@jesse_jaimz@jasonlewris But the sad thing about this is the builders are subcontracting to the lowest bidders and you end up with a house that has electrical wires next to your water pipes or tiles that crack or shower doors that shatter because they weren't installed properly, shoddy work.
🚨 BREAKING NEWS: New Cancer Protocol Using Ivermectin, Ketogenic Diet, Fasting & Fenbendazole Published – Sept 2024
The 7-Therapeutic Hybrid Model for Cancer Treatment
1. Vitamin C
2. Vitamin D
3. Zinc
4. Ivermectin
5. Fenbendazole, Mebendazole & DON (Glutamine Antagonist)
6. Fasting, Ketogenic Diet & Ketone Metabolic Therapy
7. Press-Pulse Therapy, Endurance Exercise, Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy, Methylene Blue, CoQ10, Niacin, Magnesium & Vitamin E
All dosages for these seven components are outlined in the protocol and are recommended to be followed for at least 12 weeks, regardless of cancer type.
Experimental at best, not standard care.
@NFAdotcrypto I see it everywhere. I work for a bank and my role is loan servicing. At LEAST once a day I see it, whether it's someone's rate or part of their loan balance or part of their account number. It appears all the time.
Harvard scientists ran a simple test. They put adults under blue light for 6 hours one night, then under green light at the same brightness the next. Blue light pushed their bedtimes back by 3 hours. Green pushed them back by 1.5. And in kids, the same lights hit about twice as hard.
The reason comes down to a tiny patch of cells at the back of every human eye. These cells have one job. They tell your brain whether it is day or night. They wake up most when light hits a very specific shade of blue, the same shade phone screens and modern bulbs are loaded with. When those cells fire after dark, the brain stops making melatonin, the chemical that pulls you toward sleep.
Red light barely sets off those cells at all. A 2025 study from the University of Zaragoza put people under red lamps and blue lamps for three hours at night. Under blue, their melatonin stayed scraped to the floor. Under red, it climbed back up to more than three times higher. Same brightness. The color did all the work.
Children get this worse than adults. Two reasons. Their pupils are bigger, so more light gets in. And the lens inside a kid's eye is still glass-clear, where adult lenses slowly yellow with age and filter blue out naturally. A 10-year-old's body clock is roughly twice as sensitive to evening light as a 45-year-old's. A bedside lamp that feels harmless to a parent can be wrecking a kid's sleep clock at the same time.
Then there is the lag. Once the brain catches a dose of blue light, the wake-up signal it sends out keeps echoing for 3 to 4 hours after the lights go off. So a kid on an iPad at 9pm can still be wired at midnight even if you took the iPad away at 9:01.
Modern LED bulbs and screens are tuned to roughly 6500 Kelvin. That is sunlight at noon. Old incandescent bulbs sit around 2700, mostly red and yellow with almost nothing in the blue range. To a human eye, a red-lit room is just about as close to no light at all as you can get. The brain reads it as nighttime.
The fix is boring. Use warm bulbs at 2700 Kelvin or lower in any room a kid spends evenings in, switch off phones and tablets two hours before bed, and if a night light is needed for bathroom trips, make it red or amber. The science was pinned down to the exact color of light back in 2001.
When an American soldier passes in service to our nation, Melania Trump sits down at her desk and handwrites a personal letter to that soldier’s MOTHER.
Not typed by White House staff. Not a printed template where she just adds her signature. Melania’s OWN HANDWRITING. Every. Single. Word. Personal messages about the soldier’s sacrifice, about eternal gratitude, about a mother’s unbearable loss, about America never forgetting. Each letter takes HOURS to write. Not minutes. HOURS. Because Melania writes slowly, carefully, choosing every word perfectly - because she KNOWS this grieving mother will read this letter over and over and over for the rest of her life.
Since 2017, Melania has written HUNDREDS of these letters. One for EVERY fallen soldier. Hundreds of hours of her personal time. And here’s what absolutely destroys me: Gold Star mothers across America have Melania’s handwritten letters FRAMED on their living room walls. Melania could SO EASILY have staff type beautiful letters and she could just sign them.
Would save HUNDREDS of hours. But she REFUSES. “These mothers lost their ENTIRE WORLD. The absolute LEAST I can do is give them HOURS of my time writing in my own hand to honor their loss personally.” While the world obsesses over Melania’s public silence, they completely MISS her loudest service: hundreds upon hundreds of hours spent alone at a desk, writing to grieving mothers in careful handwriting.
Here’s the truth: Melania’s pen honors fallen soldiers one mother, one letter, one HOUR at a time.
*Idk who these beautiful words came from, but I thought they should be shared so the world knows the heart of our beautiful First Lady @MELANIATRUMP.
A girl asked, “Be honest. What do you think when you see a girl whose face and body look better than your wife’s or girlfriend’s?”
And a man replied, “Why light a candle when the sun is shining?”
And honestly, that response stayed with me.
Because it was not about pretending other women do not exist. It was about perspective. There will always be someone prettier, someone different, someone new. But when a man truly values the woman he has chosen, he does not measure her against passing faces. He sees her as his sun. And when the sun is shining, you do not go searching for small lights to impress you.
Real loyalty is not blindness. It is intention. It is waking up every day and choosing the person you already have. It is understanding that attraction is common, but commitment is rare. that kind of mindset is what makes a relationship feel safe. Not because no one else is beautiful, but because to him, she is home.
Tenía 39 años y todavía tenía que revisar mi cuenta bancaria antes de invitar un café.
No era un “artista joven y bohemio”. Era un hombre de mediana edad, cansado, sirviendo mesas en Nueva York mientras veía cómo mis amigos triunfaban, se casaban y compraban casas.
Yo solo coleccionaba rechazos.
Diecisiete años audicionando. Diecisiete años escuchando “no eres lo suficientemente latino para este papel” o “eres demasiado latino para este otro”.
Hubo una noche en particular, después de que despidieran a mi agente, en la que me senté en el borde de mi cama y pensé: “Ya basta, Pedro. Esto no va a suceder”. Sentí que le había fallado a mi madre, que se había ido demasiado pronto y nunca me vio llegar a ninguna parte.
Hoy, mi cara está en una pantalla gigante en el medio del Super Bowl, anunciando el final de temporada de la serie más vista del mundo. La gente me llama “el novio de internet” y los directores que antes ni me recibían, ahora me mandan guiones sin que yo los pida.
No escribo esto para presumir mi éxito. Lo escribo para decirte que no existe tal cosa como “llegar tarde”.
Si hubiera triunfado a los 20, la fama me habría destruido. Llegué a la cima cuando por fin aprendí a escalar sin mirar hacia abajo.
Si sientes que se te está pasando el tren, recuerda mi cara de cansancio a los 39 años. Tu historia no ha terminado, apenas está en el segundo acto.
Pedro Pascal
Polish 26 year old guitar master Marcin Patrzałek respond to those who have made public comments claiming that his music is fake.
He made this video in a tutorial form showing how he manages to play so extraordinarily well in response. And yes, it's all played on one guitar.
My wife showed me her bookshelf last week.
Top shelf, her Bible. Study notes in the
margins. Pages warped from coffee and tears.
Bottom shelf, three romance novels her
friend gave her. She'd never opened them.
"I almost did," she said. "Then I read the
back cover and felt sick."
Christie threw them away. Then she sat down
and wrote a piece called "Pretty Covers,
Polluted Pages", about how romance novels
function as pornography for women. Words
that reach into the imagination and train
the heart to crave fantasy over covenant.
The same week, Hollywood released Wuthering
Heights. $80 million. Margot Robbie. Sex
montages. Adultery as the love story.
Emily Brontë wrote that book at 29. Dead
by 30. One shot. She used it to write the
most devastating warning about desire
without God in the English language.
Heathcliff isn't a romance hero. He's a
cautionary tale. Obsession without covenant.
He destroys Catherine. Destroys himself.
Destroys the next generation.
For 180 years every English teacher taught
it that way.
Then BookTok called him "morally gray",
which is how this generation baptizes sin
as aesthetic.
At least the serpent had the decency to use
fruit. These people skip the metaphor.
Robert Duvall died yesterday. The man who
spent $5 million of his own money to make
The Apostle, a movie about a preacher who
wrestled with God. No studio would touch it.
But Hollywood will spend $80 million turning
Brontë's warning into a date night.
Duvall showed you a man who wrestled with
God. Fennell showed you a woman who wrestled
with a married man's belt buckle.
"Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out
of it are the issues of life."
— Proverbs 4:23
My wife threw the books away. Hollywood
made them into a movie.
Choose wisely.
She gave him seventeen years. He gave her pearls from her swine.
Anjelica Huston was twenty-two when she walked into Jack Nicholson's birthday party in 1973. He was already Hollywood royalty. She was John Huston's daughter, legendary bloodline, uncertain future.
Their first date never happened. He cancelled to see his ex.
What followed was a masterclass in compromise. She found other women's belongings in his house. Her own jacket appeared on a stranger in the street. Trinkets left behind like breadcrumbs of betrayal.
When she confronted him, he smiled that smile that made America fall in love with him. She stayed because love is supposed to be transformative. Because leaving felt like admitting defeat. Because potential is intoxicating.
In 1985, she won an Oscar for Prizzi's Honor, directed by her father, starring opposite Jack. She became a star entirely on her own merit. And still, she returned to him.
They discussed children. It never materialised. She asked about marriage. He deflected with charm.
Seventeen years of this dance.
Then came 1990. Over dinner, he mentioned casually that "someone is gonna have a baby."
She thought he meant a friend. He meant Rebecca Broussard. The woman he'd been seeing in secret. The woman now carrying what Anjelica had wanted most.
Clarity arrived like lightning.
"There's only room for one of us women in this picture, and I am going to retire from it."
Days later, a Playboy article featured a young woman describing an encounter with Nicholson.
Something inside her shattered, then reformed stronger. She drove to the Paramount lot. Found him on set. And unleashed seventeen years of swallowed rage. "I beat him savagely about the head and shoulders," she later wrote. "I was going at him like a prizefighter."
Afterward, she felt "a strange underlying gratitude to him for allowing me to beat the living hell out of him."
On the phone days later: "Goddamn, Toots, you sure landed some blows on me. I'm bruised all over."
"You're welcome, Jack, you deserved it."
They laughed. "It was tragic, really."
At Christmas, a pearl-and-diamond bracelet arrived with a note: "These pearls from your swine, Yr Jack."
She felt "completely charmed and completely furious." But it was finished.
What followed wasn't bitterness. It was rebirth.
Freed from chaos, Anjelica created the roles that defined her legacy. Morticia Addams. The Grand High Witch. Women of power, authority, darkness made beautiful.
She met Robert Graham, a sculptor. They married in 1992. He designed their home with his hands. They built a life of quiet dignity.
Robert died in 2008. She held his hand as he left.
Years later, during the 2025 LA wildfires, her phone rang unexpectedly. Jack. Asking if she was safe, offering shelter. "It's always a comfort when he calls," she told People. "It was heartbreakingly sweet."
Tenderness remained. But she knew the difference now.
Between tenderness and love. Between charm and commitment. Between someone who makes you feel alive and someone who makes you feel whole.
Anjelica Huston's story isn't about the man who hurt her. It's about the woman who refused to remain small in someone else's story.
She didn't leave because the love died. She left because she finally understood that loving yourself isn't selfish, it's survival.
Strength isn't endurance. It's knowing when your soul requires you to walk away.
Anjelica walked away. And became exactly who she was meant to be all along.
My son's been living in my basement since his divorce. Thirty-two years old, sleeping on a pullout couch, avoiding eye contact at dinner. For six months I watched him shrink into himself, this man I raised to be confident becoming someone I barely recognized.
Then last month he asked if he could redo my office floor. Said he needed a project, needed his hands busy. I said yes even though the floor was fine, even though I knew this wasn't really about flooring.
We bought plywood sheets and he cut them into squares in the driveway, measured everything twice. Then he pulled out a propane torch and started burning patterns into the wood. Just stood there with fire in his hands creating these wild grain patterns, each piece different. I asked what he was doing and he said, “making something ugly beautiful.” We both knew he wasn't talking about the floor.
It took us two weeks, working every evening. He found a special sealant online from someone who does custom wood finishing and talked to them for an hour about techniques. He started buying other woodworking supplies online too, planning his next project before we even finished this one.
The floor's not perfect. Some squares are darker than others, the lines don't all match up. But when the light comes through that window it looks like water, like movement, like proof that burned things can still be beautiful.
He moved out last weekend. Got his own apartment—small, but his. Took some of the extra wood squares to practice making furniture. Called me yesterday to say he's starting his own refinishing business. My office floor is his first portfolio piece, the evidence that sometimes you have to burn everything down before you can build it back better.
Credit - Emilia Berry