If you get food stamps, you are basically a fed, and you should start acting like it. Not like some kid acting out like he's crazy.
The worst drugs I ever did were the wrong pharmaceuticals prescribed by the wrong doctors, from the age of 13. At this point I feel that I do need the medication I'm on. It hasn't even been on the market for long. I may or may not have needed it all along, there is absolutely no way to know. I feel that it's helpful to point this out, it's absolutely true, and it's an act of kindness to tell my story to others who might follow in my footsteps.
Respect your mom. No one is perfect. If I were the father of a kid a doctor wanted to medicate, I would tell the doctor to be absolutely sure the medication was correct and would not worsen the condition, or I would feed the doctor their own body parts even if it meant prison time.
When crimes against humanity become culture, empires eventually fall.
Ben couldn't get the woman leading the first group he attended out of his mind. He had been scooped up from a homeless existence, patched up on medicine, stuck in a tiny studio apartment, and mandated to attend the groups. The woman had told her story to everyone the first night. Years ago, she had been someone like they all were. She had almost died in an abusive relationship. Her boyfriend had attacked her brutally, collapsing her ribcage into her internal organs, leaving her for dead, but she had managed to call an ambulance. He had been sentenced to prison when it went to trial, and he had been murdered in prison. Ben had been early to the first group, he had been the first one there. Hearing the nice woman tell her story so calmly had turned his blood as cold as ice. He had sat there as she talked about it, shivering. She had been so nice when he had walked in at first. He might have imagined it, but thought there was some attraction there. As everyone got to know each other at the sessions, Ben's story started coming out of him, new even to Ben himself. He had had no mother figure to speak of, really. The woman who was probably his mother had kept him locked in a cellar like an animal until he had escaped at a young age to be homeless. He had grown up in that environment, a completely feral human being. He was almost a fully grown man when he first fell in love, with a prostitute. Nothing could have ever happened between them. One night a man beat her so badly that her face was bleeding, dragging herself on one bad leg down the busy strip. Ben was there in the shadows, trying to look out for her, but too scared like an animal to do much. An expensive sportscar pulled up to her, the window rolled down, and another man tried to hire her again on the spot. Ben lept out of the shadows, through the window, and pulled the man out by his throat. The car kept rolling, Ben dragging the man out and beating him to death with his bare hands. Ben made that shit up for that nice lady's benefit. He wanted to impress her. Unfortunately, she believed him. She was scared of him for a long time after that. Ben was just crazy, he didn't even know what hole he had climbed out of. It was bad. He had fallen head over heels for that nice, traumatized, wonderful lady. He was always early to the groups, he was usually the first one there. Her fear subsided as he was always respectful to her. She probably figured out how crazy he was. He couldn't do anything about it. His mind involuntarily fantasized about her in strange ways. She would stand there naked in his mind, but it wasn't even sexual. She stood there as if for a medical examination or to get a tattoo. Ben started to realize that she was crazy too. He made the most progress out of anyone in the group. He was extremely motivated, and it was all by his love for her. She wore a wedding ring, but she never spoke of any man. Ben was going to be a leader of one of these groups someday. It hurt to be around her. It hurt to wake up, to fall asleep, everything in between, and to dream. Ben started to figure out his actual story. It hurt to not tell anyone. The world felt like it was melting sometimes when he sat there in the groups, struggling to hold it together, to not be crazy. One night he got there early like he always did, he was the first one there like he always was. She awkwardly walked right up to him before she started like she always did, and she gave him a hug that left him dizzy. She stared him down as she turned to continue getting everything ready for the group.
You'll never catch me
Marijuana is a specter that looms over communism in America today.
Let's all worry about our own problems here, shall we? Worry hard, little bitches.
I've always been different, hear me out. I can pick my nose with my finger, but I can't pick your nose with your finger.
They need to pump carcinogens into the environment and spray us with them like cleansed outliers, because otherwise they won't be able to produce as much fewd and we will eat each other. I mean just look at our human tendencies, don't deny you've always been a cannibal waiting to happen. I completely understand where they're coming from, I even admit I did just try to eat them. Old rich white men do sound delicious to me, I would have poisoned a guy like me too. I really do just need more fruit and less poison in my diet.
Maybe I am basically you and I can see your point of view after all.
To paraphrase Boltzmann, the probability that you are a disembodied consciousness hallucinating everything around you is higher than the probability of this whole universe existing at all... except that sounds completely insane, doesn't it?