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I am sorry if I offended you. Frankly, I’m just a little dumbfounded. This entire contretemps was born of your tacit dubiousness as to whether the boy’s parents were responsible for his death. Whether or not I believe that the boy would have wished his parents to perish with him, as you have now twice asked me, is immaterial. This all began with your questions: “What? Why do you believe the parents are responsible rather than the police?” My answer has not changed:

1) probably not, 2) I do not know, and 3) no. Again, and I say this respectfully and recognize that you have every right to have your own opinion, but you’re quoting my response from 3:33PM, to which you already responded. You’re conveniently neglecting to answer the one to which you should be responding (it’s directly above your latest response, in case you missed it):

My expecting them or not expecting them to follow suit is completely peripheral to their culpability for the kid’s death. They procured the cyanide and made it available to their son. I certainly don’t think that I’ll always dominate in this thread (assuming that it continues). To be the one to originate a thread does not the dominant one in said thread make.

Vanity... Definitely my favorite sin. (Al Pacino in The Devil’s Advocate)

It just may have caught on...? (Kina hora)

They are the ones who got the cyanide. They made a pact, that included their eleven-year-old child, to all commit suicide. How are they not responsible?

I first watched Milk with a girlfriend of mine. In the scene where Sean Penn first meets James Franco and asks to spend time together, she said, “That’s forward...” I’m like... That’s nothing.

The Supreme Court adjudicated Lawrence v. Texas in 2003.

I respectfully concede, then.

Firstly, I remembered wrong: The boy was 11, not 12. His name was Jerzy Feliks Urman and his diary when published was titled I’m Not Even a Grown-Up. The police robbed them before leaving. I don’t see how the parents could have possibly dealt with their son’s death. I don’t know how they could even live with themselves given the knowledge that they were culpable for his untimely demise, since the father was the one who procured cyanide for all of them to take.

I suppose I’ve supplanted him, then. I’m the usurping Eve Harrington.

For ya nasty boys (I think the second one in particular makes quite an impression): https://www.cocktailsandcocktalk.com/2019/10/big-dick-reveal-parties-are-the-celebration-were-choosing-for-2020/

@E.T.Bass this one should be easy: (Give her the damn Oscar already!)

I’ve stayed at nearly every hotel in Weho. I wouldn’t call it a “sex hotel” but like the poster above, I have to endorse The London. It’s the best hotel there. It’s also the most expensive by a fairly large margin. Le Parc is also great, in West Hollywood, and more affordable. There are a few Le’s — like Le Montrose which is okay and has a rooftop pool with a great view but the rooms are generally small. At Le Petit Ermitage there’s a good chance you’ll see a celebrity in passing (when last I stayed there there were a couple and I got to speak to Portia DeRossi). I wouldn’t stay at Le Petit Ermitage again, though. It’s just a block down from The London, but you absolutely — because in some hotels it’s generally the case but not really enforced — need to have a keycard to use the elevator. Same goes for Ramada (here you can call also the lobby and tell them to let up a guest you’re having over), which, being the most economical, is also the most basic hotel (though it’s right next to Kitchen 24, the diner that is always open, which is cool).

“I couldn’t care less” > “I could care less” If you say that you could care less, it means that you care at least a bit.

It’s the original interpretation! *************************************** And:

I have respect for all races, but I'm very glad that I was born white. As a woman, it's the best race to be. Especially if you want to become an actress, like I do. If I weren't white, then the next thing I'd wanna be is Asian; a lot of men like Asian girls because they think they're docile and sweet and subservient which I don't really think is true because I once met this Asian girl at summer camp and she was a real bitch. If I couldn't be white and I also couldn't be Asian, then my third choice would be African-American because I've always wanted to be a gospel singer and black men are more forgiving if your butt gets big. Except I'd definitely want light skin and Caucasian features... Like Vanessa Williams... or Halle Berry. And finally, you know, no offense or anything, but my very last choice would be an Arab. I mean, truth be told, you're not in a very enviable position. There's a lot of resentment in this country toward the Middle East and a lot of stereotypes floating around which I don't really think are true because in the short time that I've known you, you haven't tried to bomb anybody, and you currently smell okay to me. But people will laugh at you. And probably make fun of that thing you wear on your head. I know. People are ignorant. To give you an example, there's this joke going around: 'How does an Arab get his wife pregnant..? She gets naked and lies down on the bed, he jerks off on the wall, and then they let the flies do the rest.’ No. Don't laugh. It's insulting to your people. -Kimberly Joyce, Pretty Persuasion

Speaking of fathers and their daughters’ work: I wonder sometimes about The Diary of Anne Frank. Otto Frank, Anne’s father, published it after she died. Some speculate that much of it was fabricated. I myself have trouble finding credible a quote she purportedly composed herself in her diary: “In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” Perhaps I’m just jaded. I took two classes on the Holocaust. In one of them each member of the class had to do a brief presentation on one Holocaust diary (dozens of them are extant — Anne Frank was not the only Jew who kept one). My particular one was written by a twelve-year-old boy. He lived with his parents and the three swore that when the police came to call, rather than be taken away, they would all immediately ingest cyanide tablets that the father had procured, in the interest of leaving this world on their own terms. The police eventually did come to their home, and the boy took a cyanide tablet immediately as his parents had earlier instructed him to do, as they had all agreed to do. His last words reportedly were: “Daddy, the cyani—“ and then he dropped dead. The police officials were so horrified by this that they just left. The parents survived the Holocaust and had another child. It really annoyed me. I felt great disdain for those parents. What the hell? Side note: He and his parents lived in a “ghetto.” Until those classes I don’t think I was aware of the term originally referring to living quarters for Jews during the Holocaust.

From The House of Yes: Boy, it’s been a long day. Not as long as yesterday! Yesterday was 24 hours. I meant with traveling and all. It’s no easier staying in one place. Take it from one who knows. Are you being wise? I think you’re being wise. I knew it would happen that one day I’d just wake up wise. One day I woke up stupid. You did? It was terrible. What did you do? I went back to sleep. That was wise!

“Desire is a contract that you make with yourself to be unhappy until you get what you want.” -Naval Ravikant

She says that about ten minutes later. First Scarlett is speaking to a doctor who adjures her to deliver Melanie’s baby, and she says she doesn't know how. Prissy comes forward claiming to have experienced knowledge about the procedure, having helped deliver babies many times before. We then find out that she was lying (when she says the quote you noted) and Scarlett slaps her.

Somehow I’m irresistibly reminded of Scarlett O’Hara: “I don’t know anything about babies being born!”

It is said that the modern interpretation of that saying is the inverse of what the original meaning was. The full, original phrasing is “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” This means that your relationship to those with whom you’ve shed blood in war or those with whom you’ve made a blood covenant is paramount, of greater importance than the simple sharing of DNA, meaning the original phrasing wouldn’t actually refer to familial bonds. So liberate yourself from the shackles of this idiom’s implication if it’s at all hampering you in creating your own family/spawns guilt in you about keeping only “fictive kin,” as it were. Scientifically speaking though, blood is slightly thicker than water, if you were wondering.