2010 Florida Governor Race Election R...

2010 Florida Governor Race Election Results a " Rick Scott Wins | The News of Today

There are 3002 comments on the thenewsoftoday.com story from Nov 3, 2010, titled 2010 Florida Governor Race Election Results a " Rick Scott Wins | The News of Today. In it, thenewsoftoday.com reports that:

Posted by Jason Moore on Nov 3rd, 2010 and filed under Featured News . You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 . You can leave a response or trackback to this entry Florida Governor The 2010 Florida Governor Race has been a close one ever since the primaries ended.

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Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3410 May 2, 2014
Really the beautiful woman up there doesn't interest me very much, for I am in love with someone else, and terribly unhappy at that; far more unhappy than the Knight of Toggenburg or the Chevalier in Manon l'Escault, because the object of my adoration is of stone.

In the garden, in the tiny wilderness, there is a graceful little meadow on which a couple of deer graze peacefully. On this meadow is a stone statue of Venus, the original of which, I believe, is in Florence. This Venus is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in all my life.

That, however, does not signify much, for I have seen few beautiful women, or rather few women at all. In love too, I am a dilettante who never got beyond the preparation, the first act.

But why talk in superlatives, as if something that is beautiful could be surpassed?

It is sufficient to say that this Venus is beautiful. I love her passionately with a morbid intensity; madly as one can only love a woman who never responds to our love with anything but an eternally uniform, eternally calm, stony smile. I literally adore her.

I often lie reading under the leafy covering of a young birch when the sun broods over the forest. Often I visit that cold, cruel mistress of mine by night and lie on my knees before her, with the face pressed against the cold pedestal on which her feet rest, and my prayers go up to her.

The rising moon, which just now is waning, produces an indescribable effect. It seems to hover among the trees and submerges the meadow in its gleam of silver. The goddess stands as if transfigured, and seems to bathe in the soft moonlight.

Once when I was returning from my devotions by one of the walks leading to the house, I suddenly saw a woman's figure, white as stone, under the illumination of the moon and separated from me merely by a screen of trees. It seemed as if the beautiful woman of marble had taken pity on me, become alive, and followed me. I was seized by a nameless fear, my heart threatened to burst, and instead—

Well, I am a dilettante. As always, I broke down at the second stanza; rather, on the contrary, I did not break down, but ran away as fast as my legs would carry me.

What an accident! Through a Jew, dealing in photographs I secured a picture of my ideal. It is a small reproduction of Titian's "Venus with the Mirror." What a woman! I want to write a poem, but instead, I take the reproduction, and write on it: Venus in Furs.

You are cold, while you yourself fan flames. By all means wrap yourself in your despotic furs, there is no one to whom they are more appropriate, cruel goddess of love and of beauty!—After a while I add a few verses from Goethe, which I recently found in his paralipomena to Faust.
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3411 May 2, 2014
TO AMOR

"The pair of wings a fiction are,
The arrows, they are naught but claws,
The wreath conceals the little horns,
For without any doubt he is
Like all the gods of ancient Greece
Only a devil in disguise."

Then I put the picture before me on my table, supporting it with a book, and looked at it.

I was enraptured and at the same time filled with a strange fear by the cold coquetry with which this magnificent woman draped her charms in her furs of dark sable; by the severity and hardness which lay in this cold marble-like face. Again I took my pen in hand, and wrote the following words:

"To love, to be loved, what happiness! And yet how the glamour of this pales in comparison with the tormenting bliss of worshipping a woman who makes a plaything out of us, of being the slave of a beautiful tyrant who treads us pitilessly underfoot. Even Samson, the hero, the giant, again put himself into the hands of Delilah, even after she had betrayed him, and again she betrayed him, and the Philistines bound him and put out his eyes which until the very end he kept fixed, drunken with rage and love, upon the beautiful betrayer."

I was breakfasting in my honey-suckle arbor, and reading in the Book of Judith. I envied the hero Holofernes because of the regal woman who cut off his head with a sword, and because of his beautiful sanguinary end.

"The almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman."

This sentence strangely impressed me.

How ungallant these Jews are, I thought. And their God might choose more becoming expressions when he speaks of the fair sex.

"The almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the hands of a woman," I repeated to myself. What shall I do, so that He may punish me?

Heaven preserve us! Here comes the housekeeper, who has again diminished somewhat in size overnight. And up there among the green twinings and garlandings the white gown gleams again. Is it Venus, or the widow?

This time it happens to be the widow, for Madame Tartakovska makes a courtesy, and asks me in her name for something to read. I run to my room, and gather together a couple of volumes.

Later I remember that my picture of Venus is in one of them, and now it and my effusions are in the hands of the white woman up there together. What will she say?

I hear her laugh.

Is she laughing at me?

It is full moon. It is already peering over the tops of the low hemlocks that fringe the park. A silvery exhalation fills the terrace, the groups of trees, all the landscape, as far as the eye can reach; in the distance it gradually fades away, like trembling waters.

I cannot resist. I feel a strange urge and call within me. I put on my clothes again and go out into the garden.

Some power draws me toward the meadow, toward her, who is my divinity and my beloved.

The night is cool. I feel a slight chill. The atmosphere is heavy with the odor of flowers and of the forest. It intoxicates.

What solemnity! What music round about! A nightingale sobs. The stars quiver very faintly in the pale-blue glamour. The meadow seems smooth, like a mirror, like a covering of ice on a pond.

The statue of Venus stands out august and luminous.

But—what has happened? From the marble shoulders of the goddess a large dark fur flows down to her heels. I stand dumbfounded and stare at her in amazement; again an indescribable fear seizes hold of me and I take flight.

I hasten my steps, and notice that I have missed the main path. As I am about to turn aside into one of the green walks I see Venus sitting before me on a stone bench, not the beautiful woman of marble, but the goddess of love herself with warm blood and throbbing pulses. She has actually come to life for me, like the statue that began to breathe for her creator.
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3412 May 2, 2014
Indeed, the miracle is only half completed. Her white hair seems still to be of stone, and her white gown shimmers like moonlight, or is it satin? From her shoulders the dark fur flows. But her lips are already reddening and her cheeks begin to take color. Two diabolical green rays out of her eyes fall upon me, and now she laughs.

Her laughter is very mysterious, very—I don't know. It cannot be described, it takes my breath away. I flee further, and after every few steps I have to pause to take breath. The mocking laughter pursues me through the dark leafy paths, across light open spaces, through the thicket where only single moonbeams can pierce. I can no longer find my way, I wander about utterly confused, with cold drops of perspiration on the forehead.

Finally I stand still, and engage in a short monologue.

It runs—well—one is either very polite to one's self or very rude.

I say to myself:

"Donkey!"

This word exercises a remarkable effect, like a magic formula, which sets me free and makes me master of myself.

I am perfectly quiet in a moment.

With considerable pleasure I repeat: "Donkey!"

Now everything is perfectly clear and distinct before my eyes again. There is the fountain, there the alley of box-wood, there the house which I am slowly approaching.

Yet—suddenly the appearance is here again. Behind the green screen through which the moonlight gleams so that it seems embroidered with silver, I again see the white figure, the woman of stone whom I adore, whom I fear and flee.

With a couple of leaps I am within the house and catch my breath and reflect.

What am I really, a little dilettante or a great big donkey?

A sultry morning, the atmosphere is dead, heavily laden with odors, yet stimulating. Again I am sitting in my honey-suckle arbor, reading in the Odyssey about the beautiful witch who transformed her admirers into beasts. A wonderful picture of antique love.

There is a soft rustling in the twigs and blades and the pages of my book rustle and on the terrace likewise there is a rustling.

A woman's dress—

She is there—Venus—but without furs—No, this time it is merely the widow—and yet—Venus-oh, what a woman!

As she stands there in her light white morning gown, looking at me, her slight figure seems full of poetry and grace. She is neither large, nor small; her head is alluring, piquant—in the sense of the period of the French marquises—rather than formally beautiful. What enchantment and softness, what roguish charm play about her none too small mouth! Her skin is so infinitely delicate, that the blue veins show through everywhere; even through the muslin covering her arms and bosom. How abundant her red hair-it is red, not blonde or golden- yellow—how diabolically and yet tenderly it plays around her neck! Now her eyes meet mine like green lightnings—they are green, these eyes of hers, whose power is so indescribable—green, but as are precious stones, or deep unfathomable mountain lakes.

She observes my confusion, which has even made me discourteous, for I have remained seated and still have my cap on my head.

She smiles roguishly.

Finally I rise and bow to her. She comes closer, and bursts out into a loud, almost childlike laughter. I stammer, as only a little dilettante or great big donkey can do on such an occasion.

Thus our acquaintance began.

The divinity asks for my name, and mentions her own.

Her name is Kate Carraway.

And she is actually my Venus.
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3413 May 2, 2014
"But madame, what put the idea into your head?"
"The little picture in one of your books—"
"I had forgotten about it."
"The curious notes on its back—"
"Why curious?"
She looked at me.
"I have always wanted to know a real dreamer some time—for the sake of the change—and you seem one of the maddest of the tribe."
"Dear lady—in fact—" Again I fell victim to an odious, asinine stammering, and in addition blushed in a way that might have been appropriate for a youngster of sixteen, but not for me, who was almost a full ten years older—
"You were afraid of me last night."
"Really—of course—but won't you sit down?"
She sat down, and enjoyed my embarrassment—for actually I was even more afraid of her now in the full light of day. A delightful expression of contempt hovered about her upper lip.
"You look at love, and especially woman," she began, "as something hostile, something against which you put up a defense, even if unsuccessfully. You feel that their power over you gives you a sensation of pleasurable torture, of pungent cruelty. This is a genuinely modern point of view."
"You don't share it?"
"I do not share it," she said quickly and decisively, shaking her head, so that her curls flew up like red flames.
"The ideal which I strive to realize in my life is the serene sensuousness of the Greeks—pleasure without pain. I do not believe in the kind of love which is preached by Christianity, by the moderns, by the knights of the spirit. Yes, look at me, I am worse than a heretic, I am a pagan.
'Doest thou imagine long the goddess of love took counsel When in Ida's grove she was pleased with the hero Achilles?'
"These lines from Goethe's Roman Elegy have always delighted me.
"In nature there is only the love of the heroic age,'when gods and goddesses loved.' At that time 'desire followed the glance, enjoyment desire.' All else is factitious, affected, a lie. Christianity, whose cruel emblem, the cross, has always had for me an element of the monstrous, brought something alien and hostile into nature and its innocent instincts.
"The battle of the spirit with the senses is the gospel of modern man. I do not care to have a share in it."
"Yes, Mount Olympus would be the place for you, madame," I replied, "but we moderns can no longer support the antique serenity, least of all in love. The idea of sharing a woman, even if it were an Aspasia, with another revolts us. We are jealous as is our God. For example, we have made a term abuse out of the name of the glorious Phryne.
"We prefer one of Holbein's meagre, pallid virgins, which is wholly ours to an antique Venus, no matter how divinely beautiful she is, but who loves Anchises to-day, Paris to-morrow, Adonis the day after. And if nature triumphs in us so that we give our whole glowing, passionate devotion to such a woman, her serene joy of life appears to us as something demonic and cruel, and we read into our happiness a sin which we must expiate."
"So you too are one of those who rave about modern women, those miserable hysterical feminine creatures who don't appreciate a real man in their somnambulistic search for some dream-man and masculine ideal. Amid tears and convulsions they daily outrage their Christian duties; they cheat and are cheated; they always seek again and choose and reject; they are never happy, and never give happiness. They accuse fate instead of calmly confessing that they want to love and live as Helen and Aspasia lived. Nature admits of no permanence in the relation between man and woman."
"But, my dear lady—"
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3415 May 2, 2014
The little bronze clock on which stood a cupid who had just shot his bolt struck midnight.

I rose, and wanted to leave.

Kate said nothing, but embraced me and drew me back on the ottoman. She began to kiss me anew, and this silent language was so comprehensible, so convincing—

And it told me more than I dared to understand.

A languid abandonment pervaded Kate's entire being. What a voluptuous softness there was in the gloaming of her half-closed eyes, in the red flood of her hair which shimmered faintly under the white powder, in the red and white satin which crackled about her with every movement, in the swelling ermine of the kazabaika in which she carelessly nestled.

"Please," I stammered, "but you will be angry with me."

"Do with me what you will," she whispered.

"Well, then whip me, or I shall go mad."

"Haven't I forbidden you," said Kate sternly, "but you are incorrigible."

"Oh, I am so terribly in love." I had sunken on my knees, and was burying my glowing face in her lap.

"I really believe," said Kate thoughtfully, "that your madness is nothing but a demonic, unsatisfied sensuality. Our unnatural way of life must generate such illnesses. Were you less virtuous, you would be completely sane."

"Well then, make me sane," I murmured. My hands were running through her hair and playing tremblingly with the gleaming fur, which rose and fell like a moonlit wave upon her heaving bosom, and drove all my senses into confusion.

And I kissed her. No, she kissed me savagely, pitilessly, as if she wanted to slay me with her kisses. I was as in a delirium, and had long since lost my reason, but now I, too, was breathless. I sought to free myself.

"What is the matter?" asked Kate.

"I am suffering agonies."

"You are suffering—" she broke out into a loud amused laughter.

"You laugh!" I moaned, "have you no idea—"

She was serious all of a sudden. She raised my head in her hands, and with a violent gesture drew me to her breast.

"Kate," I stammered.

"Of course, you enjoy suffering," she said, and laughed again, "but wait, I'll bring you to your senses."

"No, I will no longer ask," I exclaimed, "whether you want to belong to me for always or for only a brief moment of intoxication. I want to drain my happiness to the full. You are mine now, and I would rather lose you than never to have had you."

"Now you are sensible," she said. She kissed me again with her murderous lips. I tore the ermine apart and the covering of lace and her naked breast surged against mine.

Then my senses left me—

The first thing I remember is the moment when I saw blood dripping from my hand, and she asked apathetically: "Did you scratch me?"

"No, I believe, I have bitten you."
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3416 May 2, 2014
"My friend has complained about you," said Kate to-day.

"Perhaps she feels that I despise her."

"But why do you despise her, you foolish young man?" exclaimed Kate, pulling my ears with both hands.

"Because she is a hypocrite," I said. "I respect only a woman who is actually virtuous, or who openly lives for pleasure's sake."

"Like me, for instance," replied Kate jestingly, "but you see, child, a woman can only do that in the rarest cases. She can neither be as gaily sensual, nor as spiritually free as man; her state is always a mixture of the sensual and spiritual. Her heart desires to enchain man permanently, while she herself is ever subject to the desire for change. The result is a conflict, and thus usually against her wishes lies and deception enter into her actions and personality and corrupt her character."

"Certainly that is true," I said. "The transcendental character with which woman wants to stamp love leads her to deception."

"But the world likewise demands it," Kate interrupted. "Look at this woman. She has a husband and a lover in Lemberg and has found a new admirer here. She deceives all three and yet is honored by all and respected by the world."

"I don't care," I exclaimed, "but she is to leave you alone; she treats you like an article of commerce."

"Why not?" the beautiful woman interrupted vivaciously. "Every woman has the instinct or desire to draw advantage out of her attractions, and much is to be said for giving one's self without love or pleasure because if you do it in cold blood, you can reap profit to best advantage."

"Kate, what are you saying?"

"Why not?" she said, "and take note of what I am about to say to you. Never feel secure with the woman you love, for there are more dangers in woman's nature than you imagine. Women are neither as good as their admirers and defenders maintain, nor as bad as their enemies make them out to be. Woman's character is characterlessness. The best woman will momentarily go down into the mire, and the worst unexpectedly rises to deeds of greatness and goodness and puts to shame those that despise her. No woman is so good or so bad, but that at any moment she is capable of the most diabolical as well as of the most divine, of the filthiest as well as of the purest, thoughts, emotions, and actions. In spite of all the advances of civilization, woman has remained as she came out of the hand of nature. She has the nature of a savage, who is faithful or faithless, magnanimous or cruel, according to the impulse that dominates at the moment. Throughout history it has always been a serious deep culture which has produced moral character. Man even when he is selfish or evil always follows principles, woman never follows anything but impulses. Don't ever forget that, and never feel secure with the woman you love."
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3417 May 2, 2014
When I said good-night to her to-day she seemed suddenly unaccountably distracted and moody. What was occupying her?

"I am sorry you are going," she said when I was already standing on the threshold.

"It is entirely in your hands to shorten the hard period of my trial, to cease tormenting me—" I pleaded.

"Do you imagine that this compulsion isn't a torment for me, too," Kate interjected.

"Then end it," I exclaimed, embracing her, "be my wife."

"Never, Severin," she said gently, but with great firmness.

"What do you mean?"

I was frightened in my innermost soul.

"You are not the man for me."

I looked at her, and slowly withdrew my arm which was still about her waist; then I left the room, and she—she did not call me back.
Karley Sciortino

New York, NY

#3418 May 2, 2014
Last night, over dinner, I was caught off guard when a female friend of mine—a bookish writer who’s rarely the type to talk explicitly about sex—said to me,“I think guys with really tiny penises should be made to wear a warning.” She continued sternly,“It’s the worst when you meet a guy you’re really into, the chemistry and flirtation are wonderful, and then you find out he has a small dick. I just think, for god’s sake, I wish I would have known, so I could have avoided investing all that time and energy.”

I have to say, it felt like I was living inside an episode of Sex and the City. Specifically the final episode of the first season, when Samantha starts dating a lawyer named James, only to find that his penis is so tiny that she can’t even tell when it’s inside her. As she sobs at this revelation in a bathroom stall, Charlotte tries to remain optimistic by asking,“Is he a good kisser?” To which Samantha responds:“Who ... cares! His dick is like a gherkin!”

Like most women, I carry around my own small-penis story, to be shared at moments precisely like this. It was a few years ago (I've changed a few small details to protect his identity), and I had a crush on a 28-year-old filmmaker who frequented the bar I worked in. After months of flirtation, he finally invited me to the screening of a short film that he’d written, directed, and starred in. I went, and actually got butterflies in my stomach while watching him on the big screen. Look how cute he looks, moving around, and saying things like that!, I thought to myself while trying to imagine him naked. But then came the scene where his character made a joke about having a small dick. I might have let the joke slip by unanalyzed if it weren’t for how he went into lengthy detail about the years of insecurity he’d suffered because of his tiny penis, confessing that he special-orders tiny condoms online, because even the smallest condoms available in stores are too baggy and just slip off. All of this was in the name of comedy, of course, but as everyone in the theater around me roared with laughter, I found myself thinking: Only a man who actually has a microscopic dick would ever write a joke like that.

We all know that humor is a coping mechanism. And maybe I had enough of a warning sign. But despite this, I agreed to go on a dinner date with the filmmaker the following week, because, well, I really liked him.

Before I finish my story, I should probably mention that I don’t really mind small dicks. Don’t get me wrong, there’s something very beautiful and majestic and virile about the sight of a large, erect penis. But aesthetics aside, once the sex is underway, it doesn’t necessarily make that much of a difference. Anyone who’s seen Blue Is the Warmest Color knows that sex can be transcendentally hot and orgasmic with no penises involved at all. Clearly, it’s chemistry, passion, and technique that matter most. Thus, my problem with small dicks isn’t that they result in a lack of pleasure, but rather that they can be kind of, well ... awkward.
Karley Sciortino

New York, NY

#3419 May 2, 2014
In the past, whenever I’ve gone to bed with a guy and realized he had a small penis, I immediately became worried that he was embarrassed or uncomfortable, which, of course, made me feel uncomfortable for him, which then made the whole situation uneasy. I also always become hyperaware that if I sleep with a guy with a small penis only once, it’s going to appear as if I didn’t want to see him again because of his size. Maybe the reason I worry about these things is because women have a nurturing instinct—we naturally want to care for and encourage—or maybe I’m just a very anxious person. Either way, I totally empathize with the insecurities of less-endowed men, because there’s just nothing they can do about it. For everything else, we have plastic surgery—girls (and guys) can suck stuff out and stick stuff in and so much more if we get really desperate or insecure about a body part. But a man with a small penis? You have to play the hand you're dealt.

But back to the filmmaker. Our date turned out wonderful—he was funny, successful, hot, blah blah blah—the perfect guy. So we get into bed, and I move my hand down, and there it was—a baby carrot inside his tighty-whities. It was probably the smallest I’d ever touched, with the unfortunate luck of being both short and slim. I sort of expected him to acknowledge it—especially given his film’s epic tiny peen monologue—but instead he just flipped me over and spanked me. He was really dominant in bed, which totally turned me on, and his confidence prevented me from having to feel any vicarious sexual anxieties, as I had with most of the small-dicked men of my past. At one point he even told me to “choke on it.” In my head I was like,“I could probably fit five of these in my mouth without triggering my gag reflex,” but I just went along with it and made fake choking sounds, because why not? It was hot, and fun, and sex is theater most of the time anyway. And when I recounted our sex to my friends, it was always something like,“I slept with this guy, it was awesome. Oh, and he had a really small dick ... but it wasn’t an issue.”

He and I went on to sleep together for a few months. At the time, neither of us were looking to get into a committed relationship, which allowed for us to have one of those pressure-free, fun flings that are often the most uninhibited and hedonistic of romances. We even had a threesome once, with another girl he was seeing at the time, and at the end of the night, when she and I were both lying on our backs in post-orgasmic bliss, he smiled down at us and said casually,“The little dick that could ... am I right?!”

I don’t want to sugarcoat it: I know that for some girls, including my bookish writer friend, small dicks are a dealbreaker. And that’s fine, because we all have our own personal preferences. I won’t deny that I’ve been in situations in the past where a guy’s lack of size certainly didn’t help matters. However, I can sooner imagine myself seriously dating a guy with a small dick than I can a guy who’s shorter than I am—that’s just me.

In the case of the filmmaker, he made up for his size in other ways, by being attentive, skilled at talking dirty, and gifted with his hands and mouth. And yeah, when it was inside, it kind of felt like nothing, but honestly a lot of dicks feel like nothing to me, unless they’re really big, at which point they often just become painful. Penises—they’re all or nothing! Also, I tend to be wary of very well-endowed men—those guys who since high school have been hearing girls shriek “Oh my god, it's so big!”—and as a result, think all they have to do is show up, whereas smaller and normal-size guys tend to be less lazy. But that’s for another column.
short fat juicy

Spring Hill, FL

#3420 May 2, 2014
thank you Kate

your stuff is better than most but will take as top garbage since Shill id dead

again thank you Kate

so........

KIISS ME KATE
Panamaed

United States

#3421 May 2, 2014
Ya'll need to get a room....as padded one....
bring em on

Lake Butler, FL

#3422 May 2, 2014
Funny how the Mob brings out their elite bull shceters to try to disrupt the flow of the truth on these bogs.

Funny how the Fox News channel had their main former war mongler on last night telling his brother Jeb to Run Jeb run!

And then when AXED if he'd talked to brother Jeb about his running for president "dubya" said not he hadn't.

Can "youse" with brains say "bull shcet?"

These war mongering bass poopers don't break wind without comparing the velocity of the spheres of expulsion!

Kate Carraway and Karley Sciortino you pieces of excrement just keep right on pumping your feces - after all you have got to do something or you will be like that famous loosing race horse.

the one who started, farted, fumbled and fell..........

The only people you can fool is the fools and they are already in your camp.

Remember it was your Saudi Prince kissing idol Dubya who said "you can fool some of the people all of the time and those are the ones we want to concentrate on." He was obviously talking about your sorry wreck tum!

Mayb e next week we'll have the communist columnist Leslie Marshal blogging her bull schet on here who knows!
Panamaed

United States

#3423 May 2, 2014
Mention James Casey and POW.....OUT COMES CRAZY....
given

Spring Hill, FL

#3424 May 2, 2014
taken

away by the greats
Panamaed

United States

#3425 May 3, 2014
I got this on Panama City News Topix:

over8years wrote:
Panamaed, I too have had the misfortune of dealing with being "Panamaed" as you describe it. The past 8 years have been truly eye opening with regard to the extent of corruption and extra-judicial "punishment" that can be doled out by those with the power around here.
I have spent the last eight years combating every kind of entrapment attempt imaginable. I even had an ex-special forces dude get a job with me and within the first week he was trying to get me to come to his house so he could show me how to make homemade IEDs and chloroform grenades. I did notify homeland security on that one just in case it wasn't a sting operation.
Now there is non-stop coercion to try to force me into one specific local church that I will not name now. Not to get me to go to church. The goal is to get me to go to one specific church. One of my family members has become involved in this church and their attitude and behavior has changed greatly since. They are sober now which is a good thing. Everything else about their behavior change has been negative. They have black and white thinking now, us against them. They are literally working themselves to death and refuse to relax because "ain't nobody got time for that!". They constantly judge everyone. Are miserable 99% of the time. Lie constantly and about everything. They even changed the way they dress.
Upon witnessing my loved one's change in behavior I began researching cults. Every single criteria for a destructive cult is met with this "church". I attempted to write reviews about the church to warn others before they tried the church and my reviews got erased. Obviously the church has connections in high places.
To those reading this please do not think I am against churches or religion. Religion is very important to me. There are, however, distinct differences in normal religious churches and cults. Cults attempt to control every single aspect of your life. That is what is happening to my loved one. This is destructive and corrupt to the core.
Anyway..........Panamaed, you are not alone in this fight. I am with you unfortunately. I am sure there are others as well.
Peace to all

Well......a few years ago my uncle who has Top Secret Clearance called me an insurgent. I didn't really think anything of it until much later and I started doing research online and it seems to me what is happening in my case is Counterinsurgency policing. C3 policing like they are using up in Springfield Massachusetts.

Cointelpro x's 10!! Some of what is going on really cannot be legal. I am not going to get into that here though.

http://www.topix.com/forum/city/panama-city-f...
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3426 May 3, 2014
It’s the space between things that’s truly important. That’s what committed self-actualizers will tell you; so will graphic designers insisting on negative space, and stylists who are all like,“Less, less, less, less…” pulling off bracelets and pants. It’s never the thing itself, but the stuff—the lack of stuff—around the thing. Falling asleep, I often find a convincing, semiconscious simulacrum of cozy peace by imagining a nonscientific, crayon-drawn version of a light field, and then focusing tighter and tighter on the black empty places in between the things. That is what’s important, right there.

By now, as mid- or late winter or whatever it is approaches, still months until fireworks holidays, and until some liquid-jasmine physical atmosphere makes us more able to be with our bodies, and with each other (hugs through piles of down aren’t the same), the allotment of collective ritual opportunity has mostly been spent. Ritual is always limited for us, a casualty of everything else that happened, for the young and secular and very much online who occupy so much of our time creating new versions of good and fulfilling lives. Ritual, like real, physical, people-and-concrete communities, can’t be counted among the experiential, cultural things that have been (equitably or not) replaced by some aspect of technology. A human need that is, I think, as in us as it ever was, the practice of welcoming, organizing, confirming ritual has been forced to wait it out under a ten-foot wave until we decide how far we can (or, will) go with our inboxes and social-media posts as extensions and expressions of not just ourselves, but also the solemn end—the waaay end of our feelings. That undefined space around and between the “things” is more important, yeah, but those things, the markers and parameters that define both types of spaces, are there for a reason.

Yesterday I sat in front of my laptop, my body a tense C-curve and my paper cup of coffee a Starbucks serif, clicking through a photo gallery of this church I thought I might go to on Sunday. It’s the same denomination that I was raised in, and what I wanted from it is basic nostalgic comfort, and probably some approximation of a set of values that I keep in a glass-door trophy case in the hallway of my memory palace. I miss it.

I’m into this stuff, into real-time, on-purpose meaning-making, but this kind of attempt at creating ritual by sort of re-creating it based on previous experiences more often happens online. Most of the rituals that we’ve come up with to replace what has been collectively lost somewhere else already feel supernormalized: posting baby pics on Facebook is, I guess, what’s “done” now, with “It’s done” and “It’s not done” always being the ordering philosophy for any sort of social interaction, whether in person or online. But then your baby is on Facebook the same way fleeting YouTube stuff and 10 percent–off coupons are on Facebook, and that’s when this new, aggregated version of normal still feels temporary and shifting. It’s an appropriate, if still anxious, middle ground of convenience and celebration, of making and remaking meaning together.

Birth, death, marriage, divorce, coming of age, accomplishments, and failures all require real acknowledgement and recognition. We need a way to ritualize and symbolize that makes use of both our humanity and the reality of how lives play out. Birthdays are the easiest, with the routine of abbreviated Facebook messages for the public confirmation and validation, and multi-’moji texts, for the private loving-up. It’s easy, because the tone of the thing itself isn’t usually in conflict with the way it’s celebrated online. Still: I just sent my friend a season of a TV show via iTunes for her birthday, which is in most ways better than giving her a box of what will too quickly turn to shit, but clicking toward and downloading a prezzie on your birthday must be a step in the vertiginous march toward the void.
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3427 May 3, 2014
For a while—real years, by now—I’ve been rereading Moby Dick every winter. It’s not my favorite book, and it’s not a cute read to skate over in an afternoon; I read it every year, and will keep reading it every year, as a dull protest against having nothing else to do to mark time. Otherwise, my entire adult life feels too much like a mostly uninterrupted, mostly unmarked length of heavy rope, unfurling through a routine of work and hanging out and moving between the two, and I guess also waking up and falling asleep. It’s all being recorded, meticulously if abstractly, online, and I’m sure interruptions and markers will eventually emerge from all of the space around them, even if they’re not so obvious to me now, and even if I feel like I need them to reveal themselves sooner.
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3428 May 3, 2014
From Girls to “Grown Woman”(and more important stuff, too, but I’m here for the peppermint gum and sparkly pencils of girl stuff, OK?), 2013 was a big year for girls. Here is the girl year in review, along with some non-committal predictions for 2014.

SELFIES

Listen, girls were on it from day zero, but in 2013 “Word of the Year” deciders, the think-piece community, and every mom discovered (but maybe didn’t understand? I don’t know) the significance of what has always been a fundament of self-representation and self-expression in girl world. So cute!

EYEBROWS

Big eyebrows are always the answer. If that “eyebrow thickness as economic indicator” theory holds, that means that Cara Delevingne’s nu-Moss influence could be responsible for more than making it just fine-fine to wear a onesie to the airport. In 2013, thick, mega, for-real eyebrows—to be clear, not the “more” version of a clean arch; I mean face-dominating aesthetic pillars—moved from a niche idea to a regular thing.

Related: Kim Kardashian’s baby, North West—who I found out late was a girl; didn’t anyone else see North, the 1994 Elijah Wood fantastamaboringa?—has some legit eyebrows, which meant Kim was accused of waxing them, which is both absurd and mean. Also, I guess Kim is another aspect of the year in girls, so I’ll just wedge her in here.

BEING UNLIKABLE

The ways in which real and fictional women are and are not likeable was a question both asked and sort-of answered in pop culture this year, liiiike when some Breaking Bad watchers decided that Skyler White was unfairly wife-ing up Walter’s final-season menace parade (Anna Gunn, the actress who plays Skyler, wrote a solid op-ed about it), and in “you in danger, girl” movies liiiiike The Bling Ring and Spring Breakers, and in Claire Messud’s book The Woman Upstairs and its “would you be her friend tho” review cycle, aaaaand liiiiike the likability battle between a Jennifer Lawrence and an Anne Hathaway. I just want everyone to be safe and happy, so I think I have pirouetted myself out of this discussion, but it seemed interesting for the rest of you this year.

MONOGRAMS

I guess it was those Clare Vivier bags that really did it? My ancient and beloved ID bracelet precludes me from wearing too many initialized accessories, but this variety of explicit, Instagramable personalization was a rager in 2013. As a sub-head here, I guess I should mention those designer logo riffs on tees and hats, buuuuut they seem a lot more cynical and less on-zeitgeist than “THESE ARE MY LETTERS! THIS IS ME!” so let’s leave it at that.

CHELSEA PERETTI

This is my list, and I will do whatever I want, and I choose Chelmillionaire as my personal Nike Sky Hi-light of the year in girl. Chelsea’s stupid-sounding but deeply funny and perfectly self-indulgent podcast Call Chelsea Peretti started in 2012, but I didn’t get into it until earlier this year, so it counts—plus girl is on Brooklyn Nine-Nine doing more comedy with her iPhone case in the background than exists in total on other shows, plus-plus she has reached the all-caps-y zenith of Twitter. Year of Chelsea.
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3429 May 3, 2014
JUICE

Juicing was correctly identified this year as the quintessential girl food trend, beating out gluten-free everything because gluten-free is still food. Juicing is cute because it’s tasty, expensive, and ostensibly healthy but often very, very, very sugary—thus owning all four food-related Girl Quadrants.

STYLE

Cracking open the style piñata of 2013 girldom reveals a few weird 2012 repeats. We’re still with the “who, me?” ripped jean-knees, the ubiqui arm parties (that’s Man Repeller for a few inches of multi-media bracelets), and the embellished, bejeweled, printed, cropped, and cut-up sweatshirt, which held its post-Kenzo heat steady this year. This was a nice outcome because nothing is more ideally wearable and appealing than a sweatshirt, but it was also a little sad because I want sweatshirts with puffy arms and awkward cuts to be available to me as a “visiting my parents” closet choice, and not a replayed, overdone fashion thing.

Anyways, this year was really about THE POINT: pointy nails, pointy rings, and pointy bracelets, necklaces, and earrings, in zigzag, lightning, diamond, and spike formations—delicate and gold and tiny in scope but jutting every which way. I guess pointy-toed pumps were also back, but D’Orsay flats easily overwhelmed them, at least in my vision. Also, on the issue of 2013 rings, I’m not so sure about the ones that ride way up above the knuckle. What do you think? They’re weird, right?

LORDE, MILEY, TAYLOR

And HAIM too, but they fit in my subtitle less neatly. Much of the serious music and music-industry discussion in 2013 swung around those three girls like ribbons on a maypole, between “Royals”(actually 2012 but you know what I mean), the Sinead stuff, the beige latex panties,“Wrecking Ball,” and the kitty-cat and birthday party Instagrams, and even considering the concern-trolling, beauty standards, pop wars, something, something, something, they seemed to just… handle it.

BEYONCÉ

If I had written this last week when I was really supposed to (my schedule is on a three-to-seven day delay because I got so, so sick), Queen B would have been the pink-on-black flag planted firmly on Girl Mountain. But now it feels weird to end on something so obviously the pinnacle of the year in girl, so how about I put Bey second to last? Sure.

Related: WASN’T THAT CRAZY THOUGH?
Kate Carraway

New York, NY

#3430 May 3, 2014
COZY

This month sometime Hello Giggles boss @sofifii tweeted,“I think a 2014 trend is going be grown women sleeping with teddy bears and childhood blankets.” This is also my prediction for 2014. I recently discovered that I have a blankie that I not only sleep with but also bring with me to my desk in the morning to make my 5 AM wake-up feel a lot better. I’m pretty sure that a renewed (or new, I guess, either way) sense of self-care and self-reliance—which includes a commitment to basic tactile comfort in order to generate the mind and body energies required of a 2014-style, self-sufficient, independent, cool-customer “Grown Woman”(callback!)—will be important. I mean maybe not with actual teddy bears, but let’s take an opportunity to be alone with ourselves and our soft things once in a while (I recommend Friday nights), so next year’s girl in review will be about how we all did amazing stuff at work, were kind to each other, had fun, and went to bed all exhausted but done.

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