Social anxiety is an adaptation from our days as hunter gatherers, its design is make us fear of exile from the tribe. Those who were exiled from the tribe for being different did not live to reproduce. Those who learned to repress lived. This fear is almost entirely useless now
Even if our past seems burdensome, complicated, and perhaps even ruined, we can always give it to God and set out anew on our journey. God is merciful, and He always waits for us!
https://t.co/NxdJTNgwyz
i agree. i still don't think wearing a suit (or not) has any bearing on your character. but as a matter of aesthetics, i think a good sweatshirt with a good pair of jeans looks better than a bad suit.
It's pretty funny that the reason that almost all socks have plastic in them is to make the sock compress your feet which is another thing you absolutely do not want
Ronnie was a good kid from Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. He made good grades and after a school visit to Taliesen he had set his heart on following in the footsteps of his hero, Frank Lloyd Wright. One semester into his studies, called by an unforeseen jolt of duty, he decided to follow the family tradition instead. He enlisted in the Marines and fought door-to-door at Huế. He walked with a limp the rest of his life.
When he got back Mom was dead and Dad was sick. He lived at home and ran the family business. He was good with his hands and good with numbers and when Dad died he grew the little auto shop into a regional chain. Got married and raised four kids in the house he grew up in. They’re all doing well. They moved to the coasts and he doesn’t see them much. Cheryl had always wanted a real vacation and he promised he’d take her to see the Đại Nội Citadel and the beaches nearby but at the last minute he got cold feet. He always regretted that. On the dock at the lakehouse where they spent their summer weekends she kissed his cheek and topped up his Jim & Diet Coke and told him there’s nowhere else she’d rather be. He did his best to believe her.
For a while he was a bad widower. Drank too much. Stared vaguely at reruns into the small hours. He’d had some tough times before but he had never been alone. The business he’d been too proud to sell finally died, squeezed out by a national retailer. That woke him up. He pulled himself together.
The part-time job at the burger joint was just to get out of the house. An excuse to put on a collar and tie. He doesn’t really need the money. His buddies rag on him, but still come in for their free coffees. He likes being on his feet. He knows everybody, they know him. It’s how his parents raised him. To believe that nothing is beneath him. To be of service. He spends his lunch break snacking on fries, pristine, untouched by human hands.
Life is good now. He has a rhythm. Fry cooker Tues-Thurs, weekends as secretary at the Baptist church. He runs the men’s group. Suddenly he’s an old man. Kids these days, who can understand them.
Life is good but sometimes he sees visions. Not quite dreams. He doesn’t tell anyone. He saw a shrink once after the war and he flushed the pills down the toilet. But these aren’t flashbacks. More like fleeting, intrusive shadows of a parallel universe. Butting heads with dictators, striding halls of power lined with marble columns, towers disappearing into the sky, millions of eyes turned upon him in rapt attention and fear. Like nothing he’s ever known. But he can feel it, smell it. He doesn’t wake up because he was never asleep. The images don’t fade like dreams but simply hum along in the background. In the quiet of the afternoon lull he looks out the drive-through window and sees them shimmering like rising heat off the asphalt.
They disturb him. Worse, they unsettle him. Should he have been elsewhere all this time? Was there another life for him?
But the turmoil doesn’t last. He knows it isn’t so. Cheryl is waiting for him in that city paved with gold, and he’ll be on his way soon. He got his American dream. Who could ask for anything else? He thinks he hears the faint sound of trumpets but it's only the chime of the entryway bell. He turns from the window. Time to get back to work.
Between 2008-2012, NC nominee for governor Mark Robinson left dozens of strange comments on a porn site called ‘Nude Africa’. How’d CNN even find that shit? I’m picturing a bunch of journalists huddled around a desktop happily scrolling through videos, trying not get bricked up