA prostitutes to have sex with them and record the entire thing, with some “storyline” like how they reached there and how it ended. By number of episodes the rankings were like first Filipinas and second Vietnamese.
5 years ago I ran into an answer written by a Vietnamese woman who seemed to have some hatred towards China. I clicked her profile and it’s full of her nude pics, every part of her and of course it’s all free.
I don’t need to expand further into reality and other social platforms.
As for the “get stuck in the discussion” part, in Chinese there’s a saying: the UNSC five on YT are India, South Korea, Vietnam, Turkey and Poland. If Taiwan were a sovereign nation it could lead all five. We are the doers, we speak with data and accomplishments, not words. The top students don’t take challenge from students at the rock bottom, it’s a waste of time (but may help them sometimes).
What have you regretted the most in your life?
When I look at my life, I see fewer memories and more regrets. But what can I say? That’s life, isn’t it? I never learned from others’ mistakes; instead, I made my own.
- I regret replying to the most innocent “Hello” . That one moment ruined my life upside down.
- I regret stopping my writing on Quora when I was at my peak.
- Both of my parents are diabetic. Doctors warned me to change my lifestyle, but late nights, beer, alcohol, and the worst possible habits made things worse. I had several warnings, but I refused to listen. Now, I’m diabetic and dealing with other health complications.
- I regret not making crucial decisions about my career and letting my emotions guide me instead. It cost me a lot.
- I regret wasting so much time on someone who left me years ago. I couldn’t move on, and I allowed them to play with my heart.
- I regret not giving time to myself. I regret never loving myself and sacrificing my happiness for others. I should have prioritized my own well-being.
- I regret I didn’t give time to those who genuinely cared for me, now I am wandering in this loneliness. No one around me.
- I regret cutting all ties with everyone. In search of solace, I found myself more alone than ever, realizing that true comfort often lies in the connections we nurture, not in the isolation we create.
The list of regrets is long. But one thing I’ve realized is that in my search for happiness, I forgot to live in the moment. In my pursuit of a perfect life, I kept making my life imperfect.
A perfect life is just an illusion—one that society and social media have created for us. We chase these unrealistic ideals but forget to live our own lives.
What’s something you did that hurt you badly, but you’d do it again if you could?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing that resulted in me being hurt badly is worth doing again. They weren’t even fun.*
For example, all my broken bones resulted from idiocy. As a toddler, I climbed up glass jalousie windows and fell when they broke, fracturing my wrist. At the age of nine, I walked up a low lying tree branch and for some inexplicable reason, chose to fall from about eight or ten feet, fracturing my wrist again on the ground below. Around age 19, I was riding my mountain bike with no hands down a steep hill in the dark, and struck a cat suddenly crossing the road. I reacted, but the front tire locked up on the cat, flinging me headfirst over the handlebars for about 20 feet, landing on the ground in a shoulder roll, and breaking my collarbone.
Bonus: when I was 14 at camp, I temporarily lost the use of my right arm when I tried to jump up to a windowsill and instead, caught my foot under the windowsill, tumbling headfirst out the window onto the ground below, landing in a shoulder roll (I studied Aikido as a child). It knocked the wind out of me. I told no one about my injury.
The bicycle accident and me going headfirst out a window could have easily resulted in me ending up like actor Christopher Reeve, who became a quadriplegic after being thrown from his horse, or even dying.
There are numerous times I have escaped serious injury or death, and none of them are worth repeating. I have missed turns riding my motorcycle too quickly. I have fallen asleep twice while riding my motorcycle on the highway with oncoming traffic and a curve in the road. I have skidded on wet roads. All of those were preventable.
*Once I fell in love with the wrong woman. She was otherwise perfect, but for reasons I cannot go into, untouchable. My mother did not approve. She was my first serious girlfriend. We wanted to get married. Things did not work out, and she pretended it never happened. It pained me for nearly 30 years until we met again. She has a happy family of her own.
I told my wife about her early in our relationship. They get along well despite the other woman not being able to say my wife’s name correctly.
Tariffs: The Attack On America’s Working Poor.
Here you about the car and East Asian cities. The wife and I share one, and it sits outside in the parking space… and sits… and sits. I go out occasionally to check that… it’s still there? I guess? The security and maintenance guys use a leaf blower every morning and clear everyone’s windscreen of debris (their services included in the overall building utilities, billed monthly, a mere blip– gotta love East Asian apartment complexes), so I don’t even have to wash it, and when I do get adventurous, the guy at the “self wash” does it for me anyway because I speak a few words to him in English and he’s in high school.
So yeah, car’s in an Asian city. We might hit the countryside this weekend now that the weather’s cooler… I hope I remember how to start it. It’s one of those semi-autonomous Hyundai thingys. And she probably has the huffs with me because I haven’t taken her out for a spin in… I can’t remember, to be honest. I think my wife might have driven to her sister’s last week. I avoid morning and rush hour traffic at all costs anyway, because I don’t fancy an anxiety attack or a heart one, thanks very much. Not prone, thankfully, but traffic around these parts I hear can induce them. Not to mention red lights as an optional road accessory. Or the rules of the road in general, including cutting off and undertaking in the bus lane.
Cyclists?
“Get out of my way– you’re probably too poor to drive a car anyway.” (Seems to be the general attitude.)
When we eventually trade the car in, it’ll probably have less miles on her than when we bought her nearly-new.
Maybe next year?
Unless I forget.
Can I write my history and what I know as of maybe tens of thousands years ago down the comment? I think somethings important and here’re the force make my body with some bad to stop me write them down. It’s long story, will take days. Maybe I will divide into parts. But I think it’s much shorter than Alien Interviews.