Putski wraps the show today with a beautiful poem led by three other brightly burning fires from the halls of Prose. Saturday meant good music, coffee, and these poems from these giants. Thank you, each of you.

Here's the link to number 27 on Prose. Radio.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOsrxkA7xlg

Here are the pieces featured.

https://www.theprose.com/post/813609/hot-lead https://www.theprose.com/post/813548/appalachian-flowers https://www.theprose.com/post/813611/passover-dinner

https://www.theprose.com/post/813531/sick-boy https://www.theprose.com/post/813252/a-call-from-home

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

I thought I was done with diapers for good. Now I’m changing them daily.

At least this time they’re on a dog and not a human. In a way, this is a good news story. My carpets are protected, and my beloved/maligned mutt, Niko, gets to stay alive. His accidents were becoming frequent enough that friends and family members were starting to subtly (and sometimes not so subtly) suggest it was his time to shuffle off this mortal coil. Saturday, he turned sixteen, which, in dog years, is twice as old as dirt. Everyone knows dirt is eight. He’s outlived his brother from the same litter by most of a decade. If I’m not careful, he’ll outlast the rest of us, too. He’s making a good attempt at it, even as his body is showing some signs of wear and tear. He’s mostly deaf and extremely lazy, not that he was a working dog in the first place. He doesn’t bark to scare away intruders. He can’t hear himself, so he gave up on trying to make sounds. He also doesn’t cuddle. For most of his life, we’ve been polite but distant acquaintances. Once a day, he whines at me to feed him, and I oblige. Then he goes back to napping. Were that the extent of his activities, we never would have had a problem. Over the last year or so, however, he’s managed to squeeze in multiple accidents a day. That nearly brought our cohabitation arrangement—and his life—to an abrupt end. Those doggy Pampers saved us all.

I tried everything to change his regressing bathroom habits. He’s supposed to address his bodily needs at his leisure by letting himself in and out through the doggy door. For nearly fifteen years, he stuck to that plan. In the last several months, however, he had a change of heart. Now, the inside of my house is his toilet. At first, I thought maybe he was too old and tired to walk out to the yard. I carried him out there like a princess on a luxurious sedan chair. Niko refused to do his business. Instead, he would simply hold it until he got back to his preferred pee spot, which was my entire house. I tried deep cleaning the carpet to get rid of familiar smells that might be drawing him back, but that just made him defile new areas. He wasn’t picky as long as it was indoors. He’d urine-ify hardwood floors and cold tile with equal abandon. After multiple recommendations from people who’ve dealt with old dogs, I put out puppy pee pads. Those were the one thing in my house he specifically wouldn’t go to the bathroom on. If I would have lined my entire floor with them, I could have solved the problem. I have to admit his behavior seemed malicious. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to be the one to put him down. He wasn’t suffering; he was just a jerk. I wasn’t sure if my kids would ever forgive me if I killed their dog because I was tired of cleaning up after him. More importantly, I didn’t think I could forgive myself. My Catholic guilt extends to the animal kingdom, even the parts of it that are a direct threat to my happiness and sanity. I was determined to keep giving him food and shelter for as long as he wanted to stick around. In return, I merely wanted him to stop desecrating every square inch of floor in my house. Clearly that was one request too far.

Then death paid a visit. When we went to Missouri a few weeks ago, we lined up a friend to check on our animals. That would work for the pigs and guinea pig, but we couldn’t trust Niko in that situation. By the time my buddy got over here to verify the animals were still alive, my house would be destroyed from the worst kind of water damage. Instead, we made a half-hour detour to drop off Niko at my parents’ house in Illinois. At the end of the trip, I called my mom to check on the dog. I was moderately afraid he might pass away while he was there. It’s a dick move to send your beloved pet to your parents’ house to die. A dog did die, but it wasn’t Niko. My parents’ Yorkie, Moose, had a sudden and unexpected medical emergency. After paying a ton of money at an overnight veterinary hospital in another city, my parents made the heartbreaking decision to put him down. He was only seven. My parents adored that dog. I don’t want to say where he would rank among their seven children, but it wouldn’t have been last. Niko, meanwhile, kept on trucking, happily peeing on my parents’ rugs while they were gone. My best guess is that the doggy grim reaper showed up for Niko and took Moose by mistake. Who knows what shenanigans Niko pulled to throw death off his trail? I should be nicer to him. When death shows up next time, Niko might redirect him to one of us.

My dog was unphased by Moose’s death. Likely, he didn’t even notice. He wasn’t bred for situational awareness or emotional empathy. His only job is to look cute, and he does it well. He would be similarly nonplussed if I disappeared. We’re long-term roommates, but the bond isn’t much stronger than that. Pets really do take after their owners. He learned that aloof attitude from me. Maybe it’s that protective layer of Zen-like serenity that’s kept him in one piece for all these years in our extremely stressful household surrounded by kids and pigs. It’s probably why I’ll still be writing newsletters like this when he’s twenty.

Niko resumed his old habits soon as he got back to our house. Out of ideas, I confined him to a hallway near the doggy door. That seemed to work. He never, ever peed on that narrow stretch of tile, despite being exactly the same flooring material that’s in the kitchen next door, which is among his favorite bathrooms. If we left the kitchen door open a crack, he would slip in there and do his business. It was like he waited all day for the chance. The hallway tile must have had some magical protection over it that I didn’t notice. I wish I could find whatever wizard cursed it so he could extend that protection to the rest of the house. Lola theorized that Niko’s bathroom struggles were due to the pigs, whose room is on the way out of the house. He’s afraid of them these days. When he was younger, he used to push them around, even though they’re many times his size. In confrontations, he’d remember he’s descended from wolves and they’d remember they’re descended from bacon. Now, he can’t hear, and his eyesight is questionable. Sometimes, he seems to see fine, and other times, he appears functionally blind. It’s selective depending on what he’s trying to get away with. His sensory issues make him reluctant to approach the pigs, which is understandable. I wouldn’t want to scuffle with a ham bulldozer I couldn’t see or hear either. That doesn’t explain why Niko continued to have accidents at my parents house or why he doesn’t pee when I take him outside. I think Niko uses the pigs as a convenient excuse. The kids do the same thing. No, I don’t believe Gilly used a marker to write your initials on the wall. I’m not dusting for hoof prints.

Niko didn’t like hallway jail, even though he could escape it and go outside through the doggy door any time he wanted. He didn’t want fresh air. He wanted the great indoors and all the forbidden bathroom opportunities it offered. It was a shame because, besides going potty, his only other activity is sleeping. He could do that just as well in the hallway since I moved his dog bed there, but apparently it wasn’t the same. He wanted the ambiance of being surrounded by a bunch of screaming children he couldn’t hear. There really is no replacing silent chaos. It’s like being entertained by your own private troop of mimes. Niko wanted out so badly that he scratched at the ancient, eight-foot-tall swinging door that kept him confined. It now looks like it was attacked by an infuriated wolverine. Our house was built a hundred years ago by the treasurer of a bank and has all sorts of fancy rich person flourishes, like a back staircase so you don’t have to see the help and inlaid floors so you can see art when you look at your feet. If that guy knew what would one day become of his architectural masterpiece, he wouldn’t have splurged on any of those features. If he’s in hell, he probably has a live video feed of exactly what his house looks like now. Niko could be a key part of his eternal punishment. No wonder that dog has lived so long.

My brother-in-law suggested that I should tape tin foil to the back of the swinging door to discourage Niko from damaging it. His claws sliced right through that thin metal armor. That’s when I finally broke down and bought doggy diapers. It’s the second time in Niko’s life that he’s worn them. We had them on him and his brother Spencer when we first brought them home. (Yes, that name was the original inspiration for the character Spenser in The Chosen Twelve.) I call Niko a mutt, but really he’s a designer breed made by a single person in Missouri, who mixed together every kind of little yappy dog she could get her hands on. The resulting hybrid was supposed to seldom bark and also be litter box trainable. Basically, we thought we were buying cats. When we got Niko and Spencer home, we learned the truth. They never used the makeshift litter box we set up. We ended up putting them in diapers until we could install a doggy door and build a fence around the yard. The diapers were fabric scraps attached by Velcro that my mom had used when training her own dogs. For absorbency, we slapped on a maxi pad, which we threw away after each use. After we got the fence installed, the dogs used the yard and our problems were over. We threw away all the diapers. Flash forward fifteen years and we’re right back where we started. Time is a flat circle, and it looks a lot like a pee spot on my carpet.

Unlike the ones we used last time, these new diapers are professionally made, no maxi pads required. The technological advances of the last fifteen years really are amazing. I bought two three-packs of diapers from Amazon. After the first two days, it was clear that wouldn’t be enough. I ordered three more packs. I put the diapers on Niko as soon as he leaves his hallway home. He’s now free to nap in his old spot, which is all he wants from life. I can accommodate that, as long as the rest of his life isn’t unreasonably long. I’ll give it another year or two. Beyond that, the extra cost of running the washing machine so much might break me. Niko, of course, hasn’t offered to chip in for the water bill. He’s a simple dog. He just wants to water the carpet.

Anyway, that’s all I’ve got for now. Catch you next time.

James

Straight from the pure, uncut supply in the dope locker of Prose., in lucky number 21, The Cure's Robert Smith ignites some fascination, and strings it out until it becomes a list of powerhouses from the site, each one with their own style, each one strong of eye and brilliant of mind. From MeeJong and Mariah, to three or so new bloods, and one long story of ghosts in war, wrapped with dreams of old.

Here's the link to the good stuff...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnZrkptK60A

And here are the featured pieces...

https://www.theprose.com/post/810753/when https://www.theprose.com/post/810730

https://www.theprose.com/post/810553/alchemy https://www.theprose.com/post/810376/this-night

https://www.theprose.com/post/809804/springtime-in-southern-appalachia https://www.theprose.com/post/809194/viridi-oculi

https://www.theprose.com/post/810542/chamber https://www.theprose.com/post/810543/pages

https://www.theprose.com/post/810551/lead-paint https://www.theprose.com/post/810354/poems-never-happened

https://www.theprose.com/post/809641/scopaesthesia https://www.theprose.com/post/31657/where-death-lives

https://www.theprose.com/post/40967/old-dreams

And, as always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Salt water clung to her skin, her eyes, her lips, burning. Exhaustion overwhelmed her as she desperately clawed the chilled ocean waves, trying to keep her head above water. Her damp, cold clothes were salt-encrusted and scraped her thin flesh like barbs, dragging her down with their waterlogged weight. Her throat and lungs burned from the salt water she had swallowed and inhaled. She had no energy left. She was clinging to terror and panic and a desperate need to live and absolutely nothing else.

The sun glared down hot and burning, turning the expanse of salt water into a blindingly bright blue. She was trying so hard to keep her head above water, but she found herself going under for longer and longer periods of time. She felt like her body was a dead, screaming weight. And her mind was delirious with pain and fear and exhaustion.

Salt water from her eyes met and melted into salt water from her surroundings as she finally gave up and let the ocean take her. Her chest felt like it was being wrung dry as she sank deeper, surrounded by darkness and cold and the heavy all-encompassing weight of death. She sank deeper and deeper, and found herself surrounded by a thick, rough, cutting substance that she could not figure out what it was. And then everything went blank.

———

Five men stood on a metal fishing boat. It wasn't the largest, but there was space enough to comfortably move around. They were surrounded by crates of fish but the fresh ocean air kept the stench of seafood at bay. They were pulling their nets up, noticing that they were much heavier than usual.

"What the fuck?" a brown-haired, muscular man exclaimed as a thin, lithe, dark-haired young woman tumbled out of the ropes, drenched in salt water and tinted in blood.

"What the fuck. I don't know what this is," a man with blond hair in a bun stared down at the scene, at the closed eyelids and limp, skinny limbs.

"I didn't fucking ask for this. Did you?" another man with brown hair and a skinnier build looked at his friends.

"I did not fucking ask either." A man with black hair and a square jaw looked up at everyone else, an annoyed expression on his face.

"Well is the girl even alive?" A strawberry-blond man asked with clear irritation in his eyes.

"Well there's one way to check," the dark-haired man replied as he bent down and felt for her pulse. "Just barely."

Without asking for permission the strawberry-blond man knelt down to do CPR on the unconscious girl. After a few minutes, some broken ribs, and a bunch of water on the floor, the girl was coughing, life seemingly put back in her small form. She looked around, startled verdant eyes taking everything in in panic and confusion.

"What the fuck, Jesse?" The muscular man asked the girl's rescuer, "now we have to deal with this. You could've asked us first."

"Shut the fuck up Mike. We can still talk this over. If I had waited longer she would've died."

"So?" the dark-haired man asked, "how is that even our business? We don't know her or what the fuck she is or what she wants."

"Petey I swear," Jesse started, "we can figure out what to do with her later. Just trust me on this, once."

"You better."

"Well what are we going to do with her?" The blond one asked.

"We can discuss it later, Leo."

"Who made you the boss?"

"I did now shut up Liam."

Leaving the girl there, half-sitting on the floor supported by her arms with a bewildered expression on her face.

———

The girl sat there, completely confused as the burning sun dried her, leaving her thin blue cotton dress stiff with salt and her black hair stiff with curls. She was in so much pain, almost delirious with it. Especially in her chest, which hurt so much. She looked around. She had no idea where she was or how she got there. She felt the sun too hot on her skin and the sea spray rough inside her chest. She heard snippets of conversation from the men who had gone around to the other side of the boat and were obscured by the cabin. She tried and failed to piece together what just happened, her mind swimming with pain and exhaustion.

———

The men stood leaning against the railing or the cabin, in heated yet hushed conversation.

"Why are you on her side Jesse? We can't afford to keep her here and you know it." Petey's voice was almost patronizing.

"I'm not on her side. Do you not have eyes? Look at her, all lanky limbs and delicate features and large startling eyes and full pink lips. It would be a shame to let that go."

"So? Oh my God Jesse, are you in love?" Mike asked. "You have a girlfriend. And I'm saving up for another car. Like you have no idea how hard only having one car is. I have to fucking take public transport sometimes and it's so inconvenient."

"Exactly," Leo added, "And my daughter needs new dresses. Good quality, hand-embroidered ones, none of the cookie-cutter shit. We can't afford to keep this complete stranger."

"We won't have to afford anything."

"You know the boat can only take so much weight." Liam said. "She's thin but she still weighs a good amount. If we take her to shore, that's pounds of fish that we won't be able to catch. A whole day's trip wasted, Jesse. We'd be down dozens of pounds of fish. That's so much money lost."

"Exactly, Jesse," Petey piped up, "I need to get new runners, I've had mine for a whole year."

"We can't afford her weight. None of us are rich," Mike tried to explain.

"I'm not saying we should bring her to shore. We can just have some fun with her before putting her back into the water where she belongs. Look, she's an incredible catch. I almost though we'd pulled up a mermaid."

"Are you suggesting what I think you are?" Mike sounded intrigued.

"I think I am."

"No, no. What will our wives and girlfriends say when they find out?" Liam protested, "you do love them, don't you?"

"Of course I love my girlfriend. But she does not need to know. Neither does your fiancée."

"Intriguing."

———

The girl was still trying to make sense of things. She knew she was on a smallish fishing vessel, on the ocean. She knew she had gotten rescued, and she was incredibly relieved. She sat with her arms hugging her legs, looking at the dazzlingly blue sky above. It was beautiful. It brought tears to her eyes. She was still in pain. But for the moment she felt lulled.

———

"Heyyy stranger." Petey smiled as he approached the girl. "We saved you. You happy?"

"Very, sir. Thanks." In truth she didn't entirely trust the situation. But she was happy to be alive. And she did trust him - all of them - a lot. They dragged her out of that horrible cold water. They brought her back into the world. They let her stay on their lovely boat. And she thought maybe they'd keep helping her. She just needed to get to shore.

"Well maybe you could show a little appreciation if you're happy?" He smiled again, just a bit too wide and off-kilter.

"Oh yeah, absolutely." She smiled back, hiding the pain in her ribs.

"Here, you're caked in salt." Mikey came up behind the pair with a bucket filled with water in his hand. "Wash your hair, girlie."

"Thank you."

She strained against her broken ribs to bend down and dip her hair in the water, wincing as she stroked the salt and sand and dirt out of her hair. She was grateful for the chance of getting clean. She was feeling quite itchy. But damn, this method hurt. Her chest felt like it was being wrenched apart.

Goddamn this was so much pain. Finally her hair and scalp felt much cleaner though, and she lifted her head, catching her breath as she waited for the pain to fade, which it didn't. She looked up at the group of men surrounding her with expressions that were overly-bright and just a bit off-putting.

"Thanks again," she smiled up at the men.

"Hey, it's nothing." Leo tilted his head a little bit as he looked down at her.

"Um... would it be too much trouble to ask for some food?"

"We're really sorry. We're fresh out. When we get to shore, yeah?"

"Okay." She tried to ignore how hunger gnawed in her stomach.

"Hey," Liam started, "you should probably clean the rest of you up as well."

"Okay." She took another bucket from him, which had a white rag of cold water on it. She wanted to rest right now. But oh well, whatever. There would be plenty of time for that once they got to shore. These men were really rather nice. She was very grateful for their company. She did need a bit of privacy right now though.

"Are you guys gonna leave?" She asked, looking up.

"I don't think we are."

She looked around for an opening, but didn't find one. She was surrounded on all sides.

———

She was horrifically tired, down to her very soul. Maybe in her very soul. Tears were silently, desperately falling from her eyes as she lay in the small cot in the cabin. They had called it "payment" for transporting her to shore.

It hurt. She hurt. She hurt inside and she hurt all over and she hurt in her heart. But it's not like she could do anything about it. She wasn't in control of this situation. She didn't have power here. Her life was in their hands. If they chose to save her they would. So far, despite the hurt, they had promised they would take her to shore. That's all she needed. To get to shore and then she could work something out from there. She felt so small, so helpless, so completely out of control and weak and dying. She lifted her eyes towards the sky again, gazing at the blue before exhaustion finally pulled her to sleep.

———

A pair of pale arms lifted the small, lithe sleeping figure, cradling her like a baby and holding her to his chest. Another pair of hands slowly slipped a long strip of cloth between her teeth and then around her head, circling and layering it again and again until there was a thick wad of cloth holding her jaw open and tight around her head. He tied it and gave the knots one last tug to keep them in place. Another pair of calloused hands tied a short length of rope around her ankles, and one around her wrists.

The nets were still sunken into the water now, but strong legs carried her to a side of the boat where there weren't any nets. Silently, solemnly, a small crowd gathered around the railing, around the young woman with the bony ankles who murmured softly in her sleep. There was a moment of hush that lulled over the boat for a moment. Everyone turned around and looked at each other for a spell, meeting each other's eyes, seemingly frozen. They looked almost shaken for a moment, before Mikey flashed a quick smile. The rest of them also smiled quickly, momentarily, before steeling their faces once again.

"Three. Two. One." Someone wisphered under their breath. Her body tumbled into the water, silent as she dropped through the air, still sleeping peacefully. The water splashed around her as she hit it, wide eyes startling open. She tried to scream but couldn't through the gag.

Three. Two. One. All that was left behind were ripples in the water.

———

Panic overwhelmed her for just a moment. She tried to swim but she couldn't. Water flooded her mouth and she couldn't close it around the gag. Fear pulsed hot and electric through her heart. And then it was just a hopeless, desolate sort of calm. She felt the water fill her lungs in ice-cold twisting agony. She was being pulled under. And she didn't even care. She had no will to live anymore. No will to fight. It had been ripped from her and she didn't care for it back.

Suddenly she wasn't cold anymore. Well, she was, but it was an exhilarating cold not a cutting one. All her bonds were broken. Suddenly she could breathe, the water flowing through her as easily as air. She opened her eyes to the blue-green glow of the water, and found herself face-to-face with a woman - no not a woman - a ... she didn't really know. Nothing hurt.

The lady glowed translucent in the water as it flowed through her. Her hair was dark black, full of thick curls, and longer than she was tall. She had a kind, passionate smile, and solemn, searching eyes. You could see the outline of tears rolling down her cheeks, though the girl didn't know how that was possible since they were in water.

The mysterious lady slowly reached out a hand for her, not touching, just asking. The girl reached out and took it, and then swam further into her embrace. The older woman held her tight in her arms, stroking the girl's tangled hair and singing something in words the girl didn't understand.

Eventually they stopped embracing and looked deeply at each other. The amount of sorrow in the older woman's eyes was overwhelming. And the girl found herself crying uncontrollably.

The lady pressed a kiss to her forehead and suddenly she found herself waking up on a beach, body healed, a large bag filled with food, water, clothes and money on her hip. She got up.

———

The ocean spirit drifted towards the nets of the fishing vessel that was meters away now. She tangled herself in the nets, among the struggling fish. She changed her form, becoming solid and taking the shape and colours of the girl she had just embraced, ropes forming around her wrists and ankles. She smirked, then closed her eyes, went limp, and simply waited until the nets were pulled back up.

———

"Oh why this again?" Jesse exclaimed as the crew pulled up a familiar-looking corpse.

They untangled the limp figure from the nets. But just as they leaned down to pick the body up and toss it overboard, her eyes opened. And from them shone blinding yellow light. Suddenly a bolt of lightening arched down from the clear, blue sky, hitting the boat and wrending it to a million pieces.

Ah, William Shakespeare. The unrivaled grandmaster of the English language. Or, as I like to call him, the original king of overrated.

Yeah, it is true that a lot of his works became a fundamental part of literary history, but come on – this man sure came up with a lot of tragedies. I mean, if he ever wrote a rom-com, it would likely conclude with everyone stabbing each other.

And the guy’s character name skills… “Romeo Montague” and “Juliet Capulet”? After hearing these names, you cannot tell me that he did not let toddlers play Scrabble. And “Othello”? Please, even his handkerchief was crying. Then his dramatic streak… who else could come up with “To be or not to be”? Whoever came up with this probably should find a new hobby – one that does not ruin life for everyone else in his play.

That being said, though, I have to thank him for all the timeless quotes he gave us that became the foundation of our modern life. “All the world’s a stage” – yeah, makes sense considering that his plays are pretty much reality tv shows. Well, whoopty doo, Shakespeare – thank you for drama, tragedy and countless high school essays.

Okay. If you must know about my dog, he is annoying. Or she. I'm not sure which.

Anyway, the little light-brown cockapoo hangs out on my couch. When I sit there to write or watch television or talk with friends, the dog sometimes stares at me. It does not move, but just glares at me with shiny marble-like eyes -- until I pick it up with one hand and set it further down the couch, so that it's looking at my wife.

After all, the thing was a birthday gift to my wife from her sister. And as you may have guessed, it does not have a name. The dog, not my sister-in-law. And she (the sister-in-law, not the pet) gave the gift knowing that dogs and I do not get along. I was bitten as a child while playing, drooled on, bitten again as an adult on the way to work, drooled on again, and... Sorry, back to the dog on my couch.

My wife says the little cockapoo can't hurt anyone. It is unable to move or bark or bite because it is only a stuffed toy.

But the dog on my couch is annoying.

A wrinkled hand . . .

. . . old

Dead leaves . . .

. . . fold

Night is . . .

. . . cold

For one moment

I admit that

I hope to

Be

the

reason

you try again

when you need to

I did

not think

you'd die

not even

when

you

were

asleep

I was not

at ease

because

I should have sung to you in your final hours

For this reason, I will never neglect to sing

not if I wish to hold another note in my life

I will not sway. I will not wash away when one

needs me most. I will be the bells of celebration

We're alive. We are free. We are brave

I hired the new yoga instructor at work.

She's also Jewish, but a much prettier version of me. Not kissed by debauchery.

And I wish her all the softest and most delicate of travels, maneuverings and stirrings.

My own navigation was disabling, scarring.

Heavy like wet clothes.

I was paper and its cheap skin, crinkled and void

I was too much haste and not enough nurture

Too much tongue in cheek and not enough drop kicks

She still smiles and means it

She still has that glimmer and leaves a trail of perfume… I really hope her path divides away from mine.

A friend of mine posted a meme listing the bad things about giving a kid a smart phone. That you steal their boredom, which might prompt them to be creative. To pick up a guitar or a paint brush. Or even a ukulele.

It got me thinking about how we blame so many of our ills on such easy targets. Phones are ubiquitous so it's easy to think that they're a problem.

I wouldn’t have met the person who made the original post had it not been for my phone and computer being internet capable.

If you’re reading this I’m not trying to beat a dead horse or make you feel bad, it just got me to thinking, and then to writing.

A lot of people blame smart phones for damaging our kids. That they will somehow grow up to be less realistic in their goals and expectations. That they’re less willing to work at a job they don’t like for less money than they feel they deserve.

Jodi Foster was raked over the coals because she said young people are a pain in the ass to work with in show business. She went on to say that young people have learned their value. That they know how to say no.

Someone being a pain in your ass might just be an expression of their healthy self esteem and I'm pretty sure that's what Jodi Foster was saying.

Phones are blamed for the coming generation’s bad mental health. Or is it because we’re able to see what their lives are like because they’re allowed unmoderated communication? The kids coming up today are not a silent generation.

I’m not saying there are no down sides to kids having phones, but I think we’re not able to see the good as easily because we need to get our eyes checked. Because we’re old.

We were bored when we were young and it made us the awesome people we turned out to be. We were told to suck it up and quit crying, or we’d be given something to cry about. We weren’t able to tell the world how we felt and it shows.

So if you’re worried about your kid, gather them in your arms and give them a hug. Whisper that you love them. Or just send them a text with a heart and a hug emoji. It’s less awkward that way.