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You watch her as she brushes her hair. She’s humming a song you can’t quite hear and smiling to herself. Not for the first time, you wonder why this person chose you. She turns. “What do you want for Christmas?” You want to scream Save your money!, but you only shrug. “Nothing, really.” “Nothing?” She crawls into bed and touches your leg. “Are you sure?” Again, you wonder why this person chose you. As she takes the weight of you in her hand, your mind wanders. To your puts. They’ll expire worthless, like you. After several minutes of failing to conjure your manhood, she asks, “What’s wrong?” Stonks only go up. But you don’t.

There are too many people that call themselves what they are not, including on this very server. The design industry seems the worst, but I'm sure its the same in other professions. Everyone with 3 months of some Google class, suddenly calls themself an UI/UX Designer, while the craft (especially UX) takes years to develop. I also know a lot of professional designers that have 20+ years of experience, and still don't call themselves experts. Lucky for us, the professional market also sees through those fake designers. So, hone your craft, become better, and stop calling yourselves UI/UX Designers, when you are not. Or Full Stack Developer, when you only do HTML and CSS. Or Open Heart Surgeon, when you are only a masseuse.

Aye 😂 Yuh 👌🏾👀 Uh 😔😤 Skrrrt 💨🤔 I 👁 hate 😡 people 👫 who have a different 😡 skin 💅🏻👑 color 🎨 from me (x32) instrumental 🎺 break 💔 I 👁👀 hate 😡🌚 people 👫 who have a different 👀❓⁉ skin 💅🏻👑 color 🏳️‍🌈 from me (x32)

When I was 13 years old a buddy of mine tried to convince me to fool around. I wasn't into it, and he told me it's not gay if you're wearing socks. I didn't believe him, went home, and asked my dad. That's 'gentleman's gay', hardly gay at all. Don't see it much these days. The 50s were a different time. What were we to do? We were typical boarding school boys, rich with vigor, skin slick with drying sweat and gritty earth from a game of pigskin. At night our young, virile bodies filled the dorm with sweet-musky vapors, like game-meat stewed with apple and peppercorn. You'd awake in darkness to the hushed, melodic rhythm of two pairs of white tube socks, barely visible in moonlight, bouncing on the hardwood floor. The deep bond of male friendship played like a thousand different human instruments. The wet claps of skin on skin, the gentle thud of heads on backboards, frenzied cries in the throes of climax. Wilbur, so fat and soft like tapioca pudding. His breasts were so like the real thing, what we fantasized of our future wives. Unwilling, defenseless Wilbur, so slow and uncoordinated in the dark. 10 of us would glaze his bare, pink flesh like a giant raspberry danish. He once had the audacity to tell Headmaster Redford. But Redford was a Deerfield boy once, he understood. So he joined us on our midnight hog hunts. Through college and years after we'd find time here and there, away from the wives at a family lake house. But it's been decades now - the times have certainly changed. If you wanted to do something private with another man, in your socks, it wasn’t ‘gay’. It was just two men, celebrating each other's strength.