@theointhewest@BrandiKruse@ADFLegal@AAGDhillon Thank you. My brain saw digital and didn't automatically think fingers (digits). So I was just confused as to the meaning as ive never heard the term. SA is SA in my mind.
HEY COUNTY ASSESSOR — THIS ONE’S FOR YOU.
Let’s call this what it is.
I’m being taxed on money I never made.
Think about that.
I bought my property in 2012 for $60,000.
Now the county claims it’s worth $306,000.
Did I sell it? No.
Did I realize a profit? No.
Did I receive a $306,000 check? Not even close.
But my tax bill? That went up like I did.
That’s the problem.
This isn’t income.
This isn’t cash.
This is a number someone wrote down on paper — and now I’m expected to pay real money because of it.
If my stock portfolio doubles, I don’t owe taxes until I sell.
If my paycheck doesn’t increase, I don’t suddenly owe more income tax.
So why is housing treated differently?
Why am I being taxed on unrealized gains?
A home isn’t just an asset on a spreadsheet — it’s where people live. And under this system, you can do everything “right,” pay off your house, and still get squeezed harder every year based on a theoretical value you never turned into cash.
That’s not ownership. That’s renting from the government with extra steps.
And spare me the talking points about “services” and “inflation.”
This is about being billed for value you never received.
People are waking up to it.
@CrazyVibes_1 Congratulations! You're in for an adventure. I got the best 11 years of my life from my pittie baby Xena. They're so smart and lovable and goofy and funny and so trainable with the right treats, Xena loved cheese and could say "mama", you got chosen.
Nunca voy a olvidar cuando le dije a mi novio que había tenido un día difícil y que no tenía ganas de hablar. Solo quería que me dejaran sola para desconectarme. Él no discutió, solo me dijo: “está bien”
Como una hora después, tocaron a mi puerta.
Él manejó 40 minutos solo para dejarme comida, mi bebida favorita y un suéter suyo. Me dijo: “Sé que no querías compañía, solo quería que te sintieras cuida”, y se fue. Hasta el día de hoy, sigue haciendo hasta lo imposible para hacerme sentir amada ❤️🩹
“I came for the spotted one." That’s what I told the volunteer at the front desk.
I had seen Luna on the website—a gorgeous Merle Pittie puppy with one blue eye. She had 15 applications. Everyone wanted her. She was 'Instagrammable.'
But when I got to Kennel 42, Luna wasn’t at the front of the cage wagging her tail. She was in the back corner, cowering behind a wall of black fur.
That wall was Eclipse, her brother.
The volunteer sighed. "Nobody looks at him," she said. "Black Dog Syndrome is real. People scroll right past him to get to her. We’re going to have to separate them tomorrow because Luna has a home lined up, and Eclipse... well, he doesn't."
I watched Eclipse lick the tears off Luna’s face. He was literally shielding her from the world, taking the brave stance so she didn't have to. He was her protector, and we were about to rip her away from the only safety she’d ever known.
I looked at the volunteer. "Tear up the other applications."
"Excuse me?"
"I’m not taking Luna," I said, grabbing the double leash. "I’m taking the team."
They celebrated their 1st birthday on my couch yesterday. Eclipse is still the big spoon.”
Credit:Animals Rescue
A boy and a girl were best friends in school. Every day at lunch, they’d sit together—and every day, both of them had chicken sandwiches. Fourth grade, fifth grade… it never stopped.
One day, the boy noticed the girl wasn’t eating her usual chicken.
“Hey, why no chicken today? Don’t like it anymore?” he asked.
She leaned in and whispered, “I love it… but I have to stop eating it.”
“Why?” he asked, puzzled.
She pointed to her lap and said, “Because… I’m starting to grow little feathers down there!”
The boy’s jaw dropped. “Wait… let me see!”
She showed him, and sure enough… tiny feathers were sprouting.
“You better quit chicken immediately,” he warned.
Time went on. The boy kept eating chicken… until one day, he brought a peanut butter sandwich instead.
“Why the change?” she asked.
He leaned in, whispering, “I… I have to stop eating chicken sandwiches. I’m… growing feathers too!”
Curious, she asked to see. When he showed her… she gasped:
“Oh my God! It’s too late for you! You’ve already got the neck and gizzards!”
About spit my coffee out on this one! 😂
i want to be married to a man that doesn't need to be told how to take care of himself or the house or the kids. i want to be married to a man who looks around and wants to take care of things, for the sake of himself and me. wash the dishes because it's what you're supposed to do. clean the house because it's what you are supposed to do. cook because it's what you're supposed to do. i would only consider marrying a partner who understands that my job as a wife is not to be the person that nags them to do things. my role as wife would be do be a partner, and a helper. and that means that there's a split of responsibilities as a sign of love and respect
@Romy_Holland My daughter does contact naps with my grandson, and even though I kind of disagreed with it I understood that that's HER child so when I got to babysit guess what I did... contact naps. Respecting boundaries isn't hard when you put yourself aside.
I live in a thin-walled apartment complex. My neighbor upstairs is an elderly woman. For months, every night at 6 PM, she would blast opera music. Loud. It drove me crazy. I work from home. I was stressed. One evening, I finally snapped. I marched upstairs, ready to bang on her door and yell. I raised my fist to knock, but the door was slightly ajar. I peered inside. The apartment was almost empty. No furniture, just boxes. The old woman was sitting on a folding chair in the middle of the room, facing an old record player. She was wearing a beautiful black dress, pearls, and heels. She was holding a framed photo of a man and weeping silently while the music played. My anger evaporated. I knocked gently. She jumped, wiping her eyes. 'Oh! Is the music too loud? I’m so sorry. I’m moving to a facility tomorrow. I can’t take the record player with me.' She looked at the photo. 'It was my husband’s favorite record. We used to dance to it every anniversary. Today is our 50th.' I looked at her. Alone. Dancing with a memory. 'Don't turn it down,' I said. I extended my hand. 'May I have this dance?' She looked shocked. Then, a teary smile broke through. She stood up. We waltzed in that empty living room for three songs. She rested her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes. When the music stopped, she squeezed my hand. 'Thank you. I didn’t want to dance alone one last time.' I went back downstairs and cried. Be kind to your neighbors. You never know what ghosts they’re living with.
@Moonlight_myths I've been dealing with my partners grief and depression for over a year and a half. It's one of the hardest things I've done, but I love him in spite of everyone telling me to leave him.
A friend told me recently that his wife whose an MD at a major local hospital is seriously considering leaving medicine.
Not because she stopped caring about patients or long hours but because of the pressure from above.
In her system, every diagnosis comes with the expectation of prescribing the drug that matches the code.
If she doesn’t? She gets questioned. Evaluated. Sometimes even financially penalized through performance metrics tied to “quality measures." This sounds noble but really just means “Did you give the patient the medication the system expects?”
He said she's been dealing with it for a while and it seems to get worse every year.
She didn’t go into medicine to be a cog in a pharmaceutical machine. She went in to actually help people.
But the hospital’s incentives don’t reward lifestyle coaching, nutrition conversations, movement prescriptions, or digging into root causes.
There’s no bonus for helping a patient reverse insulin resistance.
But there's plenty tied to metrics on prescribing statins, GLP-1s, antihypertensives, SSRIs, and anything else that fits neatly into a billing code.
And the saddest part? This isn’t rare.
Between pay-for-performance systems, pharma influence, and hospital revenue structures tied to drug utilization, the entire system nudges doctors away from thinking and toward prescribing.
Many MDs feel trapped: If they want to practice slow, thoughtful medicine there’s no time. Or if they want to focus on root causes there’s no billing code.
If they want to avoid unnecessary meds they risk being flagged for “not meeting standards.” So many of the good doctors are quietly slipping away.
And we wonder why chronic disease keeps rising.
A system that incentivizes prescriptions will always produce more prescriptions.
A system that rewards dependency will always create more dependent patients.
And a system that punishes critical thinkers will eventually lose all of them.
My friend’s wife isn’t leaving medicine. She’s being pushed out of it.
And until we fix the incentives, she won’t be the last.
“I once sat in on a divorce hearing in Texas. The husband, a quiet accountant, presented spreadsheets, bank records, and a timeline of his wife’s spending sprees and infidelities. He spoke calmly, factually, without emotion. The wife screamed, sobbed, slammed her fist on the table, and claimed he “never loved her.”
The judge awarded her primary custody, alimony, and the house. His “lack of emotional expression,” the ruling stated, proved detachment. Her hysteria? “Passionate concern for the children.” Let me be clear: in the modern legal system,
men are punished for self-control, and women are rewarded for losing it. This isn’t justice. It’s emotional tyranny. And it’s baked into every institution—from courts to classrooms to boardrooms. The calm man is seen as cold. The hysterical woman is seen as passionate. The data doesn’t matter. The facts don’t matter. Only the performance of pain.””