Posting Food On Social Media Quotes

In the competitive landscape of the digital age, the “food” of information is not getting more nutritious; it’s veering in the direction of junk food. Doritos and Skittles will always get more clicks than spinach. And so we walk down the buffet line of social media snacks and online junk food, daily gorging ourselves to the point of gluttony. Unsurprisingly, it is making us sick.

Self-Obsession & Self-Presentation on Social-Media" Some people always post their cars/bikes photos because they love their cars/bikes so much. Some people always post their dogs/cats/birds/fish/pets photos because they love their pets so much. Some people always post their children’s/families photos because they love their children/families so much. Some people always post their daily happy/sad moments because they love sharing their daily lives so much. Some people always post their poems/songs/novels/writings because they love being poets/lyricists/novelists/writers so much. Some people always copy paste other people’s writings/quotes without mentioning the actual writers name because they love seeking attention/fame so much. [Unacceptable & Illegal] Some people always post their plants/garden’s photos because they love planting/gardening so much. Some people always post their art/paintings because they love their creativity so much. Some people always post their home-made food because they love cooking/thoughtful-presentation so much. Some people always post their makeup/hairstyles selfies because they love wearing makeup/doing hair so much. Some people always post their party related photos because they love those parties so much. Some people always post their travel related photos because they love traveling so much. Some people always post their selfies because they love taking selfies so much. Some people always post restaurant/street-foods because they love eating in restaurants/streets so much. Some people always post their job-related photos because they love their jobs so much. Some people always post religious things because they love spreading their religion so much. Some people always post political things because they love politics/power so much. Some people always post inspirational messages because they love being spiritual. Some people always share others posts because they love sharing links so much. Some people always post their creative photographs because they love photography so much. Some people always post their business-related products because they love advertising so much. And some people always post complaints about other people’s post because they love complaining so much

Our neighborhood (made up of three hundred houses in the city of Durham, North Carolina) uses a social media app called Nextdoor. This is the only form of social media in which I participate. If I am going to post a picture of my lunch, I want to be able to share it with those with whom I might actually share this lunch—my neighbors. I read Nextdoor updates daily, and I receive messages as they are posted so that I can respond to and pray for the neighbors whom I do not yet know. I pray about lost dogs, and I donate school supplies. Every time someone posts a request for meals for a sick, grieving, or newly blessed-by-newborn neighbor, I’m on it. I look carefully at the food allergies and preferences. Over the years, I have developed go-to recipes for a variety of food needs. If the meal goes to a new mom, I include my favorite mom book, Gloria Furman’s Missional Motherhood.9 (And yes, I have read other books on motherhood—most of them, really, as I am somewhat obsessed with reading about motherhood, and this one is the very best.)

There are a breathtaking number of people whose profiles and posts are public and can be viewed by anyone. George Orwell was wrong, she thinks. In the future, it won’t be the state that keeps tabs on everyone by extensive use of surveillance; it will be the people. They’ll do the state’s work for it by constantly uploading their locations, interests, food preferences, restaurant choices, political ideas, and hobbies to Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and other social media sites. We are our own secret police.

How can I be ? Proud of my struggle, but having nothing to show. Guns , petrol, tires , gas, everything blows Now I am standing on top of Museum building burned into ashes. It Is smoke in the mirrors. Look at our Repercussions. Our legacy, our reputation. Canvas and portraits of arrogance Lies, deception, fractions results of politicians Insurrection results of a failed mission Blood used to paint our image Poor quality in this fotos, because nothing changed. You might think it is the 80’s, because you can see tribalism and racism. A perfect black and white picture. Sound of freedom turned into sound of violence, Ambulance, Police siren , people crying and dying Hunger and poverty used as tourists attraction They say look more poorer, so we can get more donation. I am getting global media coverage, Because I am queuing and walking long distance for food, Not because we are getting killed , abused and treated unfairly. They look at me and say Africa is starving Took my pics , post them on social media. Now they are laughing. Being born with a price tag, that says you not worth it, because your black. Government looted everything from the poor Now the poor are looting the government. It is like a stolen movie. Those who started it all and who are behind it, are not getting their credit and spotlight . If we change looting to colonization , then they would be heroes. Not sure whether to say goodbye or good night Because when you're in Phoenix , this might be your last night. 

Naskar is made by Naskar alone, not an industry or benefactor - or more importantly, by family wealth. I had a roof over my head, food on the table, and clothes on my back - that was more than enough. I started writing with literally zero dollar in my pocket. Let me tell you how it began, because for some reason, I completely forgot a crucial event of my life when I wrote my memoir Love, God & Neurons. I once met an American tourist at a local train in Calcutta. The first thing he asked me was, had I lived in the States? I said, no. Then how come you have an American accent - he asked. Watching movies - I said. We got chatting and he told me about a book he had recently published, a memoir. I believe, this was the cosmic event that planted the thought of writing my own books in my head - I had already started my self-education in Neurology and Psychology, and I was all determined to publish research papers on my ideas, but not books. Meeting the person somehow subconsciously shifted my focus from research papers to books. So the journey began. And for the first few years, I made no real money from my books. Occasionally some of my books would climb the bestsellers list on amazon, like my very first book did, and that would keep the bills paid for several months. Then the invitations for talks started coming, but they too were not paid in the beginning. The organizers made all the travel arrangements, and I gave the talks for free. It's ironic and super confusing really - I remember flying business class, but I didn't have enough money to even afford a one way flight ticket, because I had already used up my royalties on other expenses. Today I can pick and choose which speaking invitations to accept, but back then I didn't have that luxury - I was grateful for any speaking gig and interview request I received, paid or not. One time, I gave an interview to this moderately popular journalist for her personal youtube channel, only to find out, she never released the video publicly - she posted an interview with a dog owner instead - whose dog videos had gained quite a following on social media. You could say, this was the first time I realized first hand, what white privilege was. Anyway, the point is this. Did I doubt myself? Often. Did I consider quitting? Occasionally. But did I actually quit? Never. And because I didn't quit, the world received a vast never-before seen multicultural humanitarian legacy, that you know me for today. There is no such thing as overnight success. If you have a dream, you gotta work at it day in, day out - night after night - spoiling sleep, ruining rest, forgetting fun. Persist, persist, and persist, that's the only secret - there is no other. Remember this - the size of your pocket does not determine your destiny, the size of your dedication does.

Prosecutors can still pursue domestic violence cases without victim testimony or cooperation. I recently sat in on a conference where a prosecutor from San Diego, Marnie Layon, gave examples of viable post-Crawford evidence: a victim’s demeanor, a platter of food spilled across the floor, independent witness observation, frantic calls or text messages to family and friends for help, social media posts... Today, 'what I’ve seen in prosecutors’ units is domestic violence fatigue,' Ms. Gardner said. Crawford doesn’t make prosecution impossible, but it makes things 'complicated, too nuanced,' she added. 'We’re kind of going backward.' Perpetrators, she said, 'are not being prosecuted as often as they could and should be.' In other words, 'the barrier to evidence-based prosecution is not about evidence,' as Mr. Gwinn told me not long ago. It never really was. It’s about the kind of violence that is deemed worthy of state attention

On October 26, 2016—less than two weeks to election day—travel writer Zach Everson covered the ribbon cutting at the Trump International Hotel in the Old Post Office building in Washington, DC, just a few blocks from the White House. Everson frequently covered hotel openings, which often featured lavish food spreads and “the owners sipping champagne with a few travel writers.” But this one was different. A horde of political reporters trailed Donald and Ivanka Trump as they toured the hotel. “The political reporters were amazed they had complimentary pastries,” Everson said in an interview. 1 A couple months later, Everson got an assignment from Condé Nast Traveller to cover the growing political and social scene at the hotel. In the course of researching that story, Everson booked a night at the hotel. One of his fellow guests told Everson he was about to leave for a restaurant outside the hotel, when he noticed workers polishing the banisters and the manager nervously pacing. The guest concluded, correctly, that the president was on his way, cancelled his outside reservation, and ate at the hotel instead. To track presidential comings and goings for his story, Everson started monitoring social media feeds. And he noticed something: not even a year into Trump’s presidency, the hotel had become a unique locale in Washington. “It became like Melville’s white whale,” Everson said. “If you want it to be your opportunity and a place for you to go and rub elbows with the President, it’s that. If you’re a lobbyist or a businessman or a foreign leader and want to portray you are close to the president, it’s that too. It’s everything you hate or love about Donald Trump.” Everson quit travel writing to cover, full time, the Trump International Hotel. He began publishing a newsletter, 1100 Pennsylvania Avenue. He had plenty of material.

Twenty-three seconds. In this fleeting stretch of time, you can sprint down a New York City block, weave through the moving mass of people, and feel the concrete pulse beneath your feet. If you’re standing still, you can down a few shots of tequila with a coworker at a local bar and feel the world spin a little faster. Maybe, if you’re bored, you can scroll through the meaningless social media posts of people you never really liked, wondering if anyone else feels as alone as you do. You can text a meme to your friend and make him laugh about some stupid inside joke. You can read the first line of Dune. You can buy a bagel and a schmear from a food truck with no line. Or, you can call that shitty Chinese restaurant on West 17th Street to order an egg roll at midnight. In twenty-three seconds, you can also dodge an approaching subway car. But my dad didn’t.

Twenty-three seconds. In this fleeting stretch of time, you can sprint down a New York City block, weave through the moving mass of people, and feel the concrete pulse beneath your feet. If you’re standing still, you can down a few shots of tequila with a coworker at a local bar and feel the world spin a little faster. Maybe, if you’re bored, you can scroll through the meaningless social media posts of people you never really liked, wondering if anyone else feels as alone as you do. You can text a meme to your friend and make him laugh about some stupid inside joke. You can read the first line of Dune. You can buy a bagel and a schmear from a food truck with no line. Or, you can call that shitty Chinese restaurant on West 17th Street to order an egg roll at midnight.