City Slicker

If you're a landowner, and your land is being targeted by any entity, whether state/local/energy company, etc...Fill out a detailed report at USDA.Gov/lawfare There is a team looking at every report to determine what can be done. We must protect American farm/ranch land.

Worth a read! 😍 My mom wanted to send me homemade pickles. But I said ‘no’. I was 27, living in New York, working on Wall Street. I didn't need pickles shipped across the world. The shipping would cost more than buying them here. Three years later, I read the psychologist take on what I'd actually done. When you reject someone's offer to help, you're not just declining assistance. You're declining their need to matter to you! Benjamin Franklin figured this out in 1736. He had a rival in the Pennsylvania legislature who hated him. Instead of trying to win him over with favors, Franklin asked the rival to lend him a rare book. The rival agreed. They became lifelong friends. It's called the Ben Franklin effect.When people do something for you, they convince themselves they must like you. Otherwise, why would they help? My mom didn't want to send pickles because I needed them. She wanted to send them because SHE needed to feel useful to me. To feel like despite the ocean between us, she still had a role in my life. Every time I said "I'll manage," I was taking that away from her. Here's what I learned after a decade of living away from home: → Accepting small favors isn't about you needing help. It's about letting people you love feel needed. Your dad wants to transfer ₹5000 even though you earn well? Let him. Your friend wants to pick you up from the airport even though Uber exists? Say yes. Your partner wants to make you tea even though you can make it yourself? Accept it. The people who love you don't want to solve your big problems. They want to matter in your small moments. Let them. #lifelesson

@bekahj Phil Wikham, Forrest Frank

I need to fill my head with the sounds of glorious Christian music to drown out all the evil swirling around me What is your favorite Christian song and artist?

@CPAC @bennyjohnson And our gas keeps going up...

Once Again, Trump was Right as Oil Prices Fall @bennyjohnson

This was sent to me written by @UnseenWyoGal , I’m sharing for her as I don’t have a character limit , we pray Catholics hear her heart on this 💜 Imagine this: Your dearest friends - people you love more than life itself - have been kidnapped by a ruthless creditor. They owe an impossible debt they could never pay, and the kidnappers have made it clear: either the debt is paid in full (plus an enormous “insurance” sum to guarantee it never happens again), or your friends will die. You alone have the means to pay. Out of pure, sacrificial love, you liquidate everything you own. You don’t just write a check - you empty your bank accounts, sell your house, and give your own blood, sweat, and very life if that’s what it takes. You pay the price a thousand times over. You don’t ask your friends to earn their freedom or pay you back. All you ask is this: “Remember what I did. Come to me. Talk to me. Live in the freedom I bought for you, and let your lives show that you know the cost.” The day they’re released, they’re overjoyed. But they never call you. They never look you in the eyes and say, “Thank you for what you paid.” Instead, they start calling your mother every single day. They praise her endlessly for giving birth to the one who was willing to save them. They build beautiful shrines in her honor. They write songs and poems about her tenderness and her “yes” that made the rescuer possible. They ask her to put in a good word for them with you. And at the very end of every long, glowing conversation with her, they sometimes add (almost as an afterthought), “Oh, and please tell your son we’re grateful for what he did.” They never reach out to you directly. They never sit with you. They never let their gratitude rest fully on the one who actually paid the ransom. How would that feel? Not because you resent your mother. She’s wonderful! And she did play a beautiful, irreplaceable role in bringing the rescuer into the world. But because the love, the glory, the relationship, and the direct thank-you that belong to the one who paid everything are being redirected. The very people you bled for are missing the heart of what you did. Their admiration is sincere, but it’s misplaced. And in being misplaced, it quietly breaks the heart of the one who loved them enough to pay a price they could never pay themselves. That’s what the constant exaltation of Mary feels like to Jesus. It’s not that honoring Mary is wrong. It’s that when our songs, our prayers, our devotion, and our deepest gratitude are poured out to her first and most (while Jesus receives only the occasional “and tell your Son thanks”) we have unintentionally done the very thing He never asked for. We have taken the spotlight off the Savior and placed it on the one who carried Him. The ransom was paid by Him alone. The relationship He died to restore is with Him. And the gratitude He longs for is the kind that runs straight to His arms, not through someone else’s. That’s the gentle but serious correction the analogy I've ruminated on for days is trying to make: Jesus isn’t threatened by Mary. He’s grieved when the people He redeemed treat His sacrifice as secondary to the honor of the woman who gave Him birth.

They did not take cursive from the schools because children no longer needed it. They took it because of what it was quietly building in them. Consider what the exercise actually is. A child, six years old, is handed a pen and asked to draw a single unbroken line that becomes a word. The wrist must float. The fingers must hold a living pressure, never quite the same twice, always correcting. The eye must follow the ink forward and trust the hand to finish what it has begun. There is no lifting, no stopping, no starting over mid-word. The loop must close. The ascender must rise and return. The sentence must travel from one margin to the other as a single continuous gesture, and at the end of it the hand must still be steady. Twelve years of this. Every day. Ten thousand small acts of sustained, self-correcting attention, carried out below the level of conscious thought, until the motion belongs to the body and the body belongs to the motion. This is not penmanship. It is the slow construction of an interior form. The hand that has learned to carry a line without breaking it is the hand of a mind that has learned to carry a thought without breaking it. The two are not metaphors for one another. They are the same faculty, trained in the same child, by the same daily discipline. Continuity of the stroke becomes continuity of the reasoning. The patience of the loop becomes the patience of the argument. The commitment to finish a word one has started becomes the commitment to finish a sentence, a paragraph, a life's idea, without reaching for the nearest distraction halfway through. Print is a different creature entirely. Print lifts. Print stops. Print assembles a word out of separate, stamped, interchangeable pieces, each one beginning and ending in isolation. A mind raised only on print learns to think the way print is made, in discrete tokens, in replaceable units, in fragments that can be recombined by any outside hand without the owner noticing the substitution. It is precisely the shape of thought a language model produces. It is precisely the shape of thought a language model can steer. Cursive is kata. This is the whole of it. A form repeated daily, for years, not for the sake of the form but for what the repetition lays down in the practitioner beneath the form. The swordsman does not train kata so that one day he may fight in kata. He trains it so that when the moment comes and there is no time to think, the movement is already inside him, older and deeper than thought, and it rises on its own. Cursive was the kata of the literate mind, the daily quiet drilling of continuity, of patience, of a line held steady under the long pressure of its own length. And the signature it produced at the end, that small flourished mark unique to a single human being on earth, was only the outward proof of an inward form no machine and no other hand could ever reproduce. Take the kata away and the practitioner is left with vocabulary in place of faculty. He can recognise a whole thought when he encounters one. He cannot carry one himself. He can admire a finished argument. He cannot sustain one long enough to close its loop. He begins books he does not finish, sentences he does not end, ideas he abandons the moment the screen in his palm offers him a brighter one. And when the machine begins feeding him tokens in the exact shape his schooling taught him to receive, he meets it with no interior resistance at all, because no interior form was ever built in him to push back with. They removed it quietly, across a generation, and they removed it in the last years before the machines arrived. Twelve years of daily practice in unbroken, embodied, self-authored thought, gone from the curriculum of almost every child in the Western world, just as the instruments designed to complete their sentences for them came online. The hand forgets. The mind, having never been taught the kata, forgets a thing it never knew it had. That is what cursive was. That is what was taken. And that is why the thought of anyone who still writes by hand, in long unlifted lines, remains, quietly, stubbornly, and without their ever needing to announce it, their own. Now the question stands open. What else has been banned, phased out, quietly retired from the curriculum and from common life over these same decades, under the same soft excuses? Mental arithmetic. Memorisation of poetry. Latin. Logic as a formal subject. Map reading. Knot work. The keeping of a commonplace book. The reading aloud of long passages in class. Singing in parts. What was each of those actually building in the child, beneath the surface of the lesson, and whose interest was served by its disappearance?

@shouq_al90149 Mildred

Vintage old Lady name for this dog please 🥺

@FiredUpCoug Im a retired photographer due to having an eyeball stroke. I use to run The F.I.L.M. Project. We took photos of terminally ill people for free. It was one of the biggest blessings in my life.

I did an engagement shoot at the Capitol in Salt Lake today. There were hundreds of teenagers there taking prom pictures, with dozens of professional photographers all over the grounds. During the shoot, while my clients were taking a break, I saw a young couple trying to set up an older camera on a tripod with a timer so they could take their own photos. Between the camera, the tripod setup, and the fact that they didn’t have a photographer with them, I got the impression that money was tight. I asked if I could help by taking a photo for them. I took the girl’s camera off the tripod, made a little show of trying to figure it out, and then said, “I’m terrible at learning new cameras. How about I just use mine instead?” They happily agreed and I gave them a mini photo session. When I showed them the images on the back of my camera, their faces just lit up. The young woman offered to pay me and asked for my Venmo. Of course, I refused. I told her all I needed was their phone numbers so I could send them the finished photos. I edited them tonight and sent them over a little while ago. They replied right away, thanking me profusely. I’m so grateful for the talent God has blessed me with. It’s wonderful when photography brings in a little extra money, but the real reward is moments like this, when something you’ve spent years developing becomes a gift you can give away. Tonight, two kids who might not have been able to afford prom photos still got to leave with something beautiful. Seeing their smiles and receiving their gratitude was even better than getting paid.

Today my 86 year old mom asked me what Marijuana smells like. She thinks her neighbor in the senior living place is 'using' it.

@ick_real Minerva

I'm looking for a ridiculously old-fashioned girl's name for our new born . Think great-grandma name. Very old and rare. Any suggestions asap pls?

The public school system isn't what we thought. "​I’m literally getting my degree in education right now and what I just found in my textbook is terrifying. This isn't just a "conspiracy" anymore—it’s written in black and white." ​Parents, you NEED to see this.

Husband Declared Brain Dead by Doctors Fought for Life Until the Very End ♥️💔♥️💔♥️💔♥️💔♥️ In Kingwood Texas a young married couple made a solemn promise. They vowed never to withdraw life support if one of them was ever called brain dead. They wanted every possible chance for recovery. Both immediately took their names off the organ donor registry. Just two months later tragedy struck without warning. Francisco Javier Villa Rocha known to family and friends as Jay was only thirty years old. After drinking an energy drink he suffered a sudden brain aneurysm. Doctors performed coil surgery but soon pronounced him brain dead. His wife Dianne Nguyen refused to accept the diagnosis. She stayed by his side through the weekend and saw unmistakable signs of life including tears streaming down his face. The organ procurement organization LifeGift contacted her repeatedly and pushed hard for consent to donate his organs. She turned them down every single time. Hospital staff insisted Jay had massive bleeding and a nonfunctioning brain stem. Yet Dianne kept fighting. When she brought in a lawyer and demanded that her husband receive basic nutrition the hospital had been withholding from potential organ donors something remarkable happened. Jay found the strength to squeeze her hand and would not let go. Tragically Jay passed away that same night. The cause was not the original aneurysm. He developed severe infections in the intensive care unit that led to blood clots in his lungs sepsis and pneumonia. A private medical examiner later reviewed the case and reached a very different conclusion. There had been only minimal bleeding nowhere near enough to destroy brain function. The brain stem showed no signs of death or serious damage. Medical records revealed Jay had been given heavy doses of powerful drugs every day. Fentanyl suppressed brain activity and kept him dependent on the ventilator. Propofol held him in an induced coma. Nimbex a paralytic prevented any movement or reflexes and even altered his pupils so he failed the apnea test used to confirm brain death. Dianne gathered the autopsy report toxicology results full hospital records and statements from the independent examiner. She also lined up medical experts and testimonies from other people who had survived brain death declarations. No attorney would take the case. Under Texas law brain death equals legal death and the organ transplant system carries strong legal protections. The industry is worth billions of dollars and critics say the definition itself was created to make organ recovery possible without being labeled homicide. Today Dianne runs a Facebook group called The Right to Fight. She posts daily stories from brain death survivors families and medical whistleblowers. Together with others she is pushing for real reform in Congress so families can protect their loved ones and demand genuine second chances. What would you do if doctors told you to give up on someone you love?⬇️ change.org/TheRightToFight

What a way to ruin a pretty sunset.

@JesusIsMyKingX @jjauthor Amen

If you believe Jesus rose from the dead, type Amen.

Understand this: The movies and shows about the crucifixion have been tame when compared to what He actually went through. Even The Passion Of The Christ was forced to hold back a little in order to avoid an X rating. Crucifixion was, and still is, arguably the most excruciating death someone can experience. The night before in Gethsemane, He was sweating blood. This is known as hematidrosis. This would have caused His skin to become extremely sensitive, thus making the beatings to come even worse. The fear He felt was the beginning of His feeling the weight of our iniquities being laid on Him. Yet - in this moment, He didn’t demand that the Father take it from Him. He only asked for the cup to pass Him over if it was within the Father’s will. Up next came the Cat of Nine Tails, or a Roman Flagrum. This was a weapon with long leather “tails”, each embedded with sharp bones and metal. He was flogged 39 times as Jewish law mandated “40 minus one”, because 40 was said to kill a man. This flogging wasn’t like being punished by your father’s leather belt. Every strike tore flesh, every strike exposed muscle. Every strike exposed nerve endings. Every strike tore flesh to the bone. This would be like getting struck with razor blades over and over again, leading to hypovolemic shock from blood loss. Oh, and the crown of thorns? These weren’t rose thorns. These were thorns which were 2-3 inches long. Beaten into his skull. These thorns would have pierced his skull, tripping the trigeminal nerve, thus causing unimaginable pain and even more blood loss from the dozens of head wounds. At this point, extreme nausea and dizziness would begin to set in. What came next? Carrying the cross. Which weighed around 300lbs. This would be like carrying two full kegs on your back. Splinters and wood grating against the open flesh on His back. And He had to carry it 650 yards, or close to a half mile. Imagine carrying a log on your back after being skinned alive. Up next? He was nailed to the cross with spikes 5-7in in length. Piercing His wrists - this no doubt pierced the median nerve, causing extreme burning sensations up and down His arms. A spike was driven through his ankles - severing nerves and tendons. This would have felt like standing on broken glass every time He pushed Himself up in order to breathe. He suffered for 6 hours. His chest muscles collapsing, making every single breath a fight for life. His shoulders were dislocated, His arms stretching unnaturally long. His heart was struggling to pump blood. He was extremely dehydrated, His lips cracking. His heart more than likely literally ruptured from the stress. And on top of all of that, He had to feel a separation with the Father for a period of time in order to REALLY bear the weight of our sin. He took up this burden for ALL sin before Him, and ALL sin which came after Him. HE DID IT ALL FOR US. To free us. To defeat sin. To give us a pathway to the Kingdom. Every sin we commit is exactly why He had to do it. And the real kicker? He knew what was coming when He rode into Jerusalem … and He didn’t turn around. He kept going. For us.

This was not written by me, but it touched me deeply… Sunday is coming. “He received 39 stripes because 40 was known to kill a man. They wanted him alive. They held handfuls of his beard, and hair and pulled it out by the roots. They wanted him alive. They kicked, punched, and spit on him for hours. Until there wasn't a single spot on his body not covered in blood. They wanted him alive. They shoved a crown of thorns down on his head so harshly it stuck in his skin. They wanted him alive. After hours of being beaten, mocked, whipped, flogged, and tortured they made him walk with a cross. They made him carry it. A rough piece of wood with splinters digging into fresh wounds. They wanted him alive. They wanted him to feel every ounce of pain they could bring. He had to feel it in order to heal us. Crucifixion was historically one of the cruelest most tortured deaths a human could face. Hours upon hours of torture. Torture most of us can not mentally think of because the cruelty isn't normal. It isn't something our minds can comprehend. We celebrate Easter with pastel colors, happy children hunting eggs, and chocolate. Truth is there was absolutely nothing happy about the day Jesus died. It was cruel, bloody, and nasty. He could have stopped all of it. He could have called every angel in heaven to demolish every person standing and shouting "Crucify Him!" He didn't. He knew in order to have a Sunday you have to have a Friday. He knew in order to have joy you have to carry your cross. He felt everything that day. He felt how your heart broke wide open when you had to watch your baby die. He felt how heavy your life was when you were staring down the barrel of a gun wondering if the man you called husband was going to shoot you. He carried the weight of the burden you have felt since your spouse died, and life just doesn't seem right since. On that cross he held the rapist and murderers, the sinner and the saint. He leveled every playing field and said ALL of you are worth it. He knew he had to carry the cross. He never promised the cross you carry in this life would not be heavy. His wasn't. His promise is that Sunday is coming. No matter how heavy Friday is. Financially, emotionally, mentally, or physically. Friday is heavy. That cross is weighing you down and you are about to crumble under its weight. His promise was simply this. He won't make you carry it alone. What kind of king would step down from his throne for this? Jesus of Nazareth, the Son of God did. For you. He did every bit of it for you and me. Oh yes, it is heavy. So heavy sometimes you do not think you can take one more step. But look up, because Sunday is coming.”

This really happened… “All of the animals died during the ‘Covid Vaccine’ trials…” Pfizer HALTED animal tests on the ‘Covid Vaccines’ because the ANIMALS DIED…but Gates bankrolled it and Fauci RAMMED the deadly shots into BILLIONS of people anyway. ARREST THEM BOTH NOW

@ThrillaRilla369 Wrists-#1-fell into the isle of a train taking a curve. #2-fell on playground. #3-fell skating. #4-fell on new years eve at a sober dance. #5-sliped on ice. Also broke my ankle missing a step, while photographing a prom group.

Who here has broken a bone in their lifetime and how’d you do it? I broke my arm thinking I could skateboard when I was in high school 🛹

@ThrillaRilla369 I did. Now I help with 2 of the 5 grandkids.

To the women who are on this app, be honest If you could stay home, raise babies and run a cozy homemaker life.. Would you??

@ThrillaRilla369 Get my dog a dog.

If your Muslim neighbor says you must get rid of your dog to respect Islam, what would you do?