Stephanie Sheffield

Fuck it magic beans for surgeon general, a rock that keeps tigers away to replace the joint chiefs, every scotus justice is now just a different season of American Idol

death cult demands more death they want you to die they want you to die of cold they want you to die of measles they want you to die of hunger they want you to die of AIDS they want you to die of dioxin they want you to die of cancer they want you to die pregnant they want you to die giving birth they want you to die not giving birth they want you to die in a hurricane they want you to die in a flood they want you to die in a heatwave they want you to die for your crimes they want you to die for theirs they want you to die in their secret chats they want you to die for their photo ops they want you to die of despair they want you to die

death cult demands more death asociologist.com/2025/04/01/d...

we believe we are special and we simply are not

@corybooker.com hello I used to run the Wendy’s Twitter account and I am begging you to let me help you with the dems social media strategy, I will literally do it for free at this point

i have a cross stitch hanging in my home that says, in yiddish, מיר וועלן זיי איבערלעבן—we will outlive them—in pink and blue. every single day from here to eternity, a trans person will know emself for the first time. there's nothing they can do about it.

Counting, This New Year’s Morning, What Powers Yet Remain To Me by Jane Hirshfield The world asks, as it asks daily: And what can you make, can you do, to change my deep-broken, fractured? I count, this first day of another year, what remains. I have a mountain, a kitchen, two hands. Can admire with two eyes the mountain, actual, recalcitrant, shuffling its pebbles, sheltering foxes and beetles. Can make black-eyed peas and collards. Can make, from last year’s late-ripening persimmons, a pudding. Can climb a stepladder, change the bulb in a track light. For four years, I woke each day first to the mountain, then to the question. The feet of the new sufferings followed the feet of the old, and still they surprised. I brought salt, brought oil, to the question. Brought sweet tea, brought postcards and stamps. For four years, each day, something. Stone did not become apple. War did not become peace. Yet joy still stays joy. Sequins stay sequins. Words still bespangle, bewilder. Today, I woke without answer. The day answers, unpockets a thought from a friend don’t despair of this falling world, not yet didn’t it give you the asking

I count, this first day of another year, what remains.

—Jane Hirshfield

Canned cranberry sauce, unsliced and with prominent ribbing, presented standing vertically on a fancy-ass plate amid an autumnal table setting, a glass dome having been doffed backward to reveal it.

[S] Farewell 2024, and whatever 2025 may bring, let's make the most of it.

Well, yes, obviously.

Matthew Yglesias tweet: “Before doing something weird and panicky like dumping the VP or challenging an incumbent president, Democrats should try something normal like being 5-10% less progressive across a broad swathe of issues.”

We can work with this:
Medicare for the Bottom 95% (means-testing sucks but compromise!)
Defund 90% of the Police
Abortion on Demand with Insincere Apology
Drag Queen 54-minute Story Time
95% Jubilee for College Debt
Trans athletes can compete unless they roll 1 on a d20 right before the match