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So, yeah, in case you didn’t know. This is totally a real law. If you didn’t wipe your butt properly, any prayer or study you’ve done during that time is a sin instead of a virtue. The same law (guf naki) that argues that some women shouldn’t be allowed to do pretty much anything holy for a few days every month.

Look. In this post, I’m not coming to argue some complex philosophical point. There are times where details are important.

But hey, doesn’t it sometimes seem like we’re getting set up to fail? Like no matter how hard you try, there’s always some law you’re breaking? Isn’t life complicated enough as it is without adding these layers of OCD insanity on to them in an attempt to “add meaning”?

It has often seemed to me like losing the forest among the trees is not something we should blame the people who follow Judaism for.

We should blame the system itself. Look at how many books of laws there out there. Are there as many books about how to lead a happy life? Show me one classical book devoted to having a happy marriage. I challenge you.

I argue that the misprioritization is in the text itself. It’s in the fiber of the religion. Look how many more don’ts the Torah has than do’s. Look how many more curses the Torah describes for people who break the law (eating your own children, anyone?) than it does blessing you when you do the right thing.

I am someone who is inherently hard on himself, who tries so hard to be a good person, who cares so much about doing the right thing. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it, no need to hold a gun to my head. And I absolutely need more blessings than curses if I am to get through the day.

To me, structuring the religion in such a way that it has a myriad of things you can fuck up which vastly outweigh any amount of good you can possibly do, is not taking me and my personality into account.

Now you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some feeling good about myself to take care of.

The Sweetness of Melons

“Never was there as happy a time,” the Mishna says, “than Tu B’av. Because on that day all the young ladies would go out to the vineyards to sing and dance, and the dudes would hide in the trees and pick out the one they wanted to marry.”

Have you ever wondered to yourself, WTF? Since when is moping around in a tree looking at women dance and sing a permissible activity for a Tu B’av afternoon? Last I noticed, the mechitzas were arranged the other way around.

And then there’s Tu Bishvat. (What’s with all the Tu’s? Is it maybe something to do with the full moon? I wonder…) The birthday of the trees? Really? A holiday with zero significance in Jewish life, which no one has figured out how to celebrate or mark. Constipation on dried fruit, anyone? It’s like the appendix of Jewish holidays. No one knows why it’s there.

So… is this maybe an allusion to a previous time? When halacha hadn’t been invented yet? When a celebration of sexuality during the harvest was totally a thing? When worshiping trees was more of the done thing than it was today? Maybe that person with the whiteout just didn’t do as good enough a job convincing you that Judaism has always been exactly what it is today, that it didn’t organically evolve from whatever the cultural fabric of the time was.

Oops.

And the list goes on. From the animal sacrifices in the temple, which were totally a thing across all pagan cultures back then (but here it’s to one god, so it’s totally different) or the random stuff you eat on Rosh Hashana night. Maybe it’s time you didn’t try so hard to explain the mystical meaning of things and instead you just shrugged and acknowledge that this is just some dumb thing that people have been doing for a very long time.

And hey. That’s totally fine. We’re all busy doing stupid things for stupid reasons. I think all holidays are dumb. But maybe it’s time you didn’t stand on quite as high a pedestal while touting your superior holidays and their deep significance while bashing everyone else as being retarded for believing in Santa Claus (Eliyahu Hanavi at the end of Seder, anyone?).

Yes, I appreciate that you spend your holidays trying to become a better person while those gentiles around you just get drunk and try to kill Jews. I’m actually not knocking your commitment to growth. But there’s no reason to reach so far into the past, or too abstractly into the present, before you say “Hey, today’s the day I’m gonna try to be a better person.”

48 Habits of Highly Effective People

One of my biggest struggles, even when I was still religious, was with the realization that as a person I had grown way more from therapy and self-help books than from any amount of “Torah wisdom”.

This was unacceptable to me. I didn’t want it to be this way. Torah was wisdom for living, I was taught. It was God’s guidance to me for navigating a complex and treacherous world. I didn’t want advice from some lameass human. I wanted advice from God Himself.

But this wasn’t the case. Not only was Torah unhelpful to me when I sought guidance – for a happy marriage, for dealing with anxiety, for finding satisfaction in life – it actually made things worse. It added a whole layer of complexity to my already complex life, and gave me zero tools to deal with it.

A specific example that I endlessly harp on, is meditation. I used to teach Jewish meditation, and I can tell you that the sources for meditation in Judaism are tenuous at best. A reference here, a tidbit there.

There was apparently not enough room for God to really dive into that whole meditation thing after all the dozens of times the verse “And God spake to Moses and thus He said” had been inserted. He had maxed out his word count.

And yet meditation has changed my life. It has helped me cope with anxiety, understand myself, become more patient, in short, deal with life. Instead of a specific set of results, it’s simply a process, and what happens in that process is uniquely subjective.

The tradition of this PROCESS is an integral part of Buddhist tradition, contrast that with the endless list of Jewish RESULTS, which cannot, by their definition, be subjective. Your Succah is either too tall, or it isn’t.

Torah is all What and Why with very little How. Why couldn’t God teach me to meditate? He taught me how to tie my shoes, surely this is more important?

At this point, it’s your cue insert that trite “There is wisdom amongst the nations as well” line. First of all, you conveniently invoke it when you feel like it. If it hasn’t been on a bestseller list or Oprah, or if it happens to contradict some Jewish idea, you’re far more likely to discredit the whole thing.

And more importantly, I don’t buy it. It’s one thing to have the occasional nugget of wisdom from some heathen. It’s another for non-Jewish sources to consistently out-deliver on the effectiveness and clarity front.

It is unacceptable to me that God sent me more practical wisdom through Stephen Covey than in all the one liners that are the Ethics of the Fathers (and why is that the only Tractate amongst dozens that deals with anything related to character development?)

So if you’re looking for me, you can find me in the self-help section of the library, which I wish I’d spent a lot more time in than I did in Yeshiva.

Guidelines

From the back cover:

“This generation, like every generation before it, is a confusing time. Like all eras, ours is the worst. More than ever, progress (a very unfortunate thing indeed) has created new situations that we are not accustomed to. What is a Jew to do?

How can one can one separate the roses from the thorns? The wheat from the chaff? The trite from the cliché? How can one walk the tightrope, the narrow path, the windy road, the tenuous metaphor without falling off?

Enter Torah. This timeless manuscript, written before earth was even invented yet (Over 7,000 years ago!) is the blueprint for reality itself. For example, the first letter of every word in a certain verse spells the word “Pizza”.

The Torah is your way to make sense of life. To do the right thing, at the right time. Confused? Just flip open this book. You’ll find the answer here.

Sometimes, though, you won’t. Sometimes, the answer isn’t completely clear even though God himself wrote this book, and he wrote it specifically with YOU, (insert name), in mind. But still, you can’t expect Him to do everything, so God has empowered certain people to clarify things for you.

Enter Rabbis. These fearless articulators of God’s word are here to help guide you. To help you find the meaning in the mundane, clarity in the chaos, the right Pizza in the right verse. They are the strawberry sauce to the Torah’s cheesecake – with them, it all comes together in a beautiful symphony of clarity and direction.

And since Rabbis are the best thing since sliced bread, He gave us lots of them. Lots of Rabbis, with lots of opinions. Remember, you should keep all of those opinions, because every Rabbi is special. And every Rabbi is always right. They may be wrong sometimes, but rest assured that they are right then too.

We’re happy to present you this entire book full of contradictory advice, to help guide you in every moment of your life. Not sure what path to take? Take all of them. But be careful not to stray.”

You’re 21. It’s Official!

This a real ad, saving me the effort of needing to Photoshop things.

Here’s a breakdown for those of you who don’t speak retard.

The headline:
You’re toilet trained.
Your pimples are mostly gone.
You know how to read a book in another language. You respectfully listen to everything you’re told, including this ad.
Go make a lot of babies.

The guy:
“Now that I am, taka, 21 years old and pretty much have this thing called life totally figure out, I see no reason why I shouldn’t decide who to marry for the rest of my life and undertake the ultimate responsibility of bringing humans into the world.

I even kind of know how to speak English, and other idiots in my life support my decision because they are similarly delusional. I see no reason this could fail. Marry me.

The shadchan:
“I like fucking up people while they are still young. I actually prefer it. But this English thing is hard, I’m having temporary lapses of yiddish that are affecting my sanity.

And there are TWO sponsoring organizations devoted to the cause. Go them.

Bas Melech

You’re the daughter of a King! A king! How awesome is that?

Not as awesome as being a son, apparently.

I’ve heard, ad nausem, all the apologetic explanations about how women are not less, they’re just DIFFERENT. How the true home is built around the Jewish woman (Look! Jewishness passes through the mother!).

But is that really what it looks like? I was always bothered by the fact that women had almost nothing they needed to DO to make them Jewish. They don’t need to pray, study, or do many of the actions we associate today with Jewishness. They mostly need to NOT do stuff, i.e. show their elbows.

So what makes a kind, positive, nurturing Jewish mother different than a kind, positive, nurturing gentile mother? If it’s all about the kind of kids you raise, “raising a Beautiful Jewish Family” (gag reflex), is the Jewish mother getting automatic bonus points just for being Jewish while she mothers? Meanwhile her husband needs to study in for 16 hours a day to achieve equivalent status.

As an aside, isn’t it kind of crazy that supposedly her entire portion the world to come is dependent on how much Torah her husband (and kids?) studies? Talk about results that are out of your control!

You’ll notice something interesting. While it’s usually the women complaining that they don’t get to do what men do, and the women are there supporting them, I feel the exact opposite. I was always jealous of how little it took to be “a good Jewish woman”.

Do I just need to cover my knees, and I can finish school at 2pm instead of 11pm like my sisters did? I’m down.
Do I just need to not eat treif nor feed it to others and God is totally thrilled with my existence? I like this religion.

As someone who always struggled with the amount of rules, their immense consequences, and the sheer responsibility of constantly trying to understand my role, it seemed like a Jewish woman had a much easier time of it all. For a woman, there are fewer rules to struggle with, and the role is simpler and clearer, even though it’s obviously second place from the perspective of the guys inventing it all.

She doesn’t need to struggle with wondering whether going to sleep at midnight instead of 1 o’clock in the morning is bittul torah. She doesn’t need to wake up at 7am to go pray for an hour. Heck, she’s not even obligated to get married or have kids (that’s the guy’s job, apparently) so even the whole parenting thing isn’t really a Jewish issue for her if she doesn’t want it to be.

The bottom line of all of this? It’s just not fair. It doesn’t take people’s individual personalities, preferences, strengths and weaknesses into account, which is my fundamental issue with organized religion.

Now is your point to sound like my grandfather and remind me that life’s not fair. True. Some people are born without legs. But usually, you can take whatever situation you’ve been handed and make the best of it – if you want, you can teach yourself to climb Everest without legs. You can tell the universe to suck it, fight against all odds to beat your limitations, and end up on Oprah one day.

Not so when your limitation has nothing to do with your circumstances. It’s imposed upon you be some ethereal force. It’s generated by your own mind, and you’re not supposed to fight it, only learn to live with it. It’s worse even than social gender or race biases, because there you can at least get up and fight, but here you’re told – by God Himself and his Chosen Emissaries – to bend over and take it.

And that’s a level of unfairness I’m not willing to live with. Like God giving cancer to babies to supposedly punish their parents. Except here you have the cure for this cancer, and yet you still have the biological males study Torah 24/7 and the biological females check rice for bugs, whether either of them is inclined to or not.

Chapter #1: Kindergarten

I hated Morah Tova for about 12 years. I was proud of how much I hated her. My mother says she was a frustrated artist. I remember telling her she was not invited to my birthday party. She seemed unfazed.

I hated going to kindergarten. I would cry, I am told, every morning on the way there. My daughter does the same thing now, and I feel terrible for passing on the injustice to the next generation.

I missed my mother. I just wanted to be with her, to be home. Where things were familiar and I understood what was happening. The kids would open their mouths and say things, and I only kind of understood – my mother tongue was English and they only spoke Hebrew.

One day one of the kids told me he’d seen my mother pass by on the street below, and that she’d something at him. I didn’t understand the word, it must have been smiled or waved or something. I desperately leaned against the bars of the courtyard hopeing I’d catch a glimpse and she’d something at me too.

There was this one absolutely tiny kid in the class.Even smaller than myself. I still remember his name – Pinchas. Everyone used to pick on him, call him shitty names, beat him up. Evil arises in human from a young age. I used to join in, at least in spirit and the name calling. It always feels good on some level to be the victimizer instead of the victim.

I felt guilty about it for years afterwards. “He who calls someone else a nickname has no place in the world to come.” I had once called him a name. Was my entire purpose on earth forfeited because of one action at the age of four? I could only assume so.

My mouth always got me in trouble. There was this singsong benching tune that everyone would say together after we’d eaten bread for our snack. I was joking with a friend even as the song started. The teacher came over and took my Kippa off my head.

Now I could no longer bench even if I wanted to. I was terribly humiliated, it was like being naked in front of the class. I tried covering my head with my hand, but it didn’t work very well. It lasted forever, and it’s one of my worst memories to this day.

Another time, the school rabbi was in the middle of preaching to us about the parsha. We were supposed to sit quietly on our chairs with our arms crossed. I could resist and I leaned over and said something to the kid next to me. Something hilarious, I’m sure. I’m just a fountain of wit.

The rabbi reprimanded me, and for the rest of the class referred to me as “Tzvi Shalom”. For, just as I was doing the reverse of what I was instructed to, so too was he referring to me with my names in reverse. A very rabbinic thought, to be sure. Everyone laughed and again I was mortified. That’s two for two on worse memories ever.

When bad memories go that far back, they become a part of who you are. There isn’t you and then the memory. It’s just a blackness that’s a part of your being. It’s very hard to shake it, even after years of therapy and hypnosis.

I acknowledge an internal negativity bias that remembers the bad a lot more than the good, but when I think back on my childhood I see mostly blackness, and Gan is mostly a void, devoid of many specific memories.

Continue to Chapter 2.

Chapter #2: Cheder

I used to walk by the cheder at any time of day or night and just hear singing from within. It was magical. At night, the lights would glow from the building. I would tell my mother “Some day I’m going to go there, right?” and she’d say “yes, when you’re big enough”.

The day came. It was time for first grade.

The classroom was underground, with just two small windows in the back. There was florescent lighting, but I still remember it as incredibly dark. We were 35 kids in a class, sitting on wooden benches arranged in a U shape around the rabbi.

Rabbi Avraham Cohen. He was one intense fellow. He had a tremendously powerful voice. It would carry way above our own little voices as we started chanting the entire chumash, 40 times. He had a beautiful voice, and I would love to hear him sing. He rarely smiled, so when he did, you knew you had done something incredible. God was shining his light upon you for once. Take pleasure.

We started chanting on the very first day. I remember there was something magical about Genesis. Years later I learned that scholars believe that the first chapters were written by a different, more poetic person. I knew this intuitively.

It was painting magical worlds, similar only to my experience years later when reading The Narnia Series. It made no real sense, but it didn’t matter. It raised more questions than answers, but I was too young to articulate them. Every line seemed a misnomer – unrelated to the one before it.

“And a river flowed from Eden, to water the garden. And then it split into four heads… that’s where the bedolach and shoham stone could be found.” What were those magical things? How did they connect with the verse before them? It did matter. I can still sing those words by heart, in Hebrew with their traditional cantillation.

40 times. By third grade. By fourth grade I was finishing at 5pm, by 6th, at 6pm. And Rabbi Cohen stayed with us for five years. Which was great if you loved him, like I did. But if you hated him, you were screwed.

He had a dark side. I just learned to goodie two shoes around it. He’d stop us suddenly in the middle of reading and spot check if we knew where the class was at, or if we’d been daydreaming. I got really good at finding the spot really quickly, which still serves me to this day.

Misbehavior was punished by being sent out of the classroom, or being hit. Until 3rd grade, I had reading issues and didn’t behave well. I was slapped and hit a bunch, until my parents intervened. Then I got preferential treatment while everyone else around me continued to get hit.

He used to use a thin stick which he’d pick up from a woodshop near his house. One time he lined a bunch of us up in a row and started hitting our legs for some offense we’d done. The stick broke, so he reverted to a tree branch he’d confiscated from a kid earlier in the day.

Rev Avrohom commanded our absolute respect. When he raised his all powerful voice in fury, we’d all cower into our seats in terror. I specifically remember one time he screamed at us for leaving the bathroom an absolutely pigsty. There was always just puddles of piss all over the floor. I used the bathroom only a handful of times in the 11 years I was at that school.

He had the morning shift. In the afternoon was an “afternoon rebbe” for whom, inversely, the class had absolutely zero respect for. So we went through them like water, and watched them each cope with our subordinance in their own way – through helpless struggles or bursts of violent anger. Nothing worked.

Also in the afternoon, was the one hour a day of “secular subjects”. Two hours a week of math. Two hours of Hebrew grammar. One hour a week of enrichment, which seemed to consist mostly of Portuguese geography.

If the afternoon Rebbe commanded zero respect, the secular subjects “moreh” was in the double negatives. I was simultaneously entertained by the constant shenanigans the class pulled and his futile attempts at commanding order, while also frustrated by the absolute lack of progress we made. I actually found the math stuff interesting, and yet we learned very little of it. To this day my math is on a 6th grade level.

One day, the kids went all out and threw a bunch of orange peels at the afternoon rebbe. It was a new low. The following day, Reb Avrohom went into a rage. He had the kids who did it admit to it, and lined them up in a row. He pulled off his belt and, as the rest of class looked on in horror, proceeded to whip each kid in turn, repeatedly while they screamed and shrieked in pain and terror. Ariel Rubanovitch was the first to get it, and Reb Avrohom admitted afterwards that had gone too far.

We used to have this all-purpose toilet paper, which we fondly nicknamed sandpaper, sitting on the Rebbe’s desk. It was used for everything. Your butt, your nose, cleaning desks. It also was what Reb Avrohom used, together with duct tape, to bandage Ariel Rubanovtch’s welts.

No one is all good or evil. I still have a strange, Stockholm syndrome-like adoration for Reb Avrohom. It’s that strange love-fear-adoration people reserve for kings, or their fathers.

My mother used to tell that Shabbos guests in pride how much we loved our Rebbe. “They call him Harebbe, The Rebbe,” she would boast. I never bothered to correct her that every Rebbe was actually referred to that way, nor delved into the dark side of his behaviors.

Many kids in class absolutely hated him. But by the end of fifth grade, I’d clawed my way up to the “best kid in class” status by sheer, simpering ass kissingness. I was probably revolting to everyone else, but Reb Avrohom adored me, and me him.

Reb Avrohom was the Cohen at my son’s pidyon haben, and last I heard, the principle of a school somewhere in Jerusalem.

Full chapter list (Available in eBook Form)

  1. Kindergarten
  2. Cheder
  3. Mishna
  4. Good and Evil
  5. Gemara
  6. Yeshiva Gedola
  7. Ramat Shlomo
  8. Beitar
  9. More of That
  10. The IDF
  11. Mitzpeh
  12. Darkness
  13. Independence
  14. Shitting on the Parade
  15. Light
  16. Detox
  17. Spreading Wings

Chapter #3: Mishna

We didn’t have summer vacation at school. We studied every single day of the year. So the transition from one grade to the next was a simple act of gathering up your books one morning and moving over to the next classroom.

The transition to 6th grade, I was in for a rude awakening. Studying Tanach was piece of cake for me. Need me to read all of Navi 24 times? No problem, I’d read with the rest of them while building fantastic daydreams in my mind. Tales of heroic adventures, always with me as the superhero. If we were spot-tested, I was always exactly in the right place.

Then came Mishna. Mishna is “Torah Shbeal peh”, oral law; success with Mishna was all about memorizing shit. Not understanding it, not remember the general gist of things. Remembering it word for word.

I would have so many questions about what we were studying, but the Rabbis didn’t bother answering them. I thought at the time that it was me who was dense, or that the rabbis couldn’t be bothered. In retrospect I was the only one who cared and the teachers didn’t know the answers. I would sit, with my arm wildly outstretched to ask a question, while the rabbi blatantly and consistently ignored me. I didn’t get the hint.

I was invisible, but I didn’t know why.

I needed to know the answers. It was absolutely imperative that I understood everything. I could not live with myself with absence of total clarity. But I was told that the answers would come when we learned Gemarah, and that that wasn’t the point of the Mishna.

I still had to be the best in class, except best was a whole lot harder. I have a great memory for information, but it’s never without understanding the thing first, and it’s never verbatim. So all my talent served me for shit in this new criteria of success.

So even after ending school at 6pm (after starting at 7:30), I’d go study at aish for another hour after dinner. And it showed some results. I sort of scraped by and my efforts were appreciated. I held my own as one of the better kids in class, and aish guys would stop by while I was studying and marvel at this kid who knew “all of Mishna by heart”.

I had Reb Yisroel Schechter for two years, and I hated him. He was intense, but without focus. He was a total space cadet and I had very little respect for someone who tucked his shirt into his underwear and never noticed when my hand was raised. The third year, 8th grade, we had Reb Yosef Zilberman, who was a lot more fun. We were the oldest class in elementary school, and we were part of the inside joke that was his running of the school.

My parents had me tutored in English reading after school. I hated it at the time, but it’s one of the best things they ever did for me. I had since become a voracious English reader, it was a gateway to world that were much better than mine.

We didn’t have a schoolyard, we’d just pile into the street outside the school building. And every chance I had, I would run home, which was right around the corner, to read books in English. From Harry Potter to Mark Twain, from E. Nesbit to C.S. Lewis, that was the part of my day I most enjoyed. It was not something I could share with anyone in class, because most of them didn’t speak English and almost none of them read literature.

I wasn’t allowed to bring those books to school, nor was I supposed to go home every break. But milling around like everyone else did was so boring, and everyone was so lame, that reading at home was all I had.

We weren’t allowed to play soccer, because it was too popular in secular society. And anyway, everyone always seemed to kick the ball directly at my head, twisting my glasses as they crushed into my face. I made a terrible goalie, much prefer to duck when disaster approached.

I remember once smuggling an English book into school. It was about the American Civil war, which I was an expert on. They had never heard of it before. They crowded around the book, and asked a million questions about it, the same way African children did when seeing a camera for the first time. I awkwardly and pretentiously tried explaining things to them, but there were layers of concepts I needed to explain to give my answers context. I don’t think they understood.

The window in my 8th grade classroom was broken, and I remember sitting beside it in the wintertime and freezing my ass off. I proceeded to get pneumonia, which kept me out of school for 5 weeks. Missing school was always fun, but underlying it was the panic of how much information I’d need to make up when I got back.

I was officially the shortest kid in class, non-assertive, and weird. I’d have made a really good arts and theatre nerd, but Zilbermans was about as far away from an arts school as you could get.

Chananya Kremer assumed the role of class bully, and I remember one of his favorite activities was grabbing a handful of my hair and leading me by it around the schoolyard – which was also the street. I would laugh awkwardly, because what else could I do? He once did it in front of my mother, but I assume she didn’t know how to react, or if I was just playing. Because she did nothing.

Full chapter list (Available in eBook Form)

  1. Kindergarten
  2. Cheder
  3. Mishna
  4. Good and Evil
  5. Gemara
  6. Yeshiva Gedola
  7. Ramat Shlomo
  8. Beitar
  9. More of That
  10. The IDF
  11. Mitzpeh
  12. Darkness
  13. Independence
  14. Shitting on the Parade
  15. Light
  16. Detox
  17. Spreading Wings

Purim

I’ll just restate my main opinion, starting with my own personal experience:

I hate Purim. As an introvert and highly sensitive, the justification for noise, chaos, and zero respect for personal space or belongings would stress me to no end.

Yeshiva guys would invade the house asking for money. A friend once stole my electric guitar and came back hours later with a chip in it’s paint. One group of yeshiva guys came to ask my dad for money, and the leader, who was a neighbor, called me evil for being in the IDF which charedim don’t do.

Fuck that shit and its total irresponsibility.

How can we have a day where everyone is automatically happy? How does that conform to your specific moods or life situations? What if you, like me, are getting your period today?

In this specific criticism, I will admit that a lot of what Purim looks like today is a result of culture, not the core Jewish idea. Purim was a rather late invention, and the traditional rabbis had very little to say about how it should be practiced.

And I prefer not to criticize culture, because no culture is perfect, only God’s religion is. I’ll just say that I always hated Purim the way it seems to be celebrated by most people. I prefer to spend every day of my life trying to be as authentic as possible, to “drop my mask”. I don’t need a specific day to supposedly do that, following which one would regress into another 354 days of suppressing their emotions – like most people do.

I remember in Yeshiva, it was always the mild mannered kids who become violent, or violently ill, or both, and it was always a shock to see just how much of their personality was being suppressed the rest of the time. People crying, people invading your space – own that shit year round man, and deal with it.

Let’s just end with a little thing about the whole revenge/genocide thing. I don’t really care if “we don’t know who Amalek is today”, blah blah blah. The dream of killing every last man woman and child who belong to a specific ethnicity, or “bashing their babies heads against rocks” to quote our dear King David in reference to the Babylonians, sounds just a wee bit unhinged to me.

Current Weather in Hell

Hell
snow
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93 %
2.6mph
75 %
Sun
31 °
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Wed
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