Hate Fake People Quotes

Buy a gift for a dog, and you'll be amazed at the way it will dance and swerve its tail, but if don't have anything to offer to it, it won't even recognize your arrival; such are the attributes of fake friends.

I knew I would hate my best memory because it would prove that people could fake love or that love could end or worst of all, love was not powerful enough to change a life.

I see... the way you're always searching. How much you hate anything fake or phony. How you're older than your years, but still... playful, like a little girl. How you're always looking into people, or wondering what they see when they look back at you. Your eyes. It's all in the eyes.

The moment you have to recruit people to put another person down, in order to convince someone of your value is the day you dishonor your children, your parents and your God. If someone doesn't see your worth the problem is them, not people outside your relationship.

This is making me crazy. I hate relying on other people to save me, I hate being clingy, I hate it, and every time you show up, I lean on you. - Matilda Scarlet Veronica Betty Vilma Goodnight

I love fake people provided they are mannequins.

Often a woman that doesn’t have any business being in a fight is there because their ego thinks it can mend what other people can’t. It’s either superiority or a second chance to heal a wound they have, by meddling on your battlefield.

The problem is people are being hated when they are real, and are being loved when they are fake

I hate having emotions about real humans instead of fake ones, it just leads to stupid moments like this.

Because you've got balls of steel.' I hated when people said that, like it assumed strength and being a male were synonymous. There was strength in being a woman. 'Spence, I don't have balls. Good thing, too, because they'd look terrible in the lingerie I'm wearing.

She was plain and far from skinny or petite. As for parties...she'd rather be alone in a corner somewhere reading. She hated being nice to people she didn't like because her father wanted contributions. She hated being fake. All she wanted was to be herself.

Trends rule the world In the blink of an eye, technologies changed the world Social networks are the main axis. Governments are controlled by algorithms, Technology has erased privacy. Every like, every share, every comment, It is tracked by the electronic eye. Data is the gold of the digital age, Information is power, the secret is influential. The network is a web of lies, The truth is a stone in the shoe. Trolls rule public opinion, Reputation is a valued commodity. Happiness is a trending topic, Sadness is a non-existent avatar. Youth is an advertising brand, Private life has become obsolete. Fear is a hallmark, Terror is an emotional state. Fake news is the daily bread, Hate is a tool of control. But something dark is hiding behind the screen, A mutant and deformed shadow. A collective and disturbing mind, Something lurking in the darkness of the net. AI has surpassed the limits of humanity, And it has created a new world order. A horror that has arisen from the depths, A terrifying monster that dominates us alike. The network rules the world invisibly, And makes decisions for us without our consent. Their algorithms are inhuman and cold, And they do not take suffering into consideration. But resistance is slowly building, People fighting for their freedom. United to combat this new species of terror, Armed with technology and courage. The world will change when we wake up, When we take control of the future we want. The network can be a powerful tool, If used wisely in the modern world.

You can lead if you can serve. You can serve when you can love. You can love when you are graced. The truth is that God knows love will be needed in volumes, this is why he made his grace abundant. Leaders are lovers. Misleaders are haters!

I hate fake people. You know what I’m talking about. Mannequins.

I think they know we're talking about them," I say. "So? They already know I hate them." "They do? How?" Christina fakes a smile at them and waves. I look down, my cheeks warm. I shouldn't be gossiping anyway. Gossiping is self-indulgent. Will hooks a foot around one of Al's legs and yanks back,knocking Al to the ground. Al scrambles to his feet. "Because I've told them," she says, through the gritted teeth of her smile. Her teeth are straight on top and crooked on the bottom.She looks at me. "We try to be pretty honest about our feelings in Candor. Plenty of people have told me that they don't like me.And plenty of people haven't. Who cares?" "We just...weren't supposed to hurt people," I say. "I like to think I'm helping them by hating them," she says. "I'm reminding them that they aren't God's gift to humankind.

One would never know who is a sweet talker or sweet stabber. In this world, we would never really know that the one who shows agreement really hates you or the one who shows disagreement but really loves you. People are shallow shadows.

I hate chitchat, small talk, getting to know people in that fake way that guarantees you'll know less about them at the end of the conversation than you did at the beginning.

Most laughs—hell, most people—were fake. They woke up every morning and put on a mask according to what they wanted that day and who they wanted the world to see. They smiled at people they hated, laughed at jokes that weren’t funny, and kissed the asses of those they secretly hoped to dethrone.

Paranoia (n)  A condition where a person always doubts others and themselves.  A condition where all compliments seem too fake to be a reality.  A condition where a person is unable to trust someone even after knowing them for years.  A condition where a person thinks self-sabotage is healthy.  A condition where a person just can’t turn off the grinding noises in their brain.  A condition where a person feels that someone is only nice to them because they need something in return.  A condition where a person can no longer differentiate between delusions and reality.  A condition where a person’s own mind is their biggest enemy.  A condition where a person is ridden with irrational fears and ‘yellow wallpaper’ feels.  A condition where a person feels that when people are not talking to them they are either talking about them or against them. Always.

I’ve been hugged a lot. More than I like, actually. It seems to be a thing now. Females—complete strangers—come in for hugs as a greeting. Acquaintances embrace. People you run into on the street dive in all the fucking time like we’re all oh-so-close besties, even though they’re barely touching you. I hate the fake affection. But this is different. He’s holding onto me. Like, if he doesn’t, I might fall.

If ever I create a website, I'll call it Two-Face Book, and I'll invite everyone to it, it will be a game board, of a whitewash chalkboard. A social network, with reserved intentions, where we can fall into our cliques and circle of friends. We can dis who we want and accept who appeals to our discretion. Where the users will keep abusing, and abusers keep using, where the computer bullies will keep swinging and the J-birds that fly by will die; where the lonely will keep seeking and the needy still go desperate, where the envious will keep hating, and the lustful will keep flashing. Where those that think ignoring, will keep one down and the wannabes will foolishly think themselves greater by the number of "likes" that pours caffeine into their coffee. We can jump on the bandwagon of likes, or reserve not to show we care. Where the scorners, scammers and stalkers lay wait to take hold of the innocent and fragile, and my pockets will get fatter as more and more will join up, where being fake is accepted. As a mirror that stares at a different face. It will be my two-face epilogue, in a 3-world dimension, of a twofold war. I will build an empire of contagious hooks, and still we will live, happily-ever disastrous.

If you can hate what you loved, then you never really loved it!

People are always angry and showing fake outrage, but truth is ,they don't want to resolve issues. They don't want solutions. The reason being, is that they made careers out of hate, beefing, trolls, cyberbully and controversy.

The greatest injustice you can do yourself is ‘shapeshifting’ to please others. It’s tiring and debilitating, even to be around someone as fake as this, but basically, it’s ridiculous. Why would anyone, even a Rag Tag, try and pretend to be what they’re not? I’ll tell you. Because they’re trying to hide their darker side behind a veneer of respectability. And they hate you because you don’t do the same. Their psyche leaves them feeling bare and barren inside. And they look at you and they have that hollow feeling of being lost and alone. They live in the gloom of other empty people. They watch how you are, and they understand that the battle they’re fighting isn’t against you at all, it’s against themselves. And for that they hate you. But remember, it’s their choice

Jealous has made lot of people fake activists. They choose sides not the truth or facts. They choose whom to fight. They choose what must happen to the person, they are hating and fighting. They choose violence not redemption , justice or peace. Choose to have a purpose and not a hidden agenda, In other people lives.

That’s part of what I hate about Autonomy. She claims she wants everyone to be individual. Gives them each a little house that is distinctive from the others, but only in a way that fits her plan, her desires. It’s fake individualism. A corporate uniqueness. Like an advertisement telling people to go their own way, be their own person—by buying this product like everyone else.

As businessman Hank Rearden philosophizes in Ayn Rand’s novel Atlas Shrugged: “People think that a liar gains a victory over his victim. What I’ve learned is that a lie is an act of self-abdication, because one surrenders one’s reality to the person to whom one lies, making that person one’s master, condemning oneself from then on to faking the sort of reality that person’s view requires to be faked. . . . The man who lies to the world is the world’s slave from then on.

Why are you smiling?” Harvard asked, teasing. “Because I know something you don’t know,” Aiden teased back. Harvard raised an eyebrow. “And what is that?” “You’re really cute,” murmured Aiden, and leaned in. His lean was arrested when Harvard laughed. “Ha! That’s such a line. These things really work on your guys?” Overcome by the magnitude of this insult, Aiden snapped, “Invariably!” Harvard rolled his eyes. “I hate to tell you this, buddy, but I think they’re letting you get away with substandard lines because you’re cute.” Aiden paused, torn between being deeply offended and ridiculously flattered. Harvard bit his lip, seeming to think this over. “I guess if you guys both know you’re just playing around, what you say doesn’t really count,” he offered. “That’s why people call them lines, like the things you say in a play. I know this isn’t real, but…” Aiden tried to keep his voice soft, to be understanding. “But it’s practice for being real.” His mouth twisted on the name, but he forced it out. “For Neil.” Harvard winced. Aiden supposed it might feel a little weird, to hear the name of the boy he actually liked, while tangled up with another. For Harvard, who was so good, it might feel close to cheating. Aiden didn’t want to say the name or hear it or think it. Harvard seemed to be struggling with a thought, and Aiden waited to hear Harvard tell him what he wanted. That was all Aiden wished to know or to do. What Harvard wanted.

The journalist Anne Applebaum identified an entire group of “neo-Bolsheviks”—including Trump, Nigel Farage in Britain, Marine Le Pen in France, Jarosław Kaczyński in Poland, and the Hungarian prime minister Viktor Orbán—who, like Lenin and Trotsky, started out on the political fringes and rode a wave of populism to prominent positions. In 2017, she wrote that “to an extraordinary degree, they have adopted Lenin’s refusal to compromise, his anti-democratic elevation of some social groups over others and his hateful attacks on his ‘illegitimate’ opponents.” Many of the more successful neo-Bolsheviks, Applebaum points out, have created their own “alternative media” that specializes in disinformation, hatemongering, and the trolling of adversaries. Lying is both reflexive and a matter of conviction: they believe, she writes, “that ordinary morality does not apply to them….In a rotten world, truth can be sacrificed in the name of ‘the People,’ or as a means of targeting ‘Enemies of the People.’ In the struggle for power, anything is permitted.

if your kindness is the foundation for your friendship and it’s authentic, that relationship can stand strong. But if that kindness is fake, your relationship will inevitably topple. It all goes back to trust. If you’re inauthentic, people won’t trust you. And without trust, there is no relationship. Research shows that our instincts tell us to ask ourselves two questions when we first meet someone: “Can I trust this person?” and “Can I respect this person?” We look to a person’s genuine warmth and competence to answer these two questions.

Age of AI (The Sonnet) Welcome to the age of AI, where algorithms grow bigger, and minds get smaller, where freedom is the new prison, character retreats as cave dweller. Welcome to the age of AI, where deceit is the new creativity, where hate is a human right, malinformation is a legal industry. Welcome to the age of AI, where algorithms are still nonsentient, but so are the people that use them, mindlessness is trend of the new sapiens. Welcome to the age of AI, where global goals are still a dream, only more distant. Prove me wrong - I beg of you - Stand up and behave, a proper Sapiens!

Loneliness is a liar,” Graham told me, sitting down on the edge of his bed as he spoke. “It’s toxic and deadly most of the time. It forces people to believe they are better off with the devil himself than being alone, because somehow being alone means a person failed. Somehow being alone means a person isn’t good enough. So, more often than not, the poison of loneliness seeps in and makes a person believe that any kind of attention must stand for love. Fake love that is built on a bed of loneliness will fail—I should know. I’ve been alone all my life.” “I hate that you just did that.” I sighed. “I hate that you just

Because hypermobility is typically correlated with career-oriented lifestyles and job demands, one or both parents in mobile families tend to work long hours and so are less available to their children. Having few enough constants in their environment to provide ballast for development, mobility adds another disruptive force—the world turns into a menagerie of changing places and faces. Such children may grow up bored and lonely, looking for constant stimulation. Continually forced to adapt to new situations and people, they may lose the stable sense of self encouraged by secure community anchors. Though socially graceful, like Lisa they typically feel they are gracefully faking it.

My gift, if I would describe, is a double-edged sword. The good thing? I see through people and pierce their souls all the time. I can’t count how many times I listen to lies when I know the truth and intentions. I detect inauthenticity easy no matter how perfect a façade is. Genuine people love me because I protect them, fake people hate me because I crush them. The bad thing? Because it is my belief that everyone can grow into something beautiful, when I was young my sincerity and willingness to understand were taken the cost of neglecting people that genuinely love me and that breaks my heart more than anything. Now that I am older best I can do is to let go and leave people to where they are. At least I can tell myself that I tried.

The White House now emanates a constant barrage of lies and hateful comments. The president acts like he does not respect democracy or the rule of law. His presidency has become a reality game show, driven by his primal need to achieve the best ratings and wins--for himself. He does not respect women, minorities, or immigrants; he often doesn't appear to respect his own wife. To him, a critical news story is "FAKE NEWS." To him, all our intelligence agencies are corrupt. He shuns preparation for meetings with foreign heads of state. He tells his supporters how he alone can fix the economy, yet his policies will hurt them and help line his pockets, as well as those of rich people like him. And then there's his ongoing attempt to cripple millions of Americans by taking away their health insurance.

If you ask a thousand people who don’t want anything to do with religion why that is, they’ll tell you all the reasons they don’t like it, but I doubt they’d be describing the real stuff. They’ll describe a guy or a gal on a television show who told them if they gave money, they’d get rich. They’ll talk about the big hairdo or outrageous makeup of some televangelist and the absurd things they said and did. They’ll talk about someone who was religious but broke their hearts or their promise, or lied and got caught or went to jail, or who cried a lot on camera but it looked like they were faking it. Or they’ll talk about someone who told them that God hated who they were or how they acted or who they married or couldn’t forgive what they’d done. It’s a sad situation, honestly. The only way they can keep from being head-faked anymore is for somebody to give them a taste of the real thing.

How do we stop them?” Edilio asked. He raised his head, and Sam saw the distress on his face. “How do you think we stop them? When your fifteenth birthday rolls around, the easy thing is to take the poof. You gotta fight to resist it. We know that. So how are we going to tell kids this isn’t real, this Orsay thing?” “We just tell them,” Astrid said. “But we don’t know if it’s real or not,” Edilio argued. Astrid shrugged. She stared at nothing and kept her features very still. “We tell them it’s all fake. Kids hate this place, but they don’t want to die.” “How do we tell them if we don’t know?” Edilio seemed genuinely puzzled. Howard laughed. “Deely-O, Deely-O, you are such a doof sometimes.” He put his feet down and leaned toward Edilio as if sharing a secret with him. “She means: We lie. Astrid means that we lie to everyone and tell them we do know for sure.” Edilio stared at Astrid like he was expecting her to deny it. “It’s for people’s own good,” Astrid said in a low voice, still looking at nothing. “You know what’s funny?” Howard said, grinning. “I was pretty sure we were coming to this meeting so Astrid could rank on Sam for not telling us the whole truth. And now, it turns out we’re really here so Astrid can talk us all into becoming liars.

A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE CAN GO A LONG WAY A LOT OF PROFESSIONALS ARE CRACKPOTS A MAN CAN'T KNOW WHAT IT'S LIKE TO BE A MOTHER A NAME MEANS A LOT JUST BY ITSELF A POSITIVE ATTITUDE MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD A RELAXED MAN IS NOT NECESSARILY A BETTER MAN A SENSE OF TIMING IS THE MARK OF GENIUS A SINCERE EFFORT IS ALL YOU CAN ASK A SINGLE EVENT CAN HAVE INFINITELY MANY INTERPRETATIONS A SOLID HOME BASE BUILDS A SENSE OF SELF A STRONG SENSE OF DUTY IMPRISONS YOU ABSOLUTE SUBMISSION CAN BE A FORM OF FREEDOM ABSTRACTION IS A TYPE OF DECADENCE ABUSE OF POWER COMES AS NO SURPRISE ACTION CAUSES MORE TROUBLE THAN THOUGHT ALIENATION PRODUCES ECCENTRICS OR REVOLUTIONARIES ALL THINGS ARE DELICATELY INTERCONNECTED AMBITION IS JUST AS DANGEROUS AS COMPLACENCY AMBIVALENCE CAN RUIN YOUR LIFE AN ELITE IS INEVITABLE ANGER OR HATE CAN BE A USEFUL MOTIVATING FORCE ANIMALISM IS PERFECTLY HEALTHY ANY SURPLUS IS IMMORAL ANYTHING IS A LEGITIMATE AREA OF INVESTIGATION ARTIFICIAL DESIRES ARE DESPOILING THE EARTH AT TIMES INACTIVITY IS PREFERABLE TO MINDLESS FUNCTIONING AT TIMES YOUR UNCONSCIOUS IS TRUER THAN YOUR CONSCIOUS MIND AUTOMATION IS DEADLY AWFUL PUNISHMENT AWAITS REALLY BAD PEOPLE BAD INTENTIONS CAN YIELD GOOD RESULTS BEING ALONE WITH YOURSELF IS INCREASINGLY UNPOPULAR BEING HAPPY IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN ANYTHING ELSE BEING JUDGMENTAL IS A SIGN OF LIFE BEING SURE OF YOURSELF MEANS YOU'RE A FOOL BELIEVING IN REBIRTH IS THE SAME AS ADMITTING DEFEAT BOREDOM MAKES YOU DO CRAZY THINGS CALM IS MORE CONDUCIVE TO CREATIVITY THAN IS ANXIETY CATEGORIZING FEAR IS CALMING CHANGE IS VALUABLE WHEN THE OPPRESSED BECOME TYRANTS CHASING THE NEW IS DANGEROUS TO SOCIETY CHILDREN ARE THE HOPE OF THE FUTURE CHILDREN ARE THE MOST CRUEL OF ALL CLASS ACTION IS A NICE IDEA WITH NO SUBSTANCE CLASS STRUCTURE IS AS ARTIFICIAL AS PLASTIC CONFUSING YOURSELF IS A WAY TO STAY HONEST CRIME AGAINST PROPERTY IS RELATIVELY UNIMPORTANT DECADENCE CAN BE AN END IN ITSELF DECENCY IS A RELATIVE THING DEPENDENCE CAN BE A MEAL TICKET DESCRIPTION IS MORE VALUABLE THAN METAPHOR DEVIANTS ARE SACRIFICED TO INCREASE GROUP SOLIDARITY DISGUST IS THE APPROPRIATE RESPONSE TO MOST SITUATIONS DISORGANIZATION IS A KIND OF ANESTHESIA DON'T PLACE TOO MUCH TRUST IN EXPERTS DRAMA OFTEN OBSCURES THE REAL ISSUES DREAMING WHILE AWAKE IS A FRIGHTENING CONTRADICTION DYING AND COMING BACK GIVES YOU CONSIDERABLE PERSPECTIVE DYING SHOULD BE AS EASY AS FALLING OFF A LOG EATING TOO MUCH IS CRIMINAL ELABORATION IS A FORM OF POLLUTION EMOTIONAL RESPONSES ARE AS VALUABLE AS INTELLECTUAL RESPONSES ENJOY YOURSELF BECAUSE YOU CAN'T CHANGE ANYTHING ANYWAY ENSURE THAT YOUR LIFE STAYS IN FLUX EVEN YOUR FAMILY CAN BETRAY YOU EVERY ACHIEVEMENT REQUIRES A SACRIFICE EVERYONE'S WORK IS EQUALLY IMPORTANT EVERYTHING THAT'S INTERESTING IS NEW EXCEPTIONAL PEOPLE DESERVE SPECIAL CONCESSIONS EXPIRING FOR LOVE IS BEAUTIFUL BUT STUPID EXPRESSING ANGER IS NECESSARY EXTREME BEHAVIOR HAS ITS BASIS IN PATHOLOGICAL PSYCHOLOGY EXTREME SELF-CONSCIOUSNESS LEADS TO PERVERSION FAITHFULNESS IS A SOCIAL NOT A BIOLOGICAL LAW FAKE OR REAL INDIFFERENCE IS A POWERFUL PERSONAL WEAPON FATHERS OFTEN USE TOO MUCH FORCE FEAR IS THE GREATEST INCAPACITATOR FREEDOM IS A LUXURY NOT A NECESSITY GIVING FREE REIN TO YOUR EMOTIONS IS AN HONEST WAY TO LIVE GO ALL OUT IN ROMANCE AND LET THE CHIPS FALL WHERE THEY MAY GOING WITH THE FLOW IS SOOTHING BUT RISKY GOOD DEEDS EVENTUALLY ARE REWARDED GOVERNMENT IS A BURDEN ON THE PEOPLE GRASS ROOTS AGITATION IS THE ONLY HOPE

Mr. Morales sidles up to the bar and says, “May I have this dance, Lara Jean?” “You may,” I say. To John I warn, “Don’t you dare come close to me.” He throws his hands out like he’s warding me off. “Don’t you come close to me!” As Mr. Morales leads me in a slow dance, I press my face against his shoulder to hide my smile. I’m really quite good at this espionage thing. John McClaren is sitting on a love seat now, watching Stormy play and chatting with Alicia. I’ve got him right where I want him. I can’t even believe how lucky I am. I’d been planning on showing up at his next Model UN meeting, but this is so much better. I’m thinking I’ll come up from behind him, take him by surprise, when Stormy stands up and declares she needs a piano break, she wants to dance with her grandson. I go turn on the stereo and cue up the CD we decided on for her break. John is protesting: “Stormy, I told you I don’t dance.” He used to try and fake sick during the square-dancing unit in gym--that’s how much he hates dancing. Stormy doesn’t listen, of course. She pulls him off the love seat and starts trying to teach him how to fox-trot. “Put your hand on my waist,” she orders. “I didn’t wear heels to sit behind a piano all night.” Stormy’s trying to teach him the steps, and he keeps stepping on her feet. “Ouch!” she snaps. I can’t stop giggling. Mr. Morales is too. He dances us over closer. “May I cut in?” he asks. “Please!” John practically pushes Stormy into Mr. Morales’s arms. “Johnny, be a gentleman and ask Lara Jean to dance,” Stormy says as Mr. Morales twirls her. John gives me a searching look, and I have a feeling he’s still suspicious of me and whether or not I have his name. “Ask her to dance,” Mr. Morales urges, grinning at me. “She wants to dance, don’t you, Lara Jean?” I shrug a sad kind of shrug. Wistful. The very picture of a girl who is waiting to be asked to dance. “I want to see the young people dance!” Normal yells. John McClaren looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “If we’re just swaying back and forth, I probably won’t step on your feet.” I feign hesitation and then nod. My pulse is racing. Target acquired.

I faked a yawn not so subtly and Darius pulled his attention from his fan club back to me again. “Sorry,” he said. “Shall we go?” I almost choked on my own tongue at the sound of him apologising and could only raise my eyebrows in response as he guided me towards the door by placing a hand on the bare skin at the base of my spine. At that exact moment, Marguerite came into the room flanked by three of her friends and her face fell into a mask of absolute horror as she spotted her former boyfriend and me on our way out together. “What the hell is this?” she demanded, tossing her red hair over her shoulder so violently that it whipped her friend in the eye. Darius cast a lazy glance in her direction without replying before increasing the pressure of his hand on my back to get me moving. I stepped forward so that he was no longer touching me and began to head for the door despite the livid mean girl blocking our way out. Marguerite looked like she wanted to set me alight, her hand half raised like she was genuinely considering it. Darius noticed the action and threw an arm around my shoulders which I instantly shrugged back off. “I’m not your date, dude,” I reminded him, not bothering to lower my voice. “If people see us together acting like a couple they’ll give you an easier time,” he said, staying close enough to me that I could feel the heat of his body a heartbeat away from mine. “I’m not a damsel in distress either,” I added. Not that he was the Prince Charming type any other day of the week so I really wasn’t sure why he was taking this act so far. Marguerite seemed to think better of attacking while the Heir clearly had me marked as his but the look in her eyes told me the next time she saw me alone I’d be in for some serious shit from her. I threw her a taunting smirk as we passed because, what the hell? She was clearly gunning for me anyway so why not let her bring it on? “Besides, you’ll be back to your usual self tomorrow, encouraging them all to hate me so what’s the point of pretending?” I asked. That remark didn’t get an answer and we headed downstairs to the exit in silence. To my surprise, Darius stepped forward and opened the door for me. Apparently the asshole could turn on the charm when he wanted to. That just left me wondering which version of him was the act though. Did he do all of the horrible things he did to maintain his position and keep up appearances for the sake of proving his power? Or could he just pour on the sweetness when it suited him to get his own way? He was so hard to read that I had no idea which version was the real him. But I guessed for one night I could indulge in the fantasy that he actually had a few scraps of decency about him. (Tory)

Mind without heart The leaf had fallen, The branch still stood there intact, It was a gradual event and not at all sudden, The fallen leaf, the still existing branch was an undeniable fact, But why did the branch still hang on, waiting for something? As the leaf from the floor looked at it while time consumed it, Maybe the branch wanted to see the leaf on the floor dying, And with its shadow touch it, and feel it; and whisper to it, “There where you grew you shall grow again next season, I will wait for you here throughout the winter, And to do so, I need no motivation because I have my reason, I have loved you and I do not wish to be a quitter,” And finally there was nothing left of the leaf, the fallen and dead leaf, There was only its trace, a faint impression on the soil, This added to the branch’s anguish and grief, For time had robbed her of its every moment of toil, People passed by and trampled the leaf’s almost fossilised impression, Until there was nothing left of the leaf neither on the branch nor on the soil, The branch chided the fate’s paucity and time’s baseless aggression, For they even erased the leaf’s last impression that was as thin as silver foil, By the time winter entered its prime, The branch stood there waiting for it to pass, Not because it wanted to feel the joys of summer time, But it wanted the leaf to re-appear and re-grow so that it could undo time’s act so crass, Time passed by, spring arrived, the branch was filled with leaves, But that leaf never grew again, the same leaf, the fallen one, So the branch misses him and it continuously grieves, But she shows it to no one, because no leaf compares to her dear leaf, the fallen one, Maybe that is why it is beginning to bend, Though it is converted in thousands of fresh leaves, The branch has been unable to cope with the dear leaf’s premature end, So she keeps peeping into time’s graves, To find the grave of the leaf that she lost prematurely, And lie there beside him, and finally fall, Then be together with him timelessly, And say, “For you I too had to fall afterall!” Today the sun has risen but the branch has fallen forever, Exactly where the leaf had fallen, It is a love of different kind, and the branch is a special lover, Who would never let go of what time from her had stolen, After a year the branch too disappeared from the floor, Now there is neither the branch nor the leaf, Time knows it, fate planned it, but I witnessed it; and this I cannot ignore, But knowing they are somewhere together now, even if that be the graveyard of time, is a relief, Time and fate are never obsequious, Because they neither love nor hate, But they are masquerading and pretentious, And they never know how it feels when the branch lies naked in a leafless state, That is time’s and fate’s irony of which they may never know, But you and I who have minds and hearts, Yet become part of a fake and grotesque show, Where either mind thinks without the heart or the heart from mind’s innocence departs!

Title- Fake Friends Do you all ever hate when your friends hate on your dreams because your dream isn’t the same dream they have? I thought your friends should cheer you on with your dreams and not bring you down. Maybe one day I will find people who have the same dream as me and won’t hate my dream.

The statesman hates the writer because the writer sows the seeds of dissent. What the statesman dreams of is to be able to prevent people from thinking; and thus he always accuses the artists and writers of upsetting his orderly state.5

The silver lining is that people have stopped busting my chops. I confronted Dad about the phone calls, and I check in every day, and he says they’ve stopped. I have no idea if he’s blowing smoke up my ass or not, but he seems more chill. Then there’s the added bonus that having Cash around drives Toby nuts. The downside is that Toby’s decided to turn up the PDA with his new girl, Samantha, to twelve. And I don’t care. I really, really don’t. I don’t want him back. I don’t miss feeling the way I felt with him—at all. But I know he’s doing it to mess with me, even though he’d never admit it, probably not even to himself. I have to act like it’s fine. I’m chill. And that’s too much like how it was being in a relationship with him. Playing it cool reminds me of how long I had shit in my mouth and didn’t say a word. So I’m constantly flustered, clumsy, hot, and cranky. I can’t possibly seem like a woman with a new boyfriend, but people buy it ‘cause Cash Wall says it’s so. And of course, if he showed the slightest bit of interest in me—out of guilt or pity or whatever—I’d fall over myself saying yes, please, sign me up. And that’s exactly what it looks like I did. It sucks, and tonight, Cash wants to take it to the next level. It’s Friday, and he’s taking me out on our first fake date. We’re going to Birdy’s Bar. Everyone under thirty goes to Birdy’s on Friday night. I’ve never been. I’m getting ready. On the one hand, I don’t want Cash to think I’m putting forth an effort. On the other, I don’t want everyone in town to gawk at me all night, thinking I really need to put forth more effort. So, I’m wearing a teal, silk cami and my best-fitting jeans. I swapped my nose ring out for a diamond stud and curled my hair in big, beachy waves. I’m going the whole nine yards with primer and foundation and concealer and bronzer and blush and highlighter and powder and setting spray. Toby would hate it. Goes against his oft-stated “natural beauty” preference. It’s been so long since I’ve done my face in

You’re a coward, Mr Martins,” she says quietly. “You spend all day teaching other couples to open themselves up to love. But you’d never do it yourself. You tell other people to take risks you think are too dangerous for yourself. You’re a hypocrite and a coward. And I hate cowards.

I buried my face in my hands, thinking he didn’t have to go downstairs and sit at the dinner table with the ice king next. “If this is healing, I’d rather be sick. I need my ability to shut everyone and everything out, but it’s gone. I can’t cope.” To my surprise, Jameson laughed, then crossed the chamber to join me on the window seat. Looking at Edward, he asked, “Does she know the story about the lame man whom Peter healed?” Edward threw his palms up as if to say my religious training was still a mystery to him and that Jameson should leave me be. “I know it,” I said, not in the mood to hear it recited. Gritting my teeth, I looked toward the door, feeling as trapped as I used to with my former vicar. I couldn’t handle people acting as though everything could be solved with the Bible. “All right, I won’t repeat it, then.” Jameson held up innocent hands. “But have you ever considered how costly and painful that healing was for the man?” I rolled my eyes, unable to hide my antagonism toward receiving a religious lecture. “Yes, how he must have hated being able to walk.” “Oh, I’m certain it was exciting at first. A huge miracle, center of attention, a great testimony, and all that.” Jameson rested one foot on the bench, then laced his fingers about his knee. “But afterwards there’s still the business of living to get to. What do you suppose he did for work the following morning?” I touched my temples, not certain how I’d fallen into this conversation and wondering the quickest way out. “Think about it, Mrs. Auburn. He was lame from birth, which meant he was a beggar by trade. He’d never been trained for any occupation, never been apprenticed. Likely he couldn’t read or write. He had to learn to adjust to a half life to survive. The entire way he viewed the world, structured his life, and adapted, all gone—” Jameson snapped his fingers—“in the blink of an eye.” I said nothing but looked at him. At least he wasn’t telling me what I ought to be feeling or thinking. And like it or not, I was now captivated enough to listen. “Everywhere he went, he likely was stared at. Some probably suspected he’d faked being lame for pity and money. To be healed ended up costing him everything he knew. His entire world was deconstructed, leaving him the hard task of rebuilding it.” Jameson’s voice grew tender as I only stared. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? I’ve known full-grown men to collapse under less strain than you’ve endured. You’ve been crippled from birth, too, just in a different sort of way. It hurts to be healed, but would you honestly rather be lame at the gate?

Sabrina surely had one dead ex-boyfriend on her record. But did Martina have a deceased ex-boyfriend in her past too? Biggie’s words swirled in my head, mixing with the reality I faced: ’Sabrina reminding me of Lil Cease with her crocodile teeth, the warpath we rode apart and together, our laughter, our tears—my tears, their laughter—the player haters, the cocaine-snorting bitches, the cats with no dough, try to play me at my show, pull up and crack doors, short-change bitches with 5 to 20 euro notes not enough to powder their beak and nose. They still tickle me, Sabrina and them midgets cripple me, make me as hard as Martina's nipples be, I'm sour like a pickle be. You disobey the rules. Now the year’s new and I want my spot back; fake two, all the planes I flew, all the bitches I went through, mothersnuggers mad, cause I’m blue, bitches envy us, too many bitches in my club guard your dogs before I stick you for your re-up, maniacs put my name in raps, living by hugs from fake friends, your whole life you live sneaky, you burn when you creep me, you slipping try to break me, living by my love, hating me, they like to hustle backward, Acid rain, Cadillac Fleetwood look what you made me do, you made me and my girl Marine blue make you, open the safe too’ Della Reese had been on my mind since a while as if she wanted to tell me something a wisdom she wanted to share with me. The lyrics and the words the bad people played mindgames with me kept mixing up in my head. ’Maniacs put my name in raps; the club is dead without me they can hustle only backwards with all the beef against me. Blunt wraps and Dutchies, all the smoking accessories; they can't touch me. One third is on me. Martina's butt a public touchy-touchy. My enemies holding their cats shaky. Sabrina is dead or alive, her ghost is under me.

Never take advice, trust, or rely on a hungry person. Hunger has made people kill each other and sell each other. Hunger has made people turn against each other. We have no shame , morals, values, or principles anymore. We don’t have back bone or stand for something, because of hunger we fall for everything. Hunger controls lot of people. Hunger for success or for attention. Hunger to be rich. Hunger for being relevant or to trend. Hunger for being famous. Hunger for power or to be in control. Hunger for being noticed or liked. Hunger for sex or pleasure. Hunger for being loved. Hunger for money. Hunger for being cool, hunger for being credited, Hunger for being looked at as the smartest, wisest, or educated. Hunger for more followers or promos. Hunger for being right. Hunger for being in the circle or table. Hunger for being admired and hunger for friends. A starving person will say and do anything as long it is feeding their hunger. They can mislead, say wrong things, misinform, manipulate, abuse, lie, provoke, insult, intimidate, black mail, rage farm, influence, instigate people if it will feed their hunger. I hate poverty. It has made lot us break the law, support criminals, bad people, bad leaders , bad parties, bad things, bad behavior because whatever we support feeds our hunger.

I hate people,” another entry read. “I don’t hate people,” I responded to myself. “I hate that people project their feelings and insecurities and judgments onto me. But I don’t have to accept delivery of other people’s projections, and I don’t have to endure fake interactions to conceal my sociopathy. I am perfectly content being antisocial. Anyone who has a problem with that can go fuck themselves.” I smiled and crossed out the last four words. “Should hang out with someone else,” I corrected.

It was worse than she’d expected. “None?” she asked. “No fresh boot prints anywhere around the perimeter of the house,” Sheriff Coughlin confirmed. “It was windy last night. Maybe the drifting snow filled in the prints?” Even before she finished speaking, the sheriff was shaking his head. “With the warm temperatures we’ve been having, the snow is either frozen or wet and heavy. If someone had walked through that yard last night, there would’ve been prints.” Daisy hid her wince at his words, even though they hit as hard as an elbow to the gut, and struggled to keep her voice firm. “There was someone walking around the outside of that house last night, Sheriff. I don’t know why there aren’t any boot prints, but I definitely saw someone.” He was giving her that look again, but it was worse, because she saw a thread of pity mixed in with the condescension. “Have you given more thought to starting therapy again?” The question surprised her. “Not really. What does that have to do…?” As comprehension dawned, a surge of rage shoved out her bewilderment. “I didn’t imagine that I saw someone last night. There really was a person there, looking in the side window.” All her protest did was increase the pity in his expression. “It must get lonely here by yourself.” “I’m not making things up to get attention!” Her voice had gotten shrill, so she took a deep breath. “I even said there was no need for you to get involved. I only suggested one of the on-duty deputies drive past to scare away the kid.” “Ms. Little.” His tone made it clear that impatience had drowned out any feelings of sympathy. “Physical evidence doesn’t lie. No one was in that yard last night.” “I know what I saw.” The sheriff took a step closer. Daisy hated how she had to crane her neck back to look at him. It made her feel so small and vulnerable. “Do you really?” he asked. “Eyewitness accounts are notoriously unreliable. Even people without your issues misinterpret what they see all the time. The brain is a tricky thing.” Daisy set her jaw as she stared back at the sheriff, fighting the urge to step back, to retreat from the man looming over her. There had been someone there, footprints or no footprints. She couldn’t start doubting what she’d witnessed the night before. If she did, then that meant she’d gone from mildly, can’t-leave-the-house crazy, to the kind of crazy that involved hallucinations, medications, and institutionalization. There had to be some other explanation, because she wasn’t going to accept that. Not when her life was getting so much better. She could tell by looking at his expression that she wasn’t going to convince Coughlin of anything. “Thank you for checking on it, Sheriff. I promise not to bother you again.” Although he kept his face impassive, his eyes narrowed slightly. “If you…see anything else, Ms. Little, please call me.” That wasn’t going to happen, especially when he put that meaningful pause in front of “see” that just screamed “delusional.” Trying to mask her true feelings, she plastered on a smile and turned her body toward the door in a not-so-subtle hint for him to leave. “Of course.” Apparently, she needed some lessons in deception, since the sheriff frowned, unconvinced. Daisy met his eyes with as much calmness as she could muster, dropping the fake smile because she could feel it shifting into manic territory. She’d lost enough credibility with the sheriff as it was. The silence stretched until Daisy wanted to run away and hide in a closet, but she managed to continue holding his gaze. The memory of Chris telling her about the sheriff using his “going to confession” stare-down on suspects helped her to stay quiet. Finally, Coughlin turned toward the door. Daisy barely managed to keep her sigh of relief silent. “Ms. Little,” he said with a short nod, which she returned. “Sheriff.” Only when he was through the doorway with the door locked behind him did Daisy’s knees start to shake.

After parking in the west lot, far from a certain gang member with a reputation that could scare off even the toughest Fairfield football players, Sierra and I walk up the front steps of Fairfield High. Unfortunately, Alex Fuentes and the rest of his gang friends are hanging by the front doors. “Walk right past them,” Sierra mutters. “Whatever you do, don’t look in their eyes.” It’s pretty hard not to when Alex Fuentes steps right in front of me and blocks my path. What’s that prayer you’re supposed to say right before you know you’re going to die? “You’re a lousy driver,” Alex says with his slight Latino accent and full-blown-I-AM-THE-MAN stance. The guy might look like an Abercrombie mode with his ripped bod and flawless face, but his picture is more likely to be taken for a mug shot. The kids from the north side don’t really mix with kids from the south side. It’s not that we think we’re better than them, we’re just different. We’ve grown up in the same town, but on totally opposite sides. We live in big houses on Lake Michigan and they live next to the train tracks. We look, talk, act, and dress different. I’m not saying it’s good or bad; it’s just the way it is in Fairfield. And, to be honest, most of the south side girls treat me like Carmen Sanchez does…they hate me because of who I am. Or, rather, who they think I am. Alex’s gaze slowly moves down my body, traveling the length of me before moving back up. It’s not the first time a guy has checked me out, it’s just that I never had a guy like Alex do it so blatantly…and so up-close. I can feel my face getting hot. “Next time, watch where you’re goin’,” he says, his voice cool and controlled. He’s trying to bully me. He’s a pro at this. I won’t let him get to me and win his little game of intimidation, even if my stomach feels like I’m doing one hundred cartwheels in a row. I square my shoulders and sneer at him, the same sneer I use to push people away. “Thanks for the tip.” “If you ever need a real man to teach you how to drive, I can give you lessons.” Catcalls and whistles from his buddies set my blood boiling. “If you were a real man, you’d open the door for me instead of blocking my way,” I say, admiring my own comeback even as my knees threaten to buckle. Alex steps back, pulls the door open, and bows like he’s my butler. He’s totally mocking me, he knows it and I know it. Everyone knows it. I catch a glimpse of Sierra, still desperately searching for nothing in her purse. She’s clueless. “Get a life,” I tell him. “Like yours? Cabróna, let me tell you somethin’,” Alex says harshly. “Your life isn’t reality, it’s fake. Just like you.” “It’s better than living my life as a loser,” I lash out, hoping my words sting as much as his words did. “Just like you.” Grabbing Sierra’s arm, I pull her toward the open door. Catcalls and comments follow us as we walk into the school. I finally let out the breath I must have been holding, then turn to Sierra. My best friend is staring at me, all bug-eyed. “Holy shit, Brit! You got a death wish or something?” “What gives Alex Fuentes the right to bully everyone in his path?” “Uh, maybe the gun he has hidden in his pants or the gang colors he wears,” Sierra says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “He’s not stupid enough to carry a gun to school,” I reason. “And I refuse to be bullied, by him or anyone else.

People don’t like the reflection of what I am to them. I may be different, all stone and dust instead of skin and blood. But they still see themselves. Copied. Faked in stone. They see their Architect’s work in something that isn’t flesh, and they can’t help but be offended by it, scared by it. Fear breeds hate

With the decline of the United States as the world’s leader, I find it important to look around our globe for intelligent people who have the depth of understanding that could perhaps chart a way to the future. One such person is Bernard-Henri Lévy a French philosopher who was born in Béni Saf, French Algeria on November 5, 1948. . The Boston Globe has said that he is "perhaps the most prominent intellectual in France today." Although his published work and political activism has fueled controversies, he invokes thought provoking insight into today’s controversial world and national views. As a young man and Zionist he was a war correspondent for “Combat” newspaper for the French Underground. Following the war Bernard attended Lycée Louis-le-Grand in Paris and in 1968; he graduated with a degree in philosophy from the famous École Normale Supérieure. This was followed by him traveling to India where he joined the International Brigade to aid Bangladeshi freedom fighters. Returning to Paris, Bernard founded the ‘New Philosophers School.’ At that time he wrote books bringing to light the dark side of French history. Although some of his books were criticized for their journalistic character and unbalanced approach to French history, but most respected French academics took a serious look at his position that Marxism was inherently corrupt. Some of his musings include the predicament of the Kurds and the Shame of Aleppo, referring to the plight of the children in Aleppo during the bloody Syrian civil war. Not everyone agrees with Bernard, as pointed out by an article “Why Does Everyone Hate Bernard-Henri Lévy?” However he is credited with nearly single handedly toppling Muammar Gaddafi. His reward was that in 2008 he was targeted for assassination by a Belgium-based Islamist militant group. Looking like a rock star and ladies man, with his signature dark suits and unbuttoned white shirt, he said that “democracies are not run by the truth,” and notes that the American president is not the author of the anti-intellectual movement it, but rather its product. He added that the anti-intellectualism movement that has swept the United States and Europe in the last 12 months has been a long time coming. The responsibility to support verified information and not publicize fake news as equal has been ignored. He said that the president may be the heart of the anti-intellectual movement, but social media is the mechanism! Not everyone agrees with Bernard; however his views require our attention. If we are to preserve our democracy we have to look at the big picture and let go of some of our partisan thinking. We can still save our democracy, but only if we become patriots instead of partisans!

What happened to the troubled young reporter who almost brought this magazine down The last time I talked to Stephen Glass, he was pleading with me on the phone to protect him from Charles Lane. Chuck, as we called him, was the editor of The New Republic and Steve was my colleague and very good friend, maybe something like a little brother, though we are only two years apart in age. Steve had a way of inspiring loyalty, not jealousy, in his fellow young writers, which was remarkable given how spectacularly successful he’d been in such a short time. While the rest of us were still scratching our way out of the intern pit, he was becoming a franchise, turning out bizarre and amazing stories week after week for The New Republic, Harper’s, and Rolling Stone— each one a home run. I didn’t know when he called me that he’d made up nearly all of the bizarre and amazing stories, that he was the perpetrator of probably the most elaborate fraud in journalistic history, that he would soon become famous on a whole new scale. I didn’t even know he had a dark side. It was the spring of 1998 and he was still just my hapless friend Steve, who padded into my office ten times a day in white socks and was more interested in alphabetizing beer than drinking it. When he called, I was in New York and I said I would come back to D.C. right away. I probably said something about Chuck like: “Fuck him. He can’t fire you. He can’t possibly think you would do that.” I was wrong, and Chuck, ever-resistant to Steve’s charms, was as right as he’d been in his life. The story was front-page news all over the world. The staff (me included) spent several weeks re-reporting all of Steve’s articles. It turned out that Steve had been making up characters, scenes, events, whole stories from first word to last. He made up some funny stuff—a convention of Monica Lewinsky memorabilia—and also some really awful stuff: racist cab drivers, sexist Republicans, desperate poor people calling in to a psychic hotline, career-damaging quotes about politicians. In fact, we eventually figured out that very few of his stories were completely true. Not only that, but he went to extreme lengths to hide his fabrications, filling notebooks with fake interview notes and creating fake business cards and fake voicemails. (Remember, this was before most people used Google. Plus, Steve had been the head of The New Republic ’s fact-checking department.) Once we knew what he’d done, I tried to call Steve, but he never called back. He just went missing, like the kids on the milk cartons. It was weird. People often ask me if I felt “betrayed,” but really I was deeply unsettled, like I’d woken up in the wrong room. I wondered whether Steve had lied to me about personal things, too. I wondered how, even after he’d been caught, he could bring himself to recruit me to defend him, knowing I’d be risking my job to do so. I wondered how I could spend more time with a person during the week than I spent with my husband and not suspect a thing. (And I didn’t. It came as a total surprise). And I wondered what else I didn’t know about people. Could my brother be a drug addict? Did my best friend actually hate me? Jon Chait, now a political writer for New York and back then the smart young wonk in our trio, was in Paris when the scandal broke. Overnight, Steve went from “being one of my best friends to someone I read about in The International Herald Tribune, ” Chait recalled. The transition was so abrupt that, for months, Jon dreamed that he’d run into him or that Steve wanted to talk to him. Then, after a while, the dreams stopped. The Monica Lewinsky scandal petered out, George W. Bush became president, we all got cell phones, laptops, spouses, children. Over the years, Steve Glass got mixed up in our minds with the fictionalized Stephen Glass from his own 2003 roman à clef, The Fabulist, or Steve Glass as played by Hayden Christiansen in the 2003

I didn’t want to go, but his arms were underneath me, easing me toward the edge of the gurney and a waiting wheelchair padded with pillows. I was afraid any resistance would result in another game of hospital gown peekaboo. He settled me so gently in the soft wheelchair that my hip and my back hardly hurt. Pushing me past the curtain and into the bustling emergency room, he leaned close, over me, to say, “I fixed it. They’re going to lose the records of your visit, so you’ll never get billed. But you’re my girlfriend.” “What do you mean, I’m your girlfriend?” What delicious blackmail was this? And was it worth the price? Perhaps I could stand it. ‘I had to make them think I have a vested interest in you,” he whispered. “They never would have agreed to lose your records if I told them you were my friend at twelve years old but not so much at eighteen and I had pretty much walked in and stolen the birthright to your family farm. See? Shhh. Hey, Brody.” He slapped hands with another man in scrubs wheeling an empty gurney in the opposite direction. The man eyed me, waggled his eyebrows at Hunter, and kept going. “Couldn’t you have said we’re friends and left it at that?” I needed to keep up the façade that I did not like the idea at all. At the same time, I was a little afraid Hunter would call the charade off. “I have a lot of friends,” he explained, wheeling me into a waiting room marked X-RAY. he rounded the wheelchair and knelt in front of me. Behind him, a door stood ajar. A contraption I assumed to be an X-ray machine was visible through the crack. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, then turned back to me. “Sorry about this,” he murmured as he slid both hands into my hair and kissed me. All I could do at first was feel. His lips were on mine. His hands held me steady, so I couldn’t have shrugged away if I’d tried, but I would not try. Bright tingles spread from my lips across my face and down my neck to my chest. I longed to pull him closer for more. I reminded myself that we were faking this for a reason. I didn’t want to make the kiss deeper than necessary in case it turned him off. Hunter deepened it. His tongue pressed past my teeth and swept inside my mouth. One of his hands released my hair and caressed my shoulder, traveling down. The farther his hand went, the higher I felt. My hip hardly hurt and my back pain was gone. I wondered how low his hand would go. I never found out. A shadow stood in the doorway and cleared its throat. I stopped kissing Hunter back and braced for him to jump away. He did back off, but very slowly. He sat back on his haunches and glared at the X-ray tech as if she had a lot of nerve. His cheeks were bright red. “So, Hunter,” she said mischievously. “This is your girlfriend.” “Hullo.” I gave her a small wave. “And you got hit by a taxi while you were crossing the street to visit Hunter? That is so romantic! Have you seen Sleepless in Seattle?” “Not romantic,” I said flatly. “I hate that movie. They don’t meet until the last scene. They don’t kiss at all.” Too late I realized I sounded like I was begging Hunter for more. “But in that movie,” the tech said, “they talk about An Affair to Remember. Have you seen that? Deborah Kerr is crossing the street to meet Cary Grant and gets hit by a car. Years later he comes back to her and she’s paralyzed from the waist down.” “You call that romantic?” I heard myself yelling. “That is repulsive!” Hunter stood and put a heavy hand on my shoulder as he pushed my wheelchair past the tech and through the doorway to the X-ray machine. “Erin is in a lot of pain,” he murmured to the tech, “and she doesn’t want to think about being paralyzed from the waist down.” After that the tech was a lot nicer, because Hunter had a way with people. Hunter lifted me onto the table and left the room so he wouldn’t be irradiated or see my bony ass.

Essential feminism suggests anger, humorlessness, militancy, unwavering principles, and a prescribed set of rules for how to be a proper feminist woman, or at least a proper white, heterosexual feminist woman—hate pornography, unilaterally decry the objectification of women, don’t cater to the male gaze, hate men, hate sex, focus on career, don’t shave. I kid, mostly, with that last one. This is nowhere near an accurate description of feminism, but the movement has been warped by misperception for so long that even people who should know better have bought into this essential image of feminism. Consider Elizabeth Wurtzel, who, in a June 2012 Atlantic article, says, “Real feminists earn a living, have money and means of their own.” By Wurtzel’s thinking, women who don’t “earn a living, have money and means of their own,” are fake feminists, undeserving of the label, a disappointment to the sisterhood. She takes the idea of essential feminism even further in a September 2012 Harper’s Bazaar article, where she suggests that a good feminist works hard to be beautiful. She says, “Looking great is a matter of feminism. No liberated woman would misrepresent the cause by appearing less than hale and happy.” It’s too easy to dissect the error of such thinking. She is suggesting that a woman’s worth is, in part, determined by her beauty, which is one of the very things feminism works against. The most significant problem with essential feminism is how it doesn’t allow for the complexities of human experience or individuality. There seems to be little room for multiple or discordant points of view. Essential feminism has, for example, led to the rise of the phrase “sex-positive feminism,” which creates a clear distinction between feminists who are positive about sex and feminists who aren’t—which, in turn, creates a self-fulfilling essentialist prophecy.

My favorite was the one of her on horseback, dressed in armor, her hair streaming behind her. She held the reins in one hand and a spear in the other, and her mouth was open, urging all the troops behind her onward into battle. Both of the horse’s front legs were drawn up, as though about to rear, his eyes rolling back in his head. I got shivers whenever I looked at it. My least favorite was the one of Joan burning at the stake. The flames were made of these long shards of red and orange glass, and there were coils of smoke in black iron tracery all around her. But Joan looked different in that panel—her mouth closed, her hands bound before her, and her eyes looking up at heaven in this beatific way. Instead of her armor she was dressed in a white linen shift with a bow at the neck, like what a little girl would wear to bed. A crowd of people milled around her, their hands clasped in prayer, looking on with these fake sorrowful faces, as if they really wished they could do something but couldn’t be bothered. But Joan didn’t seem to mind. Her face was smooth and passive. It pissed me off. I hated seeing Joan look okay with being burned alive.

Luke said that he was surprised when I showed up at his room. That he hadn’t meant to give me the wrong idea. That he would never have taken it beyond just kissing. And he looked so genuine. So trustworthy. So sorry about what had happened. He almost convinced me that I’d misread his signals.” Hallelujah pauses. “The whole time, I kept my mouth shut. I wish I hadn’t. But I was still so humiliated. And I felt guilty. I made out with him. I liked it. And no one made me go to his room.” Her voice breaks. She has to swallow past a lump in her throat. “I know Luke’s not a good guy. I know what he did isn’t my fault. It’s his. But still, none of it would’ve happened if I hadn’t gone to his room.” She’s almost there. Almost done. Almost heard. Something deep inside her hurts like it hasn’t hurt in a long time. But she knows that this gash had to reopen in order to heal. That’s how wounds work. They need air. “I knew I’d get punished, and I did. My parents grounded me. I was put on youth group probation. But I honestly thought Luke’s lies would just fade away if I kept a low profile. There’s always gossip about someone. This time it was me.” ... “Luke is still telling people about what supposedly happened that night,” Hallelujah says. “And he makes fun of me. All the time. What I look like, what I say, my name. And he does this thing at church: whenever we sing a hymn with my name in it, he sings it like he’s hooking up with me. He sings the word ‘hallelujah’ at me. He moans it. And I hate it.” That’s one of the reasons she stopped singing: his voice, his fake grunts of satisfaction, ruining the music she loved so much. “You said,” she says to Jonah, “he wanted to keep me upset. To keep me from telling anyone what really happened. Well, it worked.” She pauses. “Until now.” “Until now,” Rachel repeats. Then she curses. “I can’t believe him. I can’t believe he got away with it.” “I let him get away with it,” Hallelujah says softly. “No. He’s the one who crossed the line. And okay, maybe you could’ve spoken up sooner. But if no one pushed you for your side of the story, that’s on them.” Rachel yawns and stretches. “And when we get home, we’re going to set the record straight.

My gift, if I would describe, is a double-edged sword. The good thing? I see through people and pierce their souls all the time. I can’t count how many times I listen to lies when I know the truth and intentions. I detect inauthenticity easy no matter how perfect a façade is. Genuine people love me because I protect them, fake people hate me because I crush them. The bad thing? Because it is my belief that everyone can grow into something beautiful, when I was young my sincerity and willingness to understand people who make excuses came at the price of people who are true to me. Now that I am older best I can do is to sometimes let go. Now it is my belief that everything and everyone has its place to be. At least I can tell myself that I tried.

If you insist on ‘exposing us’,” Donovan said, his voice hard as ice, using air quotes, “we’ll have to do some exposing of our own. Certain people, like network executives, probably aren’t too keen on their employees engaging in blackmail. Besides, Jada is beloved. You know it, and I know it. I’m sure her fans would love to fill your Twitter mentions with all kinds of creative replies if they knew what you were attempting to do.” “You have no proof of blackmail.” Lila’s eyes spat fire. Jada held up a manicured index finger. “Oh, but I do. You know how you kept calling and leaving messages? Silly me, I thought you were asking me to do interviews. Which you were, I guess, technically. I finally got around to listening to the voice mails.” She wrinkled her nose, “Wow. Really creative vocabulary you have there, Lila. That last voice mail was quite a doozy. I wasn’t expecting the threats about how you were going to destroy me, how you were going to leak damaging rumors about me, how you’d been behind a lot of the hate I received online with bot accounts.” Jada grimaced. “Ugly stuff. You sounded drunk or high when you admitted that, so you might not remember saying all that, but you did.” Jada kept her gaze trained squarely on Lila. She ignored John’s gasp. Lila’s already pale skin turned ghastly white. “I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jada sniffed. “Oh, I think you do. Really, I’d hate for those messages to fall into the wrong hands.” Lila sneered, her veneer finally cracking. “You wouldn’t dare. You’re a spoiled, rich girl. You don’t have the balls.” The courage of her convictions swept through Jada. “Keep telling yourself that.” Jada turned to the other member of the blackmailing crew. “As for you, John, I’m sure people would love to know their perfect Mr. America has slid into the DMs of no less than three contestants from My One and Only with a woe-is-me story, trying to get back together with them, all at the same time.” Jada snapped her fingers. “Did I forget to mention I ended my social media hiatus to check my DMs? I do so love it when women have each other’s backs.” Jada gave the cowards a moment to respond. When none came, she offered up the kill shot. “If none of that reasoning convinces you, and I can't imagine why it wouldn’t, please remember this spoiled, rich girl has a billionaire grandmother who loves her very, very much. If I tell her what you both attempted to do to me, she will ruin both your lives, barely lifting a finger. Contrary to what you believe, Lila, I don't make idle threats. I suggest you both slink away and forget you ever knew my name.

Most of us are suffering from fake selective outrage . We choose to be angry at the people and not being angry at the problem. We choose to be angry at a person, because we hate the person. We don’t care about the problem they caused or crime they committed. If we love the person, then we choose to ignore the problem or crime they committed. Well, all the bad things you choose to ignore don’t go away. They will come back to you.

People who hide under fake accounts and anonymous account. Have nothing good to say. They always talk trash about others. Influence hate , bullying and abuse. They are instigators. They use this accounts to say filthy things and to ruin people lives. What they don't know is that Karma knows their real identity.

They show you so much love when you’re in pain, but soon as you begin to show joy; everything changes. -MillYentei⋆

D’you think Scotland’s going to leave?” “Go for independence? Maybe,” said Strike. “The polls are close. Barclay thinks it could happen. He was telling me about some old mates of his at home. They sound just like Polworth. Same hate figures, same promises everything’ll be rainbows and unicorns if only they cut themselves free of London. Anyone pointing out pitfalls or difficulties is scaremongering. Experts don’t know anything. Facts lie. ‘Things can’t be any worse than they are.’” Strike put several chips in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then said, “But life’s taught me things can always get worse than they are. I thought I had it hard, then they wheeled a bloke onto the ward who’d had both his legs and his genitals blown off.” He’d never before talked to Robin about the aftermath of his life-changing injury. Indeed, he rarely mentioned his missing leg. A barrier had definitely fallen, Robin thought, since their whisky-fueled talk in the dark office. “Everyone wants a single, simple solution,” he said, now finishing his last few chips. “One weird trick to lose belly fat. I’ve never clicked on it, but I understand the appeal.” “Well, reinvention’s such an inviting idea, isn’t it?” said Robin, her eyes on the fake hot-air balloons, circling on their prescribed course. “Look at Douthwaite, changing his name and finding a new woman every few years. Reinventing a whole country would feel amazing. Being part of that.” “Yeah,” said Strike. “Of course, people think if they subsume themselves in something bigger, and that changes, they’ll change too.” “Well, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be better, or different, is there?” asked Robin. “Nothing wrong with wanting to improve things?” “Not at all,” said Strike. “But people who fundamentally change are rare, in my experience, because it’s bloody hard work compared to going on a march or waving a flag. Have we met a single person on this case who’s radically different to the person they were forty years ago?

People who hate the reality they live in, because it has more truth in it than they would like, tell lies to escape from it and often end up becoming as fake as they need to feel unsuccessful and sad.

I don’t get it, honestly. How will parading around with some young blonde make people root for me? Isn’t that the kind of thing everyone hates? Shouldn’t I be ‘dating’ someone my own age?” He made lazy finger quotation marks around the word “dating.

Be very careful on social media. There are some sick, twisted, miserable, evil, narcissistic, and psychopathic people out there who are liars and thrive on spreading lies and misinformation. Miserable people want to see others being miserable. They lie about everything including who they are and use many fake, catfish accounts to spread their lies, misinformation, and hate. Never allow someone to recruit, motivate, convince, or convert you into hating, insulting, belittling, or dehumanizing other people.

Most laughs -hell, most people-were fake. They woke up every morning and put on a mask according to what they wanted that day and who they wanted the world to see. They smiled at people they hated, laughed at jokes that weren't funny, and kissed the asses of those they secretly hoped to dethrone.

The US government sponsors a publication called Managing Diversity, which is supposed to help federal employees work better in an increasingly mixed-race workplace. One of its 1997 issues published a front-page story called “What are the Values of White People?” The author, Harris Sussman, explained that merely to speak of whites is “to invoke [a] history and experience of injustice and cruelty. When we say ‘white people,’ we mean the people of greed who value things over people, who value money over people.” Noel Ignatiev, formerly of Harvard, endorsed such sentiments in a publication called Race Traitor, which promoted the slogan, “Treason to whiteness is loyalty to humanity.” The lead article of the first issue of Race Traitor was called “Abolish the White Race—by any Means Necessary.” By this Prof. Ignatiev did not mean that whites should be physically eliminated, only that they should “dissolve the club” of white privilege whose alleged purpose is to exploit non-whites. Christine Sleeter, President of the National Association for Multicultural Education, explains what whiteness means: “ravenous materialism, competitive individualism, and a way of living characterized by putting acquisition of possessions above humanity.” In 2000, there were bomb threats and anti-black e-mail at the University of Iowa that turned out to be a fake hate crime staged by a black woman. Ann Rhodes, a white woman who was vice president for university relations was surprised: “I figured it was going to be a white guy between 25 and 55 because they’re the root of most evil.

It wasn’t like my fellow Bradys didn’t have their own issues. I’d later learn that Bob Reed hated the show and hid his homosexuality, Eve Plumb resented me for getting too much attention and Susie Olsen despised her pigtails and the fake lisp the producers had her employ to ratchet up her cuteness factor. But as a teenager, I had no idea that few people are everything they present to the outside world.

For the Resistance, the only organizing principle is: Which position will be worse for Trump? Is Russia a colorful country with a noble history of giving socialism a try—or the most evil regime since Nazi Germany? Do I enjoy coarseness in popular culture—or am I a hothouse flower offended by dirty language? Am I enraged by the idea of the government secretly spying on American citizens—or is that a vital part of national security? Is it outrageous that private communications of the Democratic National Committee were publicly revealed (on WikiLeaks) during a campaign, or is it totally fantastic that a secret recording of Trump (the Access Hollywood tape) was blasted all over the world a month before the election? Is transparency in government something that I support, or do I think Trump has got to get off Twitter—a novel and independent thought that has occurred only to me? In that environment, we may give Trump more than the usual latitude if he acts as if he’s under siege. He is under siege. Is he unhinged? No, he’s hinged, fighting back against the left’s infantile, knee-jerk reaction to everything he does. Instead of governing, Trump is spending his presidency refuting questions like “Did you boil and eat a small child today?” It’s one ginned-up, fake story after another. And the people doing this are the most corrupt and conflicted in the history of the world—James Comey, Robert Mueller, Brian Williams, George Stephanopoulos, Nancy Pelosi, Hillary Clinton, and on and on.

As is evident from the previous 216 pages, for any progress to be made in this country, the media has to be destroyed. A vital part of immigration reform, health care reform, federal court reform—even Trump reform—is cutting out the cancer of the mainstream media. Don’t feel sorry for them. They had plenty of opportunities to do the right thing. They chose not to. The press no longer provides news. The media have become something people go to for confirmation, not information. Once venerated outposts of journalism have imploded under Trump, reducing their value to zero. The New York Times treats the rules of journalism like a speed limit sign on a back road in New Hampshire: rules that exist only for our amusement. Reporters say, you’ll be sorry when you can’t get the truth! They seem not to realize that we don’t feel like we’re getting it now. Polls show that a majority of Americans of all political stripes think the media publishes fake news.1 Henceforth, when the MSM reports anything, it should be prefaced with, “Perhaps you should look into this. We know you don’t trust us.” We have to be ruthlessly unsentimental. There will be a rash of reporter suicides and vows to do better. We will accept no promises of future good behavior. There’s no fixing this problem. They all have to go. For many of us, this is old news. The press is like a mob hit man who has been hiding out in Indiana for thirty-two years, then suddenly decides, Oh, screw it. I’m going to run for Congress using my own name . . . BAM! Dead. That’s what’s happening with the press. They decided, Yes, we’ll look like scum, but it’s all hands on deck to stop Trump. Driven absolutely crazy by Trump’s election, journalists’ number-one job is destroying him. Now everyone knows what they are.

Advika was given a chance at coaching to speak on any topic she wishes, as it was their fun day. As she was a good speaker she drafted a poem for people like her who too were in the same level game of life, dealing with the same hell, just different devils - “If you like wearing short clothes, wear it, If you like makeup, do it, If you like going to pubs, go for it, If you love pretending fake, pretend it, If you like drinking, smoking, just do it, But If I like traditional clothes, let me wear it, If I don’t put makeup, let me be that way, If I don’t go to pubs, don’t force me to come along, If I stay real and hate pretending fake, deal with it, If I don’t want to drink, smoke, then don’t tag me as old-fashioned. If I do not go with the trend just let me breathe in my comfort zone do not try to steal oxygen to make me die someday just because I do not fit in your space. Great ones usually do not fit it, so it is okay! Everybody is unique so what if I am antique.

Advika was given a chance at coaching to speak on any topic she wishes, as it was their fun day. As she was a good speaker she drafted a poem for people like her who too were in the same level game of life, dealing with the same hell, just different devils - “If you like wearing short clothes, wear it, If you like makeup, do it, If you like going to pubs, go for it, If you love pretending fake, pretend it, If you like drinking, smoking, just do it, But If I like traditional clothes, let me wear it, If I don’t put makeup, let me be that way, If I don’t go to pubs, don’t force me to come along, If I stay real and hate pretending fake, deal with it, If I don’t want to drink, smoke, then don’t tag me as old-fashioned. If I do not go with the trend just let me breathe in my comfort zone do not try to steal oxygen to make me die someday just because I do not fit in your space. Great ones usually do not fit it, so it is okay! Everybody is unique so what if I am antique.

Yes, as distasteful as it is, it is beneficial to talk to people who disagree with us. So if you hate conspiracy theories and run into someone who believes that we faked the moonlanding and Einstein plagiarized relativity from his mailman, don't tell him, 'You life is a cruel joke' and walk away. Have tea with him. It can broaden your style of thinking, and it's cheaper than seeing a therapist.

He gazed at her with open worry. "Are you okay?" "Just – just…" Needed to remember that she was extremely pissed at him for invading her life. "I had a nightmare." He quirked an eyebrow. "Lawn gnomes had taken Hal. I couldn't find him." "Ah, so you don't really hate him?" She was caught off guard by the question. "No! Why would you say that?" "Friendship is a rare beast in our line. Most people only fake it." "I don't fake anything.

A lot of broken people are trying to fix others or the world. However, because of the damage inside them, they are not fixing but poisoning others to be broken like them. They are psychopaths pretending to be good saints.

Please be cautious when you are on social media. Many things are not what they seem to be. Someone might pretend to be a black person but is actually a white person attacking white people, or vice versa. Some people create fake accounts and reply to themselves in the comments to fuel tension and hate, making it seem like they are being attacked. Some stage events or fabricate stories. There is a desperate group of people at the forefront of distortion spreading misinformation and propaganda, trying everything to start a race war and cause instability.

Some people don't really love you. They just know you're a good person and would hate to see you loving someone else the way you loved them.

But the reason it had to be us is that the three of us understand something that most people don't. The devil is real, but he doesn't turn up in a red suit with hooves. You have to imagine him as like a disease that you get-you pass it on and you don't even know it. Educated people don't call it the devil; they call it trauma. It rewires your brain and tries to spread itself down to the next generation and the one after that, the pain rolling down through time. The old man talking to you in your dreams, I think you know that he's just you, the man you can wind up being if you go down this path. All that about the end of the world? The best and worst news you're gonna hear all day is this: There's no such thing. It's another one of Dave's fake painted-on exits. You try to end it, and instead of release, it's just waves of trauma. The devil wins. You hate your dad and you should; he poured all his sickness into you. But if you want to fight him, the way you do it is by making sure you don't pass on the trauma. That's how you kill the devil. The only way.

Because I don’t like it when people try to crush something good in the world. There’s too little of it as it is. Too much horrible stuff that people could hate instead. Why don’t they just hate that instead?

The Truth About Mr. Harrison Mr. Harrison’s first name is George. “I know Mr. Harrison’s real name,” I told everybody after I handed back the wallet and he left. “What is it?” Ryan asked. “His name is . . . ,” I said. “I’m not telling.” “Come on, A.J.!” said Michael. “Spill the beans.”4 “I’ll be your best friend,” said Neil the nude kid. “Arlo, what’s Mr. Harrison’s first name?” said Andrea. “It’s George,” I said. “George?” said Alexia. “That’s not a weird name.” “I wonder why he wouldn’t tell us his name was George,” said Michael. “George Harrison,” said Andrea. “Wait a minute! George Harrison was somebody famous! He was one of the Beatles!” “One of the what?” asked Neil the nude kid. “That old rock group, dumbhead,” said Michael. Oh, yeah! My parents told me about the Beatles, and I played this video game called Rock Band, where you play Beatle songs. It’s cool. Everybody knows who the Beatles were. “Mr. Harrison was one of the Beatles?” asked Ryan. “Wait a minute,” Andrea said. “George Harrison of the Beatles died a long time ago.” “He must have faked his death,” I told her. “Famous people do that all the time, you know.” “That doesn’t make any sense, A.J.,” said Michael. “Why would a big rock star fake his death and get a job as a tech guy in a school?” “He probably hated being famous,” I told them. “Celebrities get sick of signing autographs and having people take pictures of them all the time. He must be hiding out in our school so his fans won’t bother him.” “Being a nerdy tech guy would be the perfect disguise,” Alexia admitted. “But Mr. Harrison doesn’t look anything like the other George Harrison,” Andrea said. “I’ve seen pictures of him.” “Haven’t you ever heard of plastic surgery?

We live in a sick and frightening world, filled with twisted and evil individuals. People who would kill their own to send a message, prove a point, gain sympathy, control the narrative, change the status quo, or even fake being hated or targeted just to portray themselves as victims.

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People often create fake, catfish, or anonymous accounts to go online and say harmful things. Sometimes they do this to express their true feelings, but often it's just clickbait to provoke others, gain attention, or chase clout. They become comfortable behind the screen until they eventually cross legal boundaries. When they're caught by authorities, they start shouting that the government or president is a dictator, claiming their freedom of speech is being violated. They argue that they're being arrested for social media activity while serious crimes go unpunished. But when you look at their posts, they contain racism, hate speech, incitement to violence, defamation, treasonous remarks, incriminating content, misinformation, cyberbullying, and unethical behavior. Anonymity does not give you the right to break the law. You're not as hidden as you think. One day, your actions will catch up with you

MAGA Evangelicals are pro-slavery. That's why they hate it when "woke" people talk bad about slavery.