@heavypulp@elonmusk Elon already inspired you to do it. What are you waiting for? The whole point is you can do it from your home computer. He’s not gonna bring you to some secret lair deep under space X with a bunch of high tech gear. That would defeat the whole purpose.
Can someone explain this to me like I’m 5? Make it make sense
Creator revenue share is only paid when the impressions come from premium users. The money comes from ad revenue generated from posts. But premium users don’t see ads. How does it make sense?
The year was 1991 and I was 15, convinced I was the slickest kid in the neighborhood.
It was a Friday night, the kind where the summer air felt electric with possibility. My buddies and I had been planning this for weeks, the ultimate teenage rebellion.
We told our parents we were crashing at Corey’s house for a “sleepover” with pizza and Nintendo. In reality? We were sneaking over to that creepy abandoned house on Wilson Street, the one with the boarded-up windows and overgrown yard that everyone said was haunted.
We’d scored a case of stolen beer from my older cousin’s stash, and the plan was foolproof. Or so we thought.
We biked over after dark, hearts pounding, whispering like spies. The house was pitch black inside except for our flashlights. We cracked open the first beers, clinking cans in victory, laughing about how our parents had no clue. “This is gonna be legendary,” I bragged.
Not even five minutes later BAM! The front door slams open so hard it nearly flies off the hinges. There’s my mom, standing there like an avenging angel, flashlight in hand. “Get your asses outside RIGHT NOW!”
My stomach dropped to the floor. The beer can slipped from my hand. How the hell did she find us? Cell phones didn’t exist back then. No Find My Friends. No Life360. No tracking apps. We had zero digital footprint.
Were our parents psychic? Did she have spies? I spent years replaying that night, convinced she had some kind of mom superpowers.
Turns out the truth was way more low-tech… and hilarious.
Back in the ‘90s, every house had those cordless phones running on 900MHz or 2.4GHz, basically fancy baby monitors with insane range. And for just $99 at Walmart, you could grab a police scanner that picked up EVERY neighbor’s private calls.
Eavesdropping on each other was the neighborhood pastime. People would literally sit around listening to gossip like it was prime-time TV.
My mom wasn’t psychic. She was just in the kitchen, scanner tuned in, sipping coffee and catching up on the block’s business. She overheard me on the house phone earlier that evening, coordinating the whole dumb plan with my buddy while I was supposedly “taking out the trash.”
Every detail, the abandoned house on Wilson Street, the stolen beer, the exact time.
We thought we were criminal masterminds. Our parents had better surveillance than the FBI.