My brother specializes with other NYC drs in a practice to help guys out who can't get a boner on anymore. About 10 years ago Donald Trump was one of their clients. Trump was given a penis implant that works by remote. When Trump wants to get hard he pushes a button. Supposedly during the Stormy Daniels scandal something went wrong and Trump couldn't get out of the bone mode. He ended up in an ER. Dr's had to stick stuff up his reeking asshole and adjust some wires to get Trump back to normal.

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o’clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.

In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in the neighbourhood who had taken a lively interest in me several months before there was any possibility of our becoming personally acquainted, first, that I was destined to be unlucky in life; and secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and spirits; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born towards the small hours on a Friday night.

I need say nothing here, on the first head, because nothing can show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark, that unless I ran through that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of having been kept out of this property; and if anybody else should be in the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it.

I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-going people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don’t know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain. Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead loss—for as to sherry, my poor dear mother’s own sherry was in the market then—and ten years afterwards, the caul was put up in a raffle down in our part of the country, to fifty members at half-a-crown a head, the winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself, and I remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused, at a part of myself being disposed of in that way. The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand-basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it the stipulated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence halfpenny short—as it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic, to endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there, that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, at ninety-two. I have understood that it was, to the last, her proudest boast, that she never had been on the water in her life, except upon a bridge; and that over her tea (to which she was extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her indignation at the impiety of mariners and others, who had the presumption to go ‘meandering’ about the world. It was in vain to represent to her that some conveniences, tea perhaps included, resulted from this objectionable practice. She always returned, with greater emphasis and with an instinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection, ‘Let us have no meandering.’

Not to meander myself, at present, I will go back to my birth.

I was born at Blunderstone, in Suffolk, or ‘there by’, as they say in Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father’s eyes had closed upon the light of this world six months, when mine opened on it. There is something strange to me, even now, in the reflection that he never saw me; and something stranger yet in the shadowy remembrance that I have of my first childish associations with his white grave-stone in the churchyard, and of the indefinable compassion I used to feel for it lying out alone there in the dark night, when our little parlour was warm and bright with fire and candle, and the doors of our house were—almost cruelly, it seemed to me sometimes—bolted and locked against it.

An aunt of my father’s, and consequently a great-aunt of mine, of whom I shall have more to relate by and by, was the principal magnate of our family. Miss Trotwood, or Miss Betsey, as my poor mother always called her, when she sufficiently overcame her dread of this formidable personage to mention her at all (which was seldom), had been married to a husband younger than herself, who was very handsome, except in the sense of the homely adage, ‘handsome is, that handsome does’—for he was strongly suspected of having beaten Miss Betsey, and even of having once, on a disputed question of supplies, made some hasty but determined arrangements to throw her out of a two pair of stairs’ window. These evidences of an incompatibility of temper induced Miss Betsey to pay him off, and effect a separation by mutual consent. He went to India with his capital, and there, according to a wild legend in our family, he was once seen riding on an elephant, in company with a Baboon; but I think it must have been a Baboo—or a Begum. Anyhow, from India tidings of his death reached home, within ten years. How they affected my aunt, nobody knew; for immediately upon the separation, she took her maiden name again, bought a cottage in a hamlet on the sea-coast a long way off, established herself there as a single woman with one servant, and was understood to live secluded, ever afterwards, in an inflexible retirement.

My father had once been a favourite of hers, I believe; but she was mortally affronted by his marriage, on the ground that my mother was ‘a wax doll’. She had never seen my mother, but she knew her to be not yet twenty. My father and Miss Betsey never met again. He was double my mother’s age when he married, and of but a delicate constitution. He died a year afterwards, and, as I have said, six months before I came into the world.

This was the state of matters, on the afternoon of, what I may be excused for calling, that eventful and important Friday. I can make no claim therefore to have known, at that time, how matters stood; or to have any remembrance, founded on the evidence of my own senses, of what follows.

My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health, and very low in spirits, looking at it through her tears, and desponding heavily about herself and the fatherless little stranger, who was already welcomed by some grosses of prophetic pins, in a drawer upstairs, to a world not at all excited on the subject of his arrival; my mother, I say, was sitting by the fire, that bright, windy March afternoon, very timid and sad, and very doubtful of ever coming alive out of the trial that was before her, when, lifting her eyes as she dried them, to the window opposite, she saw a strange lady coming up the garden.

My mother had a sure foreboding at the second glance, that it was Miss Betsey. The setting sun was glowing on the strange lady, over the garden-fence, and she came walking up to the door with a fell rigidity of figure and composure of countenance that could have belonged to nobody else.

When she reached the house, she gave another proof of her identity. My father had often hinted that she seldom conducted herself like any ordinary Christian; and now, instead of ringing the bell, she came and looked in at that identical window, pressing the end of her nose against the glass to that extent, that my poor dear mother used to say it became perfectly flat and white in a moment.

She gave my mother such a turn, that I have always been convinced I am indebted to Miss Betsey for having been born on a Friday.

My mother had left her chair in her agitation, and gone behind it in the corner. Miss Betsey, looking round the room, slowly and inquiringly, began on the other side, and carried her eyes on, like a Saracen’s Head in a Dutch clock, until they reached my mother. Then she made a frown and a gesture to my mother, like one who was accustomed to be obeyed, to come and open the door. My mother went.

‘Mrs. David Copperfield, I think,’ said Miss Betsey; the emphasis referring, perhaps, to my mother’s mourning weeds, and her condition.

‘Yes,’ said my mother, faintly.

To be continued in part 2

Single-Woman + Hypergamy = Cats + Ativan + Morphine + Urine + Feces.

Cat attachment starts once a single woman can no longer have kids. Many years later, on her death bed, hospice doctors introduce her to the ativan/morphine drug cocktail because they don't allow cats in hospice. Women become agitated (screaming and crying), upsetting the other hospice patients, after realizing they are dying alone. Ativan/morphine reduces anxiety, agitation and fist clinching as explained to me by a hospice nurse. If possible a nurse stays by the bed giving the illusion the woman isn't alone, but secretly prays the woman doesn't die on their shift else they have to clean up the urine/feces that is released from her corpse upon her death.

To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.

In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in the neighbourhood who had taken a lively interest in me several months before there was any possibility of our becoming personally acquainted, first, that I was destined to be unlucky in life; and secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and spirits; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they believed, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born towards the small hours on a Friday night.

I need say nothing here, on the first head, because nothing can show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of the question, I will only remark, that unless I ran through that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of having been kept out of this property; and if anybody else should be in the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it.

I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea–going people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don't know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill–broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain. Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead loss—for as to sherry, my poor dear mother's own sherry was in the market then—and ten years afterwards, the caul was put up in a raffle down in our part of the country, to fifty members at half–a–crown a head, the winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself, and I remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused, at a part of myself being disposed of in that way. The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand–basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it the stipulated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence halfpenny short—as it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic, to endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there, that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, at ninety–two. I have understood that it was, to the last, her proudest boast, that she never had been on the water in her life, except upon a bridge; and that over her tea (to which she was extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her indignation at the impiety of mariners and others, who had the presumption to go 'meandering' about the world. It was in vain to represent to her that some conveniences, tea perhaps included, resulted from this objectionable practice. She always returned, with greater emphasis and with an instinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection, 'Let us have no meandering.'

Not to meander myself, at present, I will go back to my birth. [Continued in part 2]

Looking at the op and the outrage that followed after i called her a "he", i pointed out that me assuming that she was a "she" would have been sexist too.

Maybe we need to change the vote outcome.

https://www.reddit.com/r/Teachers/comments/15p33nn/what_should_i_be_called/jvvm457?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=2

No I won't read the sidebar or any other posts in the sub. I'm too busy for that shit.

Sometimes I really think some of the posts or the comments are made by undercover hardcore feminists. Some of the ideas here are very dangerous. I get that toxic masculinity can be dangerous but it can be as dangerous when you compare traditional masculinity to fascism. The woke agenda of this sub is out of control and a more neutral stance on this subject is needed in order to achieve a objectively true point of view. Pleas stop trying to make the woke agenda look like the normal way to interpret man related issues. You are clearly leaning to one side of the political spectrum and it's not correct to make it look like this place is made to discuss man problem from a unbiased position.

Not asking for much, I was just wondering if a book existed marketed at men between the ages of 21 and 23, living in Omaha Newbraska, with two siblings and a dog, on the subject of positive masculinity. It should ideally guide the reader through finishing college, getting a high paying job, finding a girlfriend, finding out where my father went 13 years ago, quitting smoking, and getting the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube.

I'm kinda busy, so 100 pages or less preferred.

Let's look back at some memorable moments and interesting insights from last year.

Your top 10 posts:

• "Don't hate women for being women. Hate them for their shitty character." by u/InitiatePenguin
• "There is no patriarchy in the west, I doubt anyone works for a company that doesn't have an HR that's 90% women and wants to increase diversity by hiring even more women." by u/InitiatePenguin
• "This whole thing about suggesting men just being more empathetic and kind to others will solve all the problems in the world is a stupid and naive idea. Jesus tried that 2000 years ago and we know how that ended." by u/InitiatePenguin
• "Name a more iconic duo: Feminists hating lonely men, and conservatives hating poor people" by u/InitiatePenguin
• "The more I look at the problems that trans people face, the more I think that they are deeply entwined with the MRM. It's important that trans people aren't brushed off as a part of "crazy leftist ideology"." by u/InitiatePenguin
• "We remember one of the greatest Communist leader & revolutionary, Comrade Joseph Stalin on his 144th Birth anniversary today." by u/delta_baryon
• "Why Feminism Is A Terrorist Movement" by u/Ciceros_Assassin
• "The solution is to lift weights and make more money, not to read /r/menslib." by u/NoodlePeeper
• "The really crazy thing is that today's feminists and wokes form the most intolerant and authoritarian movement since Stalin. Cue cancel culture." by u/delta_baryon
• "Oh good, more justification and support for the socialist misogynists and sex pests who can’t be expected to stop perving (or start doing so much as the dishes) because the goal is changing society, not themselves" by u/delta_baryon