Depression can look like:
Counting down the hours until you can go back to bed.
Cancelling appointments because you can’t face outside.
Eating too much or not at all.
Staring at the wall longer than you’d admit.
Wanting help but not knowing how to ask.
Repost if you understand to show others (ME) we aren’t alone.
The U.S. is now a net oil exporter and produces the vast majority of its own crude.
We import very little from the entire Middle East.
It has nothing to do with Iran and the Strait of Hormuz.
So why the fuck are oil companies price gouging Americans right now?
I’ll tell you why:
It’s to hurt President Trump’s approval ratings. It’s technically election interference to put the blame on him before the midterms.
Even a fucking child could understand this.
The Fear Merchants Are Out & About
Food shortages?
In America?
Didn't we do this with Ukraine?
That was in 2022 remember?
Food prices were rising at historic rates, while prices for commodities like wheat and corn were at their highest levels in a decade in 2022.
Ukrainian grain exports in March of 2022 were a quarter what they were in February of that year. Also as a direct result of the Russian invasion, the cost of fertilizers, with prices soaring for raw materials like ammonia, nitrogen, and nitrates, were up 30% since the start of 2022.
food-at-home prices seen an increase of up to 4% at the end of 2022.
Why didn't America experience any food shortages then?
The U.S. doesn't import very much from Ukraine," explained Joseph Glauber, a senior research fellow at the International Food Policy Research Institute.
I am writing this because every time there is conflict people who are not from America are always predicting that we are about to go through a Mad Max movie with factions fighting over food, water, resources, and territory.
Did you know the U.S. produces far more food than its population consumes and maintains significant, secure reserves?
• People said due to the immigration laws we would experience food shortages.
• People said due to.the California wildfires we would experience food shortages.
• People said due to the war in Ukraine we would experience food shortages.
• People are saying due to the Strait of Hormuz we would experience food shortages.
When are people going to realize that America does not rely on the rest of the world for our survival?
We do not have to pray it will not happen.
We do not have to wish it does not happen.
We don't have to hope is does not happen.
I worked in 3 restaurants since my last job 13 years ago. The food that we throw away surpasses the food that other countries consume by miles. Americans do not flinch at oil, energy, or food crisis for a reason.
@zeeemedia
The neighbors call the cops on my dad every six months. They think he’s running a fighting ring or flipping pets for profit. For years, I wasn't sure they were wrong.
My father, Frank, is a man of few words and even fewer friends. He lives on a fixed income in a small, weathered house just outside of town. He’s 68, walks with a limp he got in ’71, and spends most of his day in his garage.
But his most controversial habit involves the local animal shelter.
Like clockwork, Dad brings home a dog. Not the cute puppies everyone wants. He picks the "unadoptables." The three-legged pit bulls, the senior labs with gray muzzles, the curs that cower in the corner. For six months, that dog lives like royalty. I’d visit and see Dad hand-feeding them steak scraps, walking them for hours, talking to them in a soft voice he never used with me.
Then, six months later? Gone.
The dog vanishes. No photos, no collar left behind. Just an empty bowl and Dad driving his rusted pickup truck to the shelter to get another one.
"Where’s Barnaby?" I asked last Sunday. Barnaby was a one-eyed Golden Retriever mix he’d had since spring. That dog worshipped the ground Dad walked on.
"Moved on," Dad grunted, staring at his coffee.
"Moved on? Did you sell him, Dad? The neighbors are talking. They say you’re sick."
"Let them talk."
I couldn't take it anymore. I loved Barnaby. The thought of my father selling that sweet soul to some stranger for a few hundred bucks made my stomach turn. So, when I saw him load a bag of high-grade kibble and a new leash into his truck the next morning, I followed him.
I expected him to drive to a breeder or a shady parking lot exchange. Instead, he drove two towns over to a drab apartment complex near the VA hospital.
He pulled up to a ground-floor unit. I watched from my car, phone ready to record evidence, as he knocked on the door.
A young man answered. He couldn't have been older than 25, but he looked 50. He was missing his right arm, and the way he stood—tense, scanning the perimeter—screamed PTSD. I recognized that look. I’d seen it in Dad’s old photos.
Dad didn't say a word. He just whistled.
From the passenger seat of Dad’s truck, a dog jumped out. It wasn't Barnaby. It was "Duke," a German Shepherd he’d had last year. Duke looked incredible. Focused. Calm. He trotted right up to the young man and sat by his left leg, leaning his weight against the boy’s thigh.
The young man crumpled. He fell to his knees, burying his face in Duke’s fur, sobbing. Duke didn't flinch. He just held his ground, anchoring the boy to reality.
Dad handed the young man a thick envelope. Not money—paperwork. Vaccination records. Training logs.
I got out of my car. "Dad?"
He jumped, looking more terrified than I’d ever seen him. He walked me away from the boy, lowering his voice.
"You weren't supposed to see this."
"You trained him," I realized. "You didn't get rid of them. You trained them."
Dad sighed, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "A fully trained PTSD service dog costs anywhere from fifteen to thirty thousand dollars. The insurance doesn't cover it. The VA has a waiting list a mile long. These boys... they come home, and they can't sleep, they can't go to the grocery store, they can't breathe."
He looked back at the young man, who was now smiling through tears, throwing a ball for Duke with his left hand.
"I can't give them money," Dad said, his voice cracking. "I don't have any. But I know dogs. And I have time."
"But why the secrecy? Why every six months?"
"Because that’s how long it takes to turn a scared shelter dog into a soldier’s lifeline," he said. "Basic obedience, task training, desensitization. I take the broken dogs nobody wants, and I turn them into the partners these kids need."
"And Barnaby?" I asked, my throat tight.
"Delivered him yesterday to a female marine in Ohio. She hadn't left her house in two years. She went to the park this morning."
🐾 on my ❤️ Please share if this moved you.
"My name's Raymond. I'm 73. I work the parking lot at St. Joseph's Hospital. Minimum wage, orange vest, a whistle I barely use. Most people don't even look at me. I'm just the old man waving cars into spaces.
But I see everything.
Like the black sedan that circled the lot every morning at 6 a.m. for three weeks. Young man driving, grandmother in the passenger seat. Chemotherapy, I figured. He'd drop her at the entrance, then spend 20 minutes hunting for parking, missing her appointments.
One morning, I stopped him. "What time tomorrow?"
"6:15," he said, confused.
"Space A-7 will be empty. I'll save it."
He blinked. "You... you can do that?"
"I can now," I said.
Next morning, I stood in A-7, holding my ground as cars circled angrily. When his sedan pulled up, I moved. He rolled down his window, speechless. "Why?"
"Because she needs you in there with her," I said. "Not out here stressing."
He cried. Right there in the parking lot.
Word spread quietly. A father with a sick baby asked if I could help. A woman visiting her dying husband. I started arriving at 5 a.m., notebook in hand, tracking who needed what. Saved spots became sacred. People stopped honking. They waited. Because they knew someone else was fighting something bigger than traffic.
But here's what changed everything, A businessman in a Mercedes screamed at me one morning. "I'm not sick! I need that spot for a meeting!"
"Then walk," I said calmly. "That space is for someone whose hands are shaking too hard to grip a steering wheel."
He sped off, furious. But a woman behind him got out of her car and hugged me. "My son has leukemia," she sobbed. "Thank you for seeing us."
The hospital tried to stop me. "Liability issues," they said. But then families started writing letters. Dozens. "Raymond made the worst days bearable." "He gave us one less thing to break over."
Last month, they made it official. "Reserved Parking for Families in Crisis." Ten spots, marked with blue signs. And they asked me to manage it.
But the best part? A man I'd helped two years ago, his mother survived, came back. He's a carpenter. Built a small wooden box, mounted it by the reserved spaces. Inside? Prayer cards, tissues, breath mints, and a note,
"Take what you need. You're not alone. -Raymond & Friends"
People leave things now. Granola bars. Phone chargers. Yesterday, someone left a hand-knitted blanket.
I'm 73. I direct traffic in a hospital parking lot. But I've learned this: Healing doesn't just happen in operating rooms. Sometimes it starts in a parking space. When someone says, "I see your crisis. Let me carry this one small piece."
So pay attention. At the grocery checkout, the coffee line, wherever you are. Someone's drowning in the little things while fighting the big ones.
Hold a door. Save a spot. Carry the weight no one else sees.
It's not glamorous. But it's everything."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Credit: Mary Nelson
President Trump is the President of the United States.
My Democratic colleagues need to drink a cold, tall glass of ‘get over it’—not shut the government down because of that fact.
I’m sick of seeing the “People against EBT all have Christian in their bios” posts.
Sigh. We are NOT against EBT. We are against EBT fraud. Big difference.
We want to help those who need help like the elderly, disabled, etc but we are beyond tired of seeing able-bodied people who don’t work buying things with our tax $$ that we aren’t even buying. We are tired of the entitlement, of those people repeatedly making poor life decisions and expecting tax payers to bail them out. Do like the rest of us, especially my parents, and figure it out.
And we are BEYOND tired of 🇺🇸 tax $$ going non-🇺🇸 households, especially those who broke our law to be here…& especially when we have Veterans living on the streets.
Being a Christian doesn’t mean to roll over and continuously be taken advantage of. Even Jesus flipped tables.✝️
Gold hits all time high
Silver hits all time high
Gas will drop below $2
Cuts to Dems programs will permanent per Trump
DC safe again
Chicago in the works
Portland in the works
NY and MN next
Peace in the Middle East
BUT NOTHING IS
HAPPENING……….
@TRHLofficial I had Cvid in March of 2021. Had a fever for 36 hours but it took 2 weeks to regain strength and 5 months to get my taste/smell back. By all of the warnings I should have died. I haven't even had a cold since then. Oh, and no shots for me after I saw the politicization of them.
The US Treasury can't track $4.7 trillion in payments.
Medicare sent $2.7 trillion overseas to people that weren't eligible.
Pentagon lost track $2.5 trillion.
Social Security sends $100 billion a year to people with no identity.
Department of Education spends $50 billion a year to make your kids gay.
USAID spends $50 billion a year to make everybody else gay.
That's over a third of the National Debt right there, and it's only been 3 weeks.
This is all blatant fraud.
And liberals are defending this.
"Nobody voted for Elon and DOGE"
The fuck I didn't...
This is exactly what I voted for.
I want my fucking money back.
I want to see some fucking perp walks.
I want to make sure this never happens again.