Truman

It ain't that serious

Held up a cup and said up the ra for the price of a pint btw

some days you wake up and think "im the goat" and some days you think "my blood is wrong. something is seriously wrong with my blood"

Just had a lovely woman in our shop in Donegal, searching for her lost twin sister. Appreciate it if my Irish followers would retweet this. Thank you.

A Donegal man was this morning charged with 28 counts of sexual assault against 3 little girls. They're wrecking Dublin, not Donegal, because none of this mob care how many thousands of women or girls are sexually assaulted if a foreigner isn't involved. Pathetic bullies.

NEVER DOOM.

I wipe my tears away. I will get up out of bed. I will shower. I will get dressed. I will conquer this day like I do every other day. As long as I'm standing I am not defeated.

The western media has no interest in these hostage stories because it doesn’t see Palestinians as human beings. This will forever be a stain on humanity.

A message from a Kindergarten teacher: After forty years in the classroom, my career ended with one small sentence from a six-year-old: “My dad says people like you don’t matter anymore.” No sneer. No malice. Just quiet honesty — the kind that cuts deeper because it’s innocent. He blinked, then added, “You don’t even have a TikTok.” My name is Mrs. Clara Holt, and for four decades, I taught kindergarten in a small Denver suburb. Today, I stacked the last box on my desk and locked the door behind me. When I started teaching in the early 1980s, it felt like a promise — a shared belief that what we did mattered. We weren’t rich, but we were valued. Parents brought warm cookies to parent nights. Kids gave you handmade cards with hearts that didn’t quite line up. Watching a child sound out their first sentence felt like magic. But that world slowly slipped away. The job I once knew has been replaced by exhaustion, red tape, and a kind of loneliness I can’t quite describe. My evenings used to be filled with construction paper, glitter, and glue sticks. Now they’re spent filling out digital reports to protect myself from angry emails or lawsuits. I’ve been yelled at by parents in front of twenty-five children — one filming me with his phone while I tried to calm another child mid-meltdown. And the kids… they’ve changed too. Not by choice. They arrive tired, anxious, overstimulated. Their tiny fingers know how to swipe a screen before they can hold a crayon. Some can’t make eye contact or wait in line. We’re expected to fix all of it — to patch the gaps, heal the trauma, teach the curriculum, and document every move — in six hours a day, with resources that barely fill a drawer. The little reading corner I once built, full of soft beanbags and paper stars, was replaced by data charts and “learning metrics.” A young principal once told me, “Clara, maybe you’re too nurturing. The district wants measurable results.” As if kindness were a weakness. Still, I stayed. Because of the small, holy moments that no spreadsheet could measure — a whisper of, “You remind me of my grandma.” a shaky note that read, “I feel safe here.” a quiet boy finally meeting my eyes and saying, “I read the whole page.” Those tiny sparks were my reason to keep showing up. But this last year broke something in me. The aggression grew sharper. The laughter in the staff room turned to silence. The light went out of so many eyes. I watched brilliant teachers — my friends — vanish under the weight of burnout, their joy replaced by survival. I felt myself fading too, like chalk on a board that’s been wiped one too many times. So today, I began my goodbye. I pulled faded art off the walls and tucked thirty years of handmade cards into a single box. In the back of a drawer, I found a letter from a student from 1998: “Thank you for loving me when I was hard to love.” I sat on the floor and cried. No party. No applause. Just a handshake from a young principal who called me “Ma’am” while checking his notifications. I left my rocking chair behind, and my sticker box too. What I carried with me were the memories — the faces of hundreds of children who once trusted me enough to reach out their hands and learn. That can’t be uploaded. It can’t be measured. It can’t be replaced. I miss when teachers were partners, not targets. When parents and educators worked side by side, not in opposition. When schools cared more about wonder than numbers. So if you know a teacher — any teacher — thank them. Not with a mug or a gift card, but with your words. With your respect. With your understanding that behind every test score is a heart that cared enough to try. Because in a world that often overlooks them, teachers are the ones who never forget our children.

I find it bleak that ChatGPT now has more users than Wikipedia. Many people would rather be spoon-fed information by a machine than read and research for themselves. Tech isn't just making us dumber. Worse than that: it's killing curiosity itself and the desire to learn.

May Allah protect the children and all the people of Palestine.

Amsterdam: At least 250,000 people attended massive pro-Palestine protest today.

A Palestinian girl, Shahed, draws as she waits for the Global Sumud Flotilla on the shores of Gaza.

They are now killing people who posted abt their crimes inside their homes. They are killing injured people inside the hospitals. They are killing children in their school uniforms. Most of our social media apps are banned. Don't let our government silence us. #Nepalprotest

Now it is more important than ever to see the frankly horrifying documentary film that is No Other Land. A haunting portrait of what is happening right in front of our eyes. And an ode to the courageous mission that the camera operator Odeh Hathaleen had undertaken. 🖤

🚨Journalist Anas Al-Sharif 1997 – 2025 Assassinated by Israel in Gaza last night.

NEVER DOOM.