Tuesday, June 7, 2016

the value of a woman

In our society, it seems like any time there is a high profile sexual assault case the same thing happens. Any time there is a high profile athlete or actor or singer accused of sexual assault, whether the case ever even makes it through the court system, the same thing happens. Any time there is a woman who comes forward with her story, the same thing happens.

It's happening right now, on television channels and social media feeds near you.

The questioning.
The doubting.
The blaming.
The shaming.
The well if she'd have respected herself-ing.
The what was she wearing.
The what was her prior dating history-ing.
The did she lead him on analyzing.
The she wasn't even conscious so how do we know she didn't consent-ing.
The not all men-ing.
The defending.
The justifying.
The concern about whether this is fair to him-ing.
The but he has to live with this for the rest of his life-ing.

I've seen it.
You've seen it.

I'm not about to spend any time here rehashing any of that. If you've thought or typed or dared to utter any of those things out loud in this particular instance, I'm urging you to drop whatever else it is that you're doing immediately. Go. Read the actual details of this assault. Read what his father and his friends said. Read the questions she was asked. Read what the judge said. Read the headlines and appreciate that the pictures attached to them up until yesterday were of a happy smiling man, the ones that omit words like "rapist" and include things like "record setting swimmer".

I'm simply not engaging anyone who hasn't equipped themselves with the facts of this case. Not going to do it.

I'm also not going to write some long drawn out article here about how we need to hyperfocus on the specific details of this one case as if it exists in some kind of vacuum. I'm not lending any credibility to the idea that this one case is especially heinous, but other women out there are to be legitimately doubted.

I'm never using the word legitimate in the same sentence as rape again. 

Most sexual assaults and rapes are never reported.
Most reported sexual assaults and rapes are never prosecuted.

You aren't going to catch me worrying about the very occasional false report as some kind of justification for why every report should be doubted. No.

I'm not going to write some long drawn out post here about the connection between sports and violence against women. I'm not going to present you with the scholarly articles and statistics showing these correlations. I'm not going to discuss whether we elevate boys and men simply because they can do things with a ball or in a pool and are willing to look the other way at the harms they hand down to others, predominately women, simply because of their abilities with that ball or in a pool. Plenty of other people are writing those pieces today. Plenty of other people have written them in the past. Plenty of other people will still keep writing them in frustration as little to nothing about our sports obsessed culture changes.

I'm not going to write about his father's shameful statement, the one that refuses to hold his son personally accountable for anything. I'm not going to talk about how the view of women as objects to be used is one handed down from generation to generation. Plenty of people are writing those pieces too.

I'm not going to write about what people need to teach their sons and daughters about consent. I've written those pieces before, but more importantly I've sat my children down and made it abundantly clear to them that consent isn't a complicated issue. It isn't something up for discussion. It isn't something to be picked apart in the media. It isn't something that can be implied by clothing or behavior or someone's past. It's not complicated.

Instead, today, I'm writing about statements like this one:

"well, what if she was your mother/daughter/sister?"

Each time a case infiltrates our national psyche, statements like these are thrown around almost constantly in an attempt to get people who don't care about sexual assault to care about it adequately. 

Each time rape is a discussion topic on social media, this line pops up in comment sections in response to anyone who doubts the woman's story, who shames her, who claims she asked for it or deserved it or whatever.

Each time rape is talked about, this argument is brought up, usually by well meaning people who are just trying to get someone to understand the horrific nature of rape and sexual assault. 

Here's the problem with this argument:

It dehumanizes women.

Now, before you go grab your pitchforks and yell at me about this statement, hear me out. I know that if you've said these words or typed these words, you were trying. I've said them myself in the past, and I try really fucking hard not to say them anymore. I still find myself saying them sometimes to people determined not to understand the gravity of sexual assault. 

Ask yourself why we're trying to convince other people that sexual assault is awful?

Ask yourself why we need to convince them that rape is bad?

Ask yourself why the only way to try and get through to some people is by making it personal?

A woman's value isn't dictated by her proximity to you.

A woman's body isn't private just because you might know her personally.

A woman's word isn't to be honored just because you're related to her.

This aspect alone tells me that misogyny is real, that rape culture has permeated every aspect of our society. If the only way that we get people to understand the horror of rape is to couch it as a hypothetical attack on their daughter or sister or mother, we've completely failed as a society.


A woman's value is not dictated by her emotional proximity to you.

A woman's value is not dictated by her emotional proximity to you.

A woman's value is not dictated by her emotional proximity to you.

You should care about rape and sexual assault because victims are people.
You should understand that consent can never be implied.
You should believe people when they say they've been hurt.
You shouldn't look past sexual assault because of other abilities.
You shouldn't need a hypothetical personal threat to make it real.

Most assaults are never reported.
Most cases are never prosecuted.

1 in 4 women will be assaulted, and yeah...some of those women are going to be women you know. Care about the rest of them too.

Care about them because they're human and you're human.

Stop needing emotional proximity.

Monday, May 30, 2016

6th Annual 30 Day Photography Challenge - June 1-30, 2016

It's the 6th year of this challenge???

It's the 6th year of this challenge!!!

Let's do this, people.

Here are the prompts for this year, in the image below. Each day of the challenge corresponds with the date in June. For example, Day 1 is for June 1st, and pictures should be posted on the 1st. Ideally, you will add the picture directly into the album designated for each day in the challenge. Please try to get them into the correct albums. With this many people, it's going to be impossible for me to move all the pictures that aren't put in the right place.

All pictures are going to be shared in the group on Facebook. If you aren't a member yet, please request to be added to it here. It is DeBie Hive's Project 52+ Photo Group.

When you post a picture, please be sure to tag it with the number of the day in the challenge and any pertinent information you'd like us to know about the picture.

We will be utilizing the hashtag #30dayphoto this year. Please add it to the images you post so that they will all be searchable with the hashtag.

Please remember that the group is a public group on Facebook. All images posted will be viewable by anyone.

The Rules

  1. One picture per day per person. Please stick to this rule during the 30 day challenge. There are hundreds of people in the group now. Thanks in advance.
  2. Please try to add the pictures directly to the albums that will be set up for each day. If you can't add them to the album, no biggie, but it would be preferred.
  3. There is no requirement that you participate every day to be eligible for the contest.
  4. You MUST email me your pictures to have them considered for the contest. There is a strict limit of 5 entries per person, and the pictures MUST be sent to me at debiehive@gmail.com by midnight on June 30th.
  5. What is chosen for the contest is entirely at my discretion.
  6. I will remove photos I deem offensive, and reserve the right to do so.
  7. Only post pictures of people you have permission to post images of.
  8. The idea is to take NEW pictures. You may not re-use pictures submitted in past years.
  9. The contest runs after the challenge ends, hosted on my blog, for seven days. It will start July 7th.
  10. The prize is never that exciting, so you're mostly playing for bragging rights.
  11. HAVE FUN!!!! I love photography and started doing these to get people out there experimenting with their cameras.
Tips for taking self-portraits

1. Pay attention to the lighting. Avoid using the flash whenever possible
2. Decide what your best angle is - makes faces at yourself in the mirror if you don't already know.
3. Look just up and to the side of the lens, not directly at it.
4. If you have double chins that you'd like to pretend don't exist (not that you do, of course LOL), look slightly up to take the picture, hold the camera a tiny bit higher than you normally would.
5. Make sure there isn't anything messing up your background, or giving you bunny ears, or growing out of the top of your head.
6. Take more than one picture, with slightly different expressions. Then you can pick the best one.
7. Try to laugh naturally so your smile doesn't look forced.
8. Remember you can always zoom in, but you can't zoom out once the picture is taken.

Changes from last year

I will not be posting blog posts with the prompt each day this year. I will post each day's picture in the group and on my Facebook page. They will all be posted to Instagram and Twitter as well. If you aren't following me there, Twitter and Instagram are FAR better at showing people the things I post.

My Instagram profile can be found here. 

My Twitter profile can be found here. 

Finally, if you would like to offer up a prize for the contest, please let me know ASAP. Your link and a picture of the item submitted will be added to the contest post, which is seen by thousands of people each year. My email is debiehive@gmail.com.

Have fun with it!

Friday, May 27, 2016

How Post Partum Depression and Anxiety Changed Me (for the better, I swear...)

In our society, mental health issues are mocked, misunderstood and worse. People shame those of us living with these conditions, tell us that they know more about our struggles than we do, insist that we should just do _______ (literally insert a million different things here) and we'd be "better", whatever "better" means.

Mostly, I think that people just wish we either recovered immediately or that we never spoke openly about these conditions. People don't want us to talk about the things we struggle with because it all makes them uncomfortable.

Oh well. I make people uncomfortable.

It's basically my specialty.

Besides, I am far more concerned with my mental stability and the stability of the other mothers in this world than I ever will be with anyone else's comfort level.

Sorry not sorry.

I wanted to talk a little bit today about the ways that living with Post Partum Depression and Anxiety (PPDA) has changed me for the better.

I really need to make this permanent.
Most of the time, when I write about my experiences here, I'm talking about the bad stuff. The ways it has messed with my life in the negative. The memories I don't have, the time I have lost, the worries I have been handed, the wondering every day about whether and to what degree there might be permanent issues associated with all this. Most of the time when I write about PPDA here, I'm trying to raise awareness for the symptoms of the condition, the wide range of variation in the ways and times in which it can manifest. Most of the time, I'm trying to inform people about the alternative ways to cope with the condition. Most of the time, I'm reaching out to the mother somewhere on the internet who might be reading my words. I'm putting my arms around her and I'm sitting with her in the struggle and I'm asking her to get help.

I don't often talk about the ways in which it has changed me for the better, probably because it takes a lot of time and distance to even start to see them. It's hard to believe that there could be any positives when you're down in the trenches, wading through the visions and the tears, wondering if it is ever going to go away.

I don't talk about it often because for the most part, I'm still there, in the dark place. I've started to come out of it a bit this time around, but in some ways I've realized that it might never completely disappear. I've been to this rodeo enough times now that I think that maybe there are pieces of it that have become permanently etched into who I am.

And maybe, just maybe, that's not a bad thing.

I'll explain.

Because I know my history, my personal experiences with PPDA, because I remember simultaneously knowing that something was very wrong with me and yet living in active denial, I talk about it. I talk about it because I know that I need to for my own mental stability. I talk about it because I know that suppression of it will only feed the beast. I know that I have no choice but to talk about it so that the darkness doesn't call me further in.

Because I know that I remember feeling like I was broken and flawed and the worst mother in the universe for not being able to fix whatever was wrong with me, I talk about it. I talk about it because I would have given anything to know that I wasn't alone the first time around. I would have stopped beating myself up so much quicker had I realized that I wasn't the only woman who lived with intrusive thoughts. I write about it because there might be a mother out there on the other side of a screen who needs to know she isn't alone right now.

Because I know that I lost entire years of memories to PPDA, I document everything now. They say that you always take the most pictures of your first baby, but I can tell you that it's not true for a mother who has lived with PPDA and gone on to have more children. I honestly don't remember the first year of one of my children's lives. I didn't take many pictures. What memories I have been able to reconstruct from that time are from the few pictures and videos I did take. So now, I take more. I take more in case there comes a day somewhere down the road where it disappears from my mind out of the necessity of a coping mechanism.

Because I know how hard it is to ask for help and seek it out, I reach out to all the new mothers in my life. I warn them ahead of time, I tell them that I am going to invade your personal space. I am going to check on you. I am going to ask you questions. I am going to do my damnedest to ensure that you aren't heading down that dark path, and if you are I am going to make sure you are not going alone. I'm coming with you, I'm asking you to do whatever you need to do in order to get well.

Because I know that what works for one person might not work for another, and that there are a myriad of ways to manage these conditions, I don't ever judge the path a mother chooses. Quite the opposite. I will defend her right to seek treatment in whatever way she sees fit, whether it comes in the form of medication or therapy or exercise or placental encapsulation. Lord knows that we get mocked enough from everyone else in this world about our choices as mothers, particularly when we speak our truth about living with PPDA - we don't need to hear anything but love and support from those who have been there, from those who understand.

Because I know that the medical profession does an abysmal job of screening and treating new mothers, I advocate for change. I stay updated on new research and new apps and new screening methods that are designed to catch those of us (and by those of us, frankly I mean almost all of us) who are missed by a system that only cares about whether our stitches have healed.

Because I know that I crave sunlight and the wind in my face and physical motion to find my center, I force myself to get outside, to get moving. I know, having lived with this as long as I have, that I need to take care of my physical being in order to take care of my heart and soul and mind. I know this. I know how vital vitamin D is in my universe, and when I'm invading the personal space of the new mothers in my life, I nudge them outside too. 

Because I know that I can have this time taken away from me by forces outside my control at any given moment, I live in the now. I live in the present more now than I ever did before. I drink in the mundane everyday things. I know how fragile these memories are, so I do everything in my power to live for today. I know that I might not have this memory tomorrow.

Because I know how much I blamed myself for my reality, because I know that doing that made everything worse, I've learned to be gentler with myself. I forgive myself quicker, but I hold myself accountable for more. When I utter the words, "I tried" or "I did my best", it's not some empty placation to make myself feel better...it's the truth.

Because I know that I need breaks, time away from the constant demands of mothering, I force myself to take them now. I need the distance and the perspective. I need to take care of me. I need to trust others to do what I do long enough to get right with myself, and the difference between me before PPDA and me after PPDA is that I don't just know these things now, I do them. This isn't about spa days and massage treatments, it's not about any of the things this society seems to believe about self-care. It's not about pampering or what I tell people I deserve. It's about what I need to survive. Some days it looks like sitting in a parking lot alone for five minutes. It's not glamorous, but it's necessary.

Because I have lived with PPDA, because I have been here, I am a still a doula. I think that it will always be a part of who I am, even if the time between births stretches longer and longer. A lot of people think that being a doula is just about helping a women through childbirth. It isn't. It's about helping a mother through motherhood, and my job doesn't end just because a baby arrives. In many ways, it's just beginning. 

As I sit here in tears pouring out my soul this morning, there is gratitude for this journey today, a gratitude that I've never been able to articulate before just now. I wouldn't wish PPDA on anyone in a million years. I wouldn't wish for this struggle, for this pain, for these worries. I wouldn't wish for the judgment and the cruelty of the world to be imposed on anyone.

What I know now, though, is that this journey, for better or for worse, has changed me. It has taught me countless lessons about myself, about those around me. It has revealed the truth about others, whether in good ways or bad. It has demonstrated my resilience. It made me fight, for myself and for all the other mothers staring at themselves in a mirror wondering what the hell went wrong. It has shaped me, in some ways more than anything else I've been through, and those changes haven't all been bad. They certainly haven't.

Some of them have been amazing gifts.

It has just taken me this long to see it clearly.

I see it now, though.

I see it.

I hope that someday, every mother who has ever been in this place can see it too.

Much love. xo

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

The Poster Totally Worked and Other Things We Learned This Year

Dear Oldest Child,

I made the mistake of asking you a question last night. I asked if you still wanted me to write you a birthday letter. Your sad face immediately told me that I shouldn't have asked and I should just keep on doing these things until you beg me to stop.

Hey. Want to play Axis and Allies???
It only takes 47 hours.

Stoooooop, Mom.

So, here's your letter. It's early.

Don't get used to that.

I can't believe that you're already done with a year of high school. At some point in the coming weeks or days or seconds even, you'll get your driver's permit, which is impossible because I swear that you were just getting on the bus for Kindergarten yesterday. I knew that I'd have to be the one to teach you to drive, and so far it's been less cringe inducing than I thought it would. You have a bit of a lead foot and a lot of work to do when it comes to parking...but I promise you with every ounce of my soul that I will make you learn to do it correctly.

That, and I will totally laugh at you in the process.

You'd think there was something wrong if I didn't.

Oh wait, I'm laughing with you not at you. Mmhmmm.

One of my all time favorites.
It's what we do here. Support each other whilst laughing.

But never while making videos that will live on forever, because that would be crazy.

You've made some hard decisions this year about life, the types of decisions that I certainly wouldn't have been capable of making at your age. Choices that told me that you're far more mature than I was, more than your father was. You knew that this was the year you'd have to get serious about finishing your Eagle Scout, and you chose to forgo winter drumline to do it. Instead of doing the thing you love the most right now, you chose to do the thing you should. You want to finish it. You knew it would be hard, if not impossible, to get there if you were doing drumline too. And you're almost there. All that stands between you and the finish line are little bits of two merit badges and your project.

I know that you agonized about it.

I know that you regretted stepping back from drumline almost every day, even if was just for this year.

The drums are waiting.
I know that you hated watching so many of your friends head to worlds, while you were here, working.

I know.

I know how hard it all was for you, but you did it anyway.

Drumline will be there next year, but the chance to finish your Eagle would have faded a little bit with each passing day if you hadn't seized this opportunity. And you did it.

Everything is percussion.
Life is percussion.
There really aren't enough words in the world for me to tell you how proud I am of you for making that choice, for sticking it out, for working so hard to finish it all.

It wasn't just that, though.


You stepped up, offered to help your father run your little brother's cub scout den. You took on more responsibility than you needed to. This time you've spent with your brother will be something he will remember for the rest of his life. I hope you know how special this is.

Den Chief
You have historically had a hard time pushing through the spring months in school. Forgetting to turn stuff in became a bit of an epidemic each March. I joked (sort of but not really) that I always needed to lecture you about it, at the same time, every year. I even asked the moms I know with kids older than you if this was normal. I hoped and hoped and hoped that at some point you'd outgrow it. I forced you to be accountable for missing assignments, I refused to go to bat for you with teachers over grades. I made you do it, and still...every March, the lecture would get dusted off and presented. I even made you a poster as a joke (sort of but not really), telling you to, "Get your shit together, Love, Mom", hoping that maybe someday I wouldn't have to repeat myself like a broken record every spring.

Then you know what happened???

April came and was nearly over this year before I realized that I hadn't needed to have that conversation with you this time around. You've just done it all, turned everything in, been accountable to yourself.

At the dia de los muertos exhibit, leaving messages
for your grandparents. 
You signed up to volunteer at the hospital again, asked if you could work at Comic Con. You're even helping your middle school band teacher wrangle the incoming 6th graders this summer, not because you have to or even because you were asked...but because you offered to help.

It's what you do. You help.

You're a giver.

You were put on this earth to share your abilities and your talents and your skills and your passions with other people.

You have a grand vision already laid out for your life, one that will take you, unsurprisingly, towards helping others. You want to be a nurse practitioner, one focused on under served areas. In your free time, you'll be a full time hippie homesteader, and I have no one to blame for that but myself.

Yet another instrument.
I could just as easily see you teaching music in a classroom someday. Music is just a part of who you are. I see it when you leap at the chance to learn a new instrument. I see it when you are picking out songs by ear on the piano then moving them to the guitars. I see it when you spend hours working on the drums. I see it when you gather up your baby brother in your lap and introduce him to the music of Fantasia, when you take him over to the piano and play with him.

I can't wait to see where you land.

You passed me up a very long time ago, but now you're about to outgrow your father too. Try not to tease him too much about it once you tower over him for good.

There are times that I look at you and I still see the little boy waiting for that Kindergarten bus. He still shows up sometimes. He's here when you aren't feeling well. You bring him along to the park. Whenever you are nervous or uncertain about something, he's there in the shadows. Looking for me, still.

The actual first day of Kindergarten.
Mostly now, though, you're a young man, one growing and maturing more and more with each passing day. I wonder all the time how you got to be 15 already, I wonder who that guy is when I see you across a room and then realize it's you. It stops me in my tracks sometimes.

You get in the car after school still eager to tell me whatever you're learning. You share the fun, the scary, the difficult. You ask questions. You don't just listen to what I say, you hear me, which is something else altogether.

You pay attention.

You strive to understand the things you know you don't understand.

You are still always asking questions.

You have great compassion for others.

Keep helping. Keep making those tough choices. Keep learning more about yourself, about others, about the world. Keep pursuing your passions.

How is this possible?
While you're at it, stay weird. Stay open. Stay honest. Stay true to who you are.

At this point it your life, you're light years ahead of where I was. You already know who you are. You're comfortable in your skin. You don't try to be anyone you aren't. You have sought out and found friends who get you, who accept you, who compliment you.

If you think about it, though, it makes sense that you'd be light years ahead.

You always did love Buzz Lightyear.

To Infinity and Beyond, Space Ranger.

When you were 2.
I can't even.
To Infinity and Beyond.

Happy Birthday, sweetheart. I'm proud of you.

(Mom, Mom, Mama, Mommy)

p.s. that video will never die. never.

p.p.s. I know that we haven't yet been in a Willy Wonka elevator, but I'm holding out hope that we find one someday.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Things That Piss Me Off Tuesday - the distraction edition


I'm in a mood, and I've totally been an asshole all week, so consider yourselves warned. I hate when I'm like this...when I know that I've got a short fuse and I know that everything is going to set me off. I hate when I get sucked into internet drama and comment on things I shouldn't comment on. I HATE IT.

I need a week in the mountains.


Very soon.

Until then, though, this is what you get. I'd say sorry but I'm really not all that sorry actually and I stopped apologizing for things I'm not actually sorry about a while back.

Pay attention to the things you aren't paying attention to
We really don't need to keep talking about bathrooms. Trans people aren't the threat and they never were. This whole thing being used to distract you. Marginalizing them is a political move.

There's another oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico.

Congress wants a raise.

Zika is coming.

I got yelled at yesterday
I was already in this preexisting shitty mood when the doorbell rang. It was a guy trying to sell magazine subscriptions for one of those well documented scam organizations that takes advantage of people in order to elicit sympathy but doesn't actually ever do any of the stuff it claims to do. Those ones.

I'm pretty familiar with them after working around nonprofits for basically my entire adult life.

Anyway, I was in a mood because it's May and it was 5pm and my toddler was raging around the house and the dog was hobbling around and my knees hurt because it was raining and a whole bunch of other stuff. I was not in the mood. I was polite, I said I was not interested. I said I was busy, wished the guy a good day.

Then he proceeded to yell at me, accuse me of not caring about helping people in need, telling me that he knows all about me and the people like me. Walked off in a rage screaming that I should know that black lives matter too.

I was in a bad mood and I know how this scam works. My refusal to just hand you a check because you're playing on my suburban guilt isn't a confession about how I feel or what I think or what I do. I can promise you that I am BY FAR the most vocal advocate for the BLM movement in this neighborhood and I bust my ass trying to open eyes all the time about privilege and race and reality and oppression. You don't know where I spend my time or where I give my extra money. You don't know.

Don't make assumptions about me.


For the love.

Mama drama
Ah, the internet.

So fun sometimes.

One mommy blogger wrote an obscenity laden post telling all the other mommy bloggers that their blogs suck, that they should stop now and give up. I'm not linking to it or to the 9 million response posts or the 17 thousand open letters on social media.

I'm not, mostly because I'm not participating in this thing where women start bashing one another while refusing to own their role in it all.

If you want to write about your family, do it.
If you want to write sponsored posts, do it. (People will lose interest quickly though, I promise.)
If you want to beg for fans with ploys, realize they aren't legit fans and will bail.

I've been doing this forever.

Get off my lawn.

Some people would consider me a mommy blogger. I was, probably, there for a while. Now, not so much. I'm a writer who sometimes writes about her kids, but I don't do niches or rules and I don't play nicely with others, so I basically suck as a blogger anyway.

If I had to sum up what defines me most in life as a writer, it'd go something like this.

- beer & tacos. tacos are the best.
- adhd, anxiety, ptsd & ppd
- legal analysis
- high kicks & kermit arms & all the swears
- kefir & other hippie things (passes out pamphlets)
- longing for chickens & goats
- nerdy stuff & games
- kids I like most of the time, homeschooling
- bearded husband, one that I also like most of the time

I'm not writing saccharin posts about my family, at least not too often.

I'm not tossing anyone under the bus with humiliating stories for the sake of 15 minutes of fame.

I'm not trying to sell you vag cream or scrapbooking materials. Unless you want me to sell you vag cream. DO YOU WANT ME TO SELL YOU VAG CREAM???? (Please say no.)

I'm doing my thing. The pay is virtually nonexistent and it's weird that strangers know who I am sometimes. This ain't the path to fame and fortune, my friends.

Do your thing. If the people out there in the internets like it...cool.

If they don't, they will stop reading.

If you care, care.

If you don't, fine.

No need to shit on someone else in the process.

Baby Bison and stupid people and that part that you didn't think about that I just made you think about and now you're all mad at me....
Some clearly misguided tourists in Yellowstone picked up a baby bison and put it in their car because they allegedly thought it was cold.

I'm digressing. Hang on a second.

This is fucking why we need science education in 
schools, people. This is why common core and 
the idea of certain subjects being covered in 
every state in the country at certain ages is a good thing. 

Okay, hi. I'm back.

Anyway, these tourists did this and the calf ended up being euthanized after mama bison refused to take care of it because those humans touched the baby. Don't touch the babies.

Few things.

- I'm sure they meant well. Intentions don't always line up with how this stuff plays out, though, and saying "but they meant well" isn't going to magically resurrect this baby bison.

- People online shared the post (the first one before the baby died) mostly to laugh at the stupidity of other people. Because this is what happens when you watch reality tv for a generation and your main source of entertainment is the ignorance of others. I'll let you guess which presidential candidate is also a consequence of this generation of reality tv.

- People are now uniformly outraged about this one dead bison, and it's certainly tragic, don't get me wrong...but pay attention to those people who are expressing outrage when they talk about other things, like food stamps...you know, things that affect human babies.

***runs away from the pitchforks that are coming for me***

With that, I'm going to quit writing for the day because I am already totally being an asshole.

Have a good day, hive.

I'll just be here, trying to make sure my blog doesn't suck. ;)

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