Notices by GeePawHill (geepawhill@mastodon.social)

I found this all rather mysterious.

My mom didn't waltz in to other people's houses like that.

And she didn't ever explain who, exactly, Mrs. Smith was.

But, you know, I was a kid, and I had my lemonade, and Mrs. Smith was always cheerful and complimentary to me.

And my Mom would greet her, bend over to fake-hug, and we'd be all smiling and laughing and such like. And she'd go inside this woman's house, and emerge a few minutes later with lemonade for me.

And, I think, a beer for her, and a beer and a shot for Mrs. Smith.

When I was a child, I met this woman named Mrs. Smith. That's not a pseudonym. And my Mom would drag me, not usually my brother, just me, outside of our small town, for maybe an hour's drive, to visit Mrs. Smith.

She was near-invalid, but not quite. An older woman, *enormous*, and she walked, the very few times I saw her walk, with two canes.

But that didn't happen much. We'd get there, and she'd be in a big easy chair on the porch.

Mrs. Smith was one of the more obscene speakers of English I have ever known.

I mean, talking to my Mom, talking to the world, this woman rivaled even my father, who was himself quite gifted at the use of profanity.

And my Mom would sit with her for a while, they'd be gossiping about stuff I didn't understand, other than the dirty parts I wasn't supposed to understand.

This fucking life is so hard.

We do what we can.

And however awful everything is, however sad, however miserable, still, even so, we have the capacity to love.

And even on my worst days -- I'm in a long string of worst days just now -- I still can sometimes remember.

Love is possible.

She, of course, had married, I was born 15 years after the war, she'd married and in fact divorced, and she brought her son to meet the woman who might have been his grandmother.

Some years later I put the pieces together.

Mrs. Smith was the mother of Bill Smith.

Bill Smith was engaged to marry my mother, before the war.

He died during the Anzio campaign.

My mother was visiting the mother of her boyfriend, her fiancee, who died before they were ever married.

Uh-huh. Porn games are the real problem, even tho the uncles, pastors, teachers, and cops who commit the majority of sexual ensnaring, assault, and abuse have never even heard of them.

I sure wish you wouldn't post LLM output.

Not even to make fun of it.

The fact that you're sharing it means that you're using it. The fact that you're using it means that you're counted as a user. The fact that you're a user means that you're helping extractive-capitalist con men steal money while simultaneously worsening the climate crisis.

@jonny Times iike this, one wonders how much it costs to have one's eye-rolling muscles surgically removed.

I've half a mind to just give up having a phone.

I have a new phone.

I did not want a new phone, but there was a spill incident, and the usb-c on the old phone was melted.

Apparently, I can just move the sim and the micro-sd from the old phone to the new one.

I'm embarrassed to relate the simple truth: I did not have the spoons for that today, and I may not have the spoons for that tomorrow.

My friend Karl was a nurse. He talked about how, as soon as people found this out about him, they'd come up to him and tell him their symptoms and ask him what to do.

"You're a nurse. Take a look at these weird marks on my hand."

"You're a nurse. Do you think I might have bubonic plague?"

And so on.

It is against my beliefs to celebrate the death of any person.

Tonight, however, I'll have no choice but to seek forgiveness from the spirits.

Free food for students -- an idea pioneered by the Black Panthers -- is arguably the single most proven innovation in 20th century American education.

It's been tested over and over again, challenged over and over again, studied over and over again.

The universal conclusion: it works, works cheaply, works well, and works everywhere.

Ending free food for students isn't a money-saving measure of any kind: it's just one more effort by the masters to make more slaves.

Once, about a decade ago, I told her I would like to learn to draw.

WIthin the week, she had procured for me new drawing supplies, excellent sketch pads, and about a dozen books about how to draw.

She strongly encouraged me.

Here's the thing: I went from drawing like a kindergartener to drawing like a not particularly talented 8th-grader in, like, *eight* weeks.

I was blown away with delight.

I wonder if I should try sculpture in fimo or comparable.

Art is hard for me. My wife is, amongst her other fabulous qualities, a master teacher, and a master artist in clay.

It can be daunting to try art projects when you live with someone who is gifted. Not that she would ever be anything less than entirely supportive. No, the problem isn't in her, and isn't in our relationship, it's in my head.

Cannot fucking belive how many reporters are still saying "Trump did this, Trump did that".

Trump does not reliably know what day it is.

He's not playing 4d chess, he's not even able to play checkers at this point.

This is all Miller and Vought, and a handful of others, no one of whom was elected, not even in a fucked up election like 2024.

This is why they chose him.

I do wish folks would stop using "alligator alcatraz".

It is a concentration camp.

It is not intended as a form of punishment or deterrence for criminals. It is intended as a means of removing humans the government does not like from society.

It's not a joke, it's not a meme, it's not a t-shirt.

It's a concentration camp.

The idea that "alphas" are strong violent males has been debunked more times than the flat-earth theory, including by its own original proposers.

Many troupe leaders, amongst primates, wolves, and others, are female. And, male or female, they mostly lead by ensuring peace and prosperity, not by violence.

Like.

You know.

Read a fucking book one time.