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There are few things more unsettling than watching someone you know very well become… happy in a way you don’t approve of. Not “won the lottery” happy. Not “finally dumped the guy who kept forgetting her birthday” happy. No—this is the deeply unnerving kind of happiness. The kind that comes with community. Purpose. Inner peace. Possibly a potluck schedule. This is the happiness that makes you squint. This is the happiness that makes you say, Good for her , through clenched teeth while silently assembling a prosecution case in your head. Because your friend didn’t just change. She converted. She crossed over. She went from rolling her eyes at religion to rolling up her sleeves at church fundraisers. From “organized religion is a net negative for humanity” to “the women’s Bible study really spoke to me.” From atheist hot takes to suspiciously serene brunch energy. She found God. And worse—she seems better off for it . And now you, a reasonable, thoughtful, live-and-let-live atheis...

Every few years, the media discovers the same phenomenon, gasps dramatically, and acts like it just fell out of the sky wearing heels and confidence. Older women are dating younger men. Again. Cue the pearl-clutching. Cue the think pieces. Cue the faux concern about “power dynamics,” “biological clocks,” and whether society is “ready” for a woman who knows what she wants and doesn’t need a man who still uses the phrase “my ex ruined me.” According to the latest round of headlines, cougar relationships are hotter than ever, with older women “snatching up” eager young men half their age. Which is an interesting way to describe consenting adults meeting on dating apps, enjoying each other’s company, and not asking permission from the internet first. But let’s be clear: this isn’t a trend. It’s a correction. What’s new isn’t women dating younger men. What’s new is women doing it openly, unapologetically, and without pretending it’s a quirky phase they’ll eventually outgrow. And the ...

Once upon a time, the American mall had anchors. Big ones. Literal temples of mass consumption where you could buy socks, a lawn chair, a microwave, and a sense of mild despair all under one fluorescent roof. Sears. JCPenney. Macy’s. These weren’t just stores — they were civic infrastructure. They told you where to park, where to enter, and how long you’d probably stay before questioning your life choices. Now? The anchor tenant isn’t a department store. It’s a members-only club with a wine director, a velvet rope, and initiation fees that quietly scream, this space is not for everyone, and that’s the point. Welcome to the new American retail reality, where malls aren’t dying — they’re being privatized, curated, and filtered for income, taste, and social signaling. The escalator that once took you to bed linens now takes you to a speakeasy. The old food court has been replaced by a tasting menu. And the biggest draw in the shopping center isn’t a sale — it’s access. This isn’t a qui...

Every election cycle has its jump-scare moment—the one result that makes party strategists drop their coffee, refresh spreadsheets, and quietly text each other, “Okay, but… how?” This time, that moment came out of a place Republicans have treated like a gated community with a long-standing HOA rule against Democrats: a Fort Worth–area Texas state Senate district that just elected one anyway. In a runoff that landed with the political grace of a bowling ball through a china cabinet, Democrat Taylor Rehmet beat Republican Leigh Wambsganss by 57% to 43% in Senate District 9. Not squeaked by. Not “within the margin of error.” This was decisive—clean, loud, and impossible to wave away with the usual “low turnout, weird vibes, Mercury in retrograde” excuses. If this were just another special election in a sleepy district no one’s ever heard of, it would be a footnote. But it wasn’t. This was a deep-red district that had voted for Donald Trump by about 17 points in 2024. Democrats didn’...

These 7 plants will reward you with absurdly good displays if you cut them back now (and not everything else you feel like attacking) February is that strange, liminal month. Winter is technically still here, but it’s losing confidence. Snow is melting into slush, the sun suddenly feels like it remembers your name, and gardeners everywhere are pacing around their yards clutching pruners like they’ve been cooped up too long. This is the danger zone. Because February really is one of the best pruning windows of the entire year — if you know what you’re doing . And it’s also the month when well-meaning gardeners accidentally delete spring flowers like they’re clearing old photos from their phone at 2 a.m. Late winter pruning is powerful. It’s decisive. It sets the tone for the entire growing season. Do it right, and your garden comes roaring back with bigger blooms, stronger growth, and plants that look like they actually belong there. Do it wrong, and you’ll be staring at a whole l...

There are two kinds of art-world origin stories. The first kind goes like this: I was born with a camera in my hands. I always knew. I saw the light differently. At age six I framed my first decisive moment. The second kind goes like this: I got violently reminded that my spine is not, in fact, indestructible. Jorge Perez Ortiz belongs firmly to the second category, which already makes him more interesting. Three years ago, Ortiz was on a small wooden boat traveling from Cartagena to nearby islands when the ocean decided to remind everyone onboard who actually runs the planet. A wave hit. His body lifted. His body came down. A vertebra fractured. The word “emergency” entered the chat. Surgery followed. This is not the glamorous part of the artist biography. There are no gallery walls here, no flattering lighting, no carefully chosen captions. There is just a human body doing what it does best when surprised: failing abruptly. And yet, this is the moment that eventually leads to T...

In the year 2026, listening to music has quietly become a parlor game. Not “name that tune.” Not “who sampled whom.” The real challenge—the one we all play half-consciously now—is Spot the AI . You scroll, you listen, you squint with your ears. Is that voice too clean? Are those harmonies suspiciously frictionless? Why does this lo-fi beat feel like it was assembled by a ghost with an MBA? Some days the tells are obvious. The psychedelic rock band that sounds like it was trained exclusively on crate-digging Reddit posts. The inexplicably viral Japanese gay porn anthem that feels less like a song and more like a proof of concept. The ambient sludge that drifts by in endless playlists, engineered to be pleasant enough that you don’t skip it and hollow enough that you don’t remember it. Music has always had its share of filler, but now the filler has learned to reproduce at scale. Streaming platforms, for their part, have mostly shrugged. YouTube lets uploaders “disclose” synthetic medi...