roadsue

And there’s a full moon. It’s the perfect trifecta for mayhem. Happy birthday, friend!

Ok. I hear you. I agree; the options vary by degree, not by kind.

When The Revolution comes, teachers are among the first against the wall. 😲🥺😉

On one hand you’re decrying GND for its potential to cause death and destruction; on the other you’re saying we benefit from death and destruction. And heavily imply “we” should cull human populations. Which one is it?

Our “Oh, well. Sucks to be them” positions will become untenable when it sucks to be us, also. Human rights is a feast, but usually served cold.

There already is a whole lot of death and destruction. That’s what the GND seeks to dismantle.,

Totally what @Kirby said. Lots of prayers and lunching. The teacher who inherits my darkroom turned storage area will probably issue an inordinate number of WTFs as they try to clear it out.

He must have taken his own advice. “Oh, baby. I say that we gotta go. Yay yay yay yay.” Come back @Louielouie-FP3, so we can play. Happy birthday.

I disagree with her call to action, but have seen proof of her premise in the documentary The True Cost about the fast fashion industry. It’s a global juggernaut of waste and destruction, outsourced to US and European hegemonies.

I waited patiently for lunchtime so that I could open the SWC and POP THE LIGHTS! And take in the peaceful snowfall... @Randomguy your rage makes this experience feel all the more satisfying. It's like you're the proxy for the people I'd really like to piss off.

Robert Frost has a practical perspective on this question. ‘Out, Out—’ BY ROBERT FROST The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside him in her apron To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap— He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all— Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart— He saw all spoiled. ‘Don’t let him cut my hand off— The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!’ So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

I’m starting the day with a parent conference.

We eat Sadie’s Not as Hot salsa. Don’t let the name fool you. Their Hot salsa is en fuego.

It’s a joke. Exaggerated for effect.

My superpower is giving a fuck about civil rights when nobody else cares. My name: ProStatute