Swing me type s*** your attitude determines mine!
Jodi Miller vs Jodi Arias: Good Job vs Good Jop!! PR OB Limb v Limp Roast
Felicia Sos Dvhithed here, your not-so-new boss with a 39-year story full of unexpected twists and turns, and I've got something to say. Jodi Miller just crushed AGT with one of her best bits yet—talking about how men are like cats, with their moody, aloof, emotionally unavailable selves, while women are like dogs, loyal and eternally up in your business. Brings to mind my own life's hilarious episodes—like when my dog finally hit puberty, and his dick bled once, and suddenly he's got a PhD in mood swings and has become a certified bitch for life! But let's face it, when it comes to drama, men are the genuine drama queens. They switch from "I wanna bag her" to "put her in one" quicker than you can say doghouse, or faster than my dog can chase his own tail.
Then the script flips and suddenly I'm the no-trial fugitive—minus the whiny part. Once told my ex, and I'm damn proud of it, "No Area 51, my kids' buns are just off-limits!". Sure, I'm aware of what a total cunt I can be in the process. Is it time to escalate to an AK, or do we keep things light? Nah, not without a blue wall accompaniment and a public lynching to complete the imagery. And you still wonder why someone like Jodi Arias has her own fan club? Because in today's world, drama not only gets you followers but manages to rack up new felonies along the way, doesn't it?
And on to Joe Santagato—we've all coped with stupidity before, right? Let me shed some light: limp or limb, either one works for me. Swing me, bitch! Here's looking at you, #joesantagato. Have you rated DJ Sammy yet or something about a quick ear, and your vagina quickly about to be Vin—whatever that is—no one's here to tell your face! Let's get real now. #cartel Yeah, me and he's not why—and why do you mix it all up with whinny bitch time?
So Jodi Miller gets no "X," an unmarked talent who does the right thing, while Jodi Arias gets a permanent mark for doing what a part of society bizarrely wishes they had the guts to do. And let's not be shocked by the outcome when a blind douche tumbles his way toward Arias—just don't be confused when reality hits, and it will be hitting harder than expected.
And now, "good job" or "good jop"? Whether you play it straight or give Santa's gift to dyslexia a stage, both affirm you did something right. It's like leaving a mark, whether it turns into applause, a mugshot, or a hell of a punchline—impact remains.
#dipshits #wtf
Locked up you say? Spare me. The only cell you're in is the one you meticulously crafted out of your stupidity. Here I am, a woman with a background in primary education, listening to you whine about being targets, with you clinging so desperately to make comfortable habitat behind bars, willing to take the fall for top-tier agency crimes just to avoid the updrafts of real life. MKUltra didn't demolish you; let's be honest—you signed up as the puppet for a massive dick too timid to swim upstream. Not everyone gets caught in the undertows—but you, you're hellbent on sinking along with every foolish decision you embrace.
Cartel play now, really? What on earth makes you think you're a badass? Standing down for 360 years for a murder you didn't even commit isn't justice or "flipping the tables," it's you being played—a pawn on this grand board. Genius, you think, eh? Can you not fucking read?! Drew Lynch as GPS would be a better guide—turn the hell around! You're not as ingenious as you imagine; the deep roll doesn't camouflage your brain drain. Like cartels, you target nobody yet everybody—bluster but no backbone.
And let's chat about the encounter with a CIA preyed-on fake cartel crafted just for a NY CA hit setup—set fuck no! Violated, standards flop up, down, and oscillate dramatically with zero merit leveling out!!
As for embracing my hoe phase—a choice, thought it was. Small town, flat broke, owned the hell out of it. When my pussy finally conveyed the reality, realized how damn nice it felt. And then you Xis went and undeniably fucked it up! WTF, right?
Here, we ought to consider consent thoroughly: forced? is not, can never be, consent. "Two-for-one" confusion deserves no place in this dialogue. Con$ent stands on shaky legs if slow-witted blokes supply spare change to buy faux
#jodimiller #JodiArias
It's like I'm a swing lol 😂
Invisible Lives
The setting sun, a blaze of fiery oranges and crimson reds, painted Main Street in a warm, almost deceptive glow. A gentle promise of night hung heavy in the air, yet for many, that comfort was brutally shattered by the figure huddled on the corner. His unkempt hair, a wild storm of disheveled strands, whipped by a faint breeze. Deep wrinkles etched into his face spoke volumes of a life lived under a relentless sun, a harsh history whispered in the shadows. To the pedestrians strolling by, he was a jarring dissonance, a blemish on their carefully curated evening stroll. They skirted around him, adjusting their designer sunglasses as if shielding themselves from the unwelcome sight, their murmuring judgments clinging to the humid air like a shroud.
"Do you see that man?" one man's voice, low but laced with contempt, broke the evening silence. "I'm not giving him a dime. He'll just blow it on booze."
The words hung heavy, thick with the stench of prejudice and apathy. A silent parade of indifference followed. Each passerby, their steps echoing with a callous detachment, swept past as if emerging from a battlefield, unscathed by the humanity they ignored. They averted their gazes, as if by doing so, they could erase the man's very existence from their minds, conjuring a fantasy where ragged clothing and desperate eyes were mere illusions, a trick of the urban landscape.
But what if, instead, they had paused? What if they had turned, and allowed a glimmer of compassion to pierce through their hardened exteriors? The truth, stark and undeniable, was that often, in the presence of another's need, we erected walls of prejudice, constructing elaborate narratives to absolve ourselves from action.
"Congratulations on wanting to survive another day," I whispered, drawing a breath as I stopped, my gaze locking with the man's. He stood there, a testament to the tenacity of life, each ragged breath a defiant victory against overwhelming odds.
It was so easy to stand tall, cloaked in the comfort of privilege, to project an aura of strength and assuredness while denying the intricate tapestry of human experience. But the image I held in my mind, nagging and insistent, was this: how could they so easily dismiss the reality before them?
"What about the choices he made?" I could hear the arguments forming in their heads, their voices rising in righteous indignation. "What if he just wastes whatever we give him?"
"Have you ever slept on the street?" I wanted to scream, but instead, I considered the profound contrast in their circumstances. Most of them had the comfort of their homes, access to sanitation, warmth. When the cold encroached, their refuge lay within the walls of their living spaces. For him, every day was a trial of endurance, each hour a battle against the cold indifference that surrounded him.
The fluorescent glow of a nearby bar, promises of warmth, and the comforting aroma of cheap drinks, flickered in the distance. But these offerings came with an unspoken price: the requirement to conform, to justify your existence to those who held the key to the warmth. For him, entering that establishment and escaping the chilling winds meant not just solace, but a sacrifice of dignity.
Even on a seventy-degree day, when the sun blazed mercilessly overhead, (k)night crept in, stealing warmth from the air, its icy fingers digging into every crack and crevice. It was a chilling reminder of the deeper struggles that went unacknowledged. Why was warmth, a basic human need, treated as a privilege, a reward for conformity, not a fundamental right? Why was the solace of a warm room often inextricably linked to the taboo of alcohol? Did the value of a human being diminish in the shadow of despair?
In the relentless pulse of city life, people bathed, feasted, oblivious to their interwoven fates. They treated their fellow citizens as burdens, or worse, toxic waste. Yet their lives were undeniably intertwined, threads in a complex tapestry. The issue was not black and white; it was a complex interplay of judgments and indifference, glittering coin-like reflections of disdain thrown into an invisible well.
As I turned to leave, my heart heavy with the unspoken truths, I dared to glance back. The man on the street was a prisoner in his own circumstances. He might, indeed, use any offered warmth, to fuel his survival, but did it really matter? Wasn't his attempt to find comfort in any way that was available, a fight for survival? Perhaps he was not merely a victim of circumstance, but a quiet hero, battling a war unseen.
These thoughts lingered, a persistent hum in my mind, as I moved deeper into the vibrant heart of the city, drawn by the lights and laughter emanating from hidden alleyways. The irony was sharp, almost unbearable. Here, amidst the celebration, amidst the lights and laughter, lay an aching emptiness, hidden in the shadows. Inside the bar, warmth enveloped those inside, with a joyous chatter echoing like the wings of enchanted butterflies. Yet this warmth, a beacon of comfort, turned a blind eye to countless souls, pushing them further into the frigid abyss of neglect.
Inside the restrooms of the bar, the signs shrieked: "Restrooms for patrons only. Trespassers will be prosecuted." What was this, if not a microcosm of society? "You're welcome as long as you're not a problem." The very act of seeking basic human needs, of relieving oneself, had become a game of who would break first: the external world or the unrelenting demands of the body, faced with so few options.
I stood there, wrestling with my own frustrations and realizations, hot tears welling up in my eyes as I wandered through the pulsating heart of a city that, despite its charm, held a dangerous depth of neglect. Couldn't they see it? The man wanted to survive, and his methods might not align with their ideals, but his struggle for warmth, for solace, deserved respect, not disdain.
I deliberately slowed my pace as I walked back past the corner. My heart aligned with my intention. His gaze met mine, those glassy eyes reflecting a sliver of understanding. In that fleeting moment, a shared humanity ignited. We weren't so different after all; we both sought warmth, both craved comfort. I dropped a dollar bill into his outstretched hand, and for a precious moment, time stood still.
"Thank you," he murmured, the words carrying the weight of my empathy.
In that exchange, I learned a profound lesson. The man on the corner held a fire that burned bright beneath the ashes of despair; it simply needed the spark of recognition and compassion from fellow human beings to reignite. Whether that spark came from a warm drink or a simple meal, it mattered that the fire continued to glow, that we acknowledged the lives beyond our own. The battle against indifference was a shared responsibility; within that fight lay the most profound expression of humanity.