Borrowing Trouble

“… instead of celebrating the storied life of a great American woman, the left has chosen to bemoan the fact that the seat vacated by Justice Ginsberg will be filled with a man or woman nominated by the worst human being to ever walk the face of the earth … Donald Trump.”

Ruth Bader GinsbergI remember well the morning of November 9, 2016. My Facebook feed was blowing up with the mournful cries of “What will we tell our children?” and “Our sense of safety and security has been destroyed!” The left lost their collective minds and began marching in the streets, demanding that the newly elected president resign immediately since he didn’t at the time—nor would he ever be—fit to hold public office. He was a homophobe, a racist, a misogynist, a xenophobe, and just an all-around bad man. World War III was imminent! LGBTQ communities would be forced back into the closet! Black people would be relegated to pre-Civil War status! The whole world was going to end!

Yet, here we are. The bad man is still in office, and none of that stuff happened. No wars, no diminished rights, no retroactive slavery. But that doesn’t stop the left from borrowing trouble.

Because that’s what they do to stay relevant.

One of the most well-respected, hardworking, and trailblazing members of the judiciary passed from this life into the next. The Honorable Ruth Bader Ginsberg, notable member of the Supreme Court from 1993 until her death yesterday, did more for gender equality and women’s rights than any other former or present-day member of the Supreme Court. Her resume is beyond impressive, her work ethic unparalleled, and her ability to forge ahead under extreme duress is nothing short of remarkable.

But instead of celebrating the storied life of a great American woman, the left has chosen to bemoan the fact that the seat vacated by Justice Ginsberg will be filled with a man or woman nominated by the worst human being to ever walk the face of the earth … Donald Trump.

Oh, the humanity.

Here are two arguments against the left’s disproportional reaction:

  1. Had Justice Ginsberg felt that her successor should be a person nominated by a sitting president with a ‘D’ after his or her name, she would have resigned during the Obama administration so he could have replaced her with a like-minded jurist. She was battling health problems even then, and if her motive was to keep the court on the left side of things, she would have bowed out. As it stands, she remained on the bench, possibly because she is more knowledgeable about constitutional law than 99.9% of the American citizenry.
  2. As part of that American citizenry, if you or any of your comrades on the left were slobbering in your own drool during your ninth-grade U.S. government class, you probably remain unaware that there are three branches to our federal government—executive, legislative, and judicial, each designed to balance the laws that promote a democratic society and uphold the Constitution. Checks and balances … ring a bell?  Ruth knew the judicial branch was only one leg of the three-legged stool; ergo, she chose to remain on the bench, knowing that her “spot” would be vacated and subsequently filled on her terms. Truthfully? Whoever Mr. Trump nominates to fill her vacant seat will, in all likelihood, not affect your life one iota.

(Quick quiz: Can you name all ___ justices of the Supreme Court?)

The bottom line is this: If you’re so fragile that the thought of President Trump nominating a conservative judge to replace The Honorable Ruth Bader Ginsberg has completely ruined your life (much like your 2016 reaction to the election of President Trump), you probably need to reevaluate your priorities in terms of what you choose to get twisted up about.

Instead, why not live your life emulating the strength and wisdom of a great American? Hell’s bells, there’s a lot more you can do within your community to preserve your life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I may not have agreed with her on all her opinions, but I certainly admire the path she forged for me, my daughters, and my future granddaughters.

Stop borrowing trouble.




Zero hours spent in anguish about children’s college admissions

Indianapolis parents considered outliers among most parents of their generation

These are the headlines I imagine will soon appear once I publish this groundbreaking treatise on parenting college-aged children. Because I lost not one minute of sleep wondering how or where my kids would get into college.

Paying for it? Many, many sleepless nights.

But no, in the fall of my twin daughters’ senior year of high school, they decided Ball State University would do just fine. They thought they might want to be nurses. We visited the campus—very pretty, unlike its host city—and once they were accepted, I thought our college choice odyssey had ended. Then, that spring, they called an audible and decided they wanted to be business majors at Purdue University. They applied and were accepted.

Game over. Boiler up.

My son flat-out hated school, and though he had the academic chops for it, he decided after one year at IUPUI he would table the whole college thing for a while. At one time he wanted to go to his sisters’ alma mater, be in a fraternity and experience college as a member of a partying and tailgating brotherhood, but he knew that borrowed money was the price of admission, and that is not a recipe for building wealth. Which is his ultimate goal.

So when the news broke Tuesday about Operation Varsity Blues, the faces of which belong to two high-profile celebrities, I rolled my eyes at the utter stupidity of these parents indulging in such a narcissistic, self-serving and selfish undertaking.

Let’s dissect this: If you can afford to take part in such a nefarious scheme, you’re already rich. If you have even half a brain, you’ve no doubt set up your children with an adequate trust fund to see them through to their dotage, so regardless of what they study at whatever university, they’re not going to starve. This isn’t about them. It’s about you. It’s about how to best brand your image as the proud parents of a graduate of a prestigious university.

I graduated from what my middle class world considers a prestigious university. I have a degree in education from Penn State University, and I’m proud of my degree. What I’m most proud of, though, is that I put myself through college by working full time (and with the necessary addition of student loans).

Had I known then what I know now, I would have attended a much smaller and more affordable state run college where the tuition and cost of living weren’t so high. I wasn’t graduating with an engineering degree, I was graduating with an education degree—a degree I could have earned at one of the many teachers’ colleges in my home state of Pennsylvania. Then maybe I wouldn’t have had to borrow so much money to get where I wanted to be.

In the past two days, I’ve read posts from people defending these parents. “They love their children.” I call BS. No one loves their children more than my husband and I love ours. We love them so much that while we supported them as much as we could financially, we raised them to be independent. Maybe the way they’ve turned out is more of a product of our inability to pave their way financially, who knows? Sure worked for me.

There is no defense of this. While many say that this has been going on forever, it wasn’t okay then and it’s not okay now. It’s fine to pay your kids’ way through college if you can afford it. It’s not acceptable to make fraudulent charitable donations that you write off on your taxes, game the system by having your child labeled with a learning disability to get extra time on their SATs / ACTs, or photoshop their faces onto stock images of successful high school athletes to fabricate their athletic endeavors.

The best gift you can give your children is an ability to rely on themselves and the gifts you’ve bestowed upon them as loving parents. Love them, support them spiritually, emotionally, and, if the need arises, financially. If you’ve done your job well, your adult children should be able to function as awesome human beings quite nicely all by themselves.

Honestly, I didn’t come up with this on my own. There’s really nothing groundbreaking about this, it’s just common sense.

Sleep tight.

Have you ever acted like a d*ck?

I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t pissed off at the time, but I was hardly going to hand over to them the power to ruin the rest of my day, let alone scar me for life.

I was a senior in high school in 1981. While at gymnastics practice, I experienced something somewhat akin to Christine Blasey Ford’s traumatic and life-altering sexual assault, except my reaction to it was decidedly different.

I had left the gym to go out into the lobby and get a drink at the “good” drinking fountain—the fountains in the gym were a half-assed affair where the water’s pathetic attempt at dribbling out necessitated a serious amount of slurping and sucking (remember: this was 1981, decades before everyone—not just we serious athletes—carried around a bottle of water). As I was walking away from the fountain to go back into the gym, two members of our varsity boys’ basketball team—at the time undefeated and the reigning heroes of the school—grabbed me and proceeded to drag me into the boys’ locker room. Based on the fetid odor of boy sweat, the team had just finished their practice and were occupying the locker room where I assumed they were showering and changing into their street clothes. I can’t tell you much more because as soon as I saw where the guys were dragging me, I squeezed my eyes shut and didn’t open them until the “ordeal” was over.

So, there I was, in my gymnastics leotard and bare feet, in the smelly boys’ locker room where—and I’m just conjecturing here based on all the whoops and hollers and stupid boy laughter—I’m sure all manner of male junk was shoved in my face.

Of course, I started screaming at the top of my lungs hoping someone outside the locker room would come in and rescue me because I did not want to open my eyes and see a bunch of my classmates balls-ass naked.

Soon after I started screaming, my coach Mr. D_____ came into the locker room. I could tell something was different because it became unmistakably quieter. Without a word to anyone, Coach grabbed me and proceeded to lead me out of the locker room.

And here’s the part that really sucked. He yelled at me because I allowed myself to fall victim to these boys’ prank. He yelled at me because I was out of the gym when I should have been practicing back walkovers on the beam. He yelled at me because I had the audacity to leave the gym to get a drink at the “good” fountain. He yelled at me because, well, because he thought this was all my fault.

What happened next? Sufficiently chastened by Coach, I hopped back up on the beam and continued practicing my back walkovers.

What didn’t happen next? I didn’t tell my dad because he would have come unglued and kicked somebody’s ass. I didn’t tell the boys’ varsity coach because I didn’t think it warranted that much attention. I didn’t tell any of my friends who the two guys were who dragged me into the locker room, or, if I did, my friends didn’t think it was important enough to tell anyone else. In short, it happened, and I got over it.

Thirty-seven years later, I’m pretty sure who one of the guys was; I don’t remember the other. If I were asked to testify under oath about the incident, I’d have to say it happened so fast that I do not remember who the two young men were.

Am I permanently scarred because of this incident? No. Why? Because I realized, even at the time, that these were boys being dicks. I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t pissed off at the time, but I was hardly going to hand over to them the power to ruin the rest of my day, let alone scar me for life. Have you ever acted like a dick? I know I have.

Now, before you get up on your hind legs and cry out a fresh string of lamentations about how I’m a mother of two girls and how can I be so insouciant about this whole sordid event, let me reiterate, if you didn’t already draw this conclusion.

I was not physically hurt, nor was I psychologically hurt. Honestly, the worst part of all this remains my coach’s reaction. I’m nearly positive, though, if in his dotage he remembered this today, he’d chide himself for his poor sense of judgement.

I also realize that if this were to happen today, the fallout would be far different than it was in my small high school in 1981. The sh*t would hit the fan, careers would be destroyed, counselors would be on hand to provide comfort to all the victims, and most likely, two relatively decent guys who stupidly decided one afternoon to be a couple of dicks would lose everything. But, like my 17-year-old self, I refuse to be a victim.

If today any member of that championship team were to be nominated for a seat on the Supreme Court, you can bet this story would never see the light of day. You can also bet—based on the fine men each of those boys have become—that I’d throw my support behind any one of them.

What does that make me? I’d say it makes me a realist who understands the difference between the way adolescents act versus the manner in which adults should comport themselves. All I am asking is for perspective.


Finally, an app that makes you pretty!

… pretty different from what you really look like, that is.whatiwishireallylookedlike

I’m not sure what to think about this. While it’s true (and I’d be a big fat liar if I said otherwise) that I love this image of … um … me, I also realize that I don’t look anything like this.

Or do I?

Face it (pun intended) it’s kinda fun to look at an image of your best self and pretend it’s really you. I’ve never considered myself photogenic, but hells bells, if I looked like this, I’d be running for mayor or something.

I found this app on Facebook—you know, one of those “See what your movie star self would look like” or some such nonsense, and, of course, I tried it. Then I got really creative and dropped a screenshot of the image into Photoshop, got rid of the app’s identifying yellow arrow, and wham, it’s me.

Or a reasonable facsimile. Or just a facsimile.

I did this once with a picture of my sister Becky.  She’s always wanted to be a Disney princess, so I made her one. Here’s how it turned out.

It’s Becky, I swear. Cinderella has blue eyes. Becky has green eyes. So there.

She still hasn’t changed her profile picture to this because she doesn’t want people to think she’s just this cute.

Becky gets annoyed with me whenever I change up my Facebook profile picture (which I do often) because she sees it as a pathetic cry for attention, which, admittedly, it probably is. And since no one else ever takes pictures of me, I take a lot of selfies, and sometimes those selfies end up looking better than the last selfie I took and, well, it’s a vicious cycle, y’know?

But I also don’t want anyone to think I’m hiding my true self with my creativity here, even though it would take yards of Spanx, some pretty resourceful and expensive hair and makeup magic, and a couple of well-placed shrubs to render me decent enough for a realistic full-body pic. The truth lies somewhere in between what you see above and this gem of a photo, below.

Tried to be a passport photo

You see, this is the original me, the selfie that I took that I thought I could use as a passport photo (when what really happened is that I got to the post office and Cliff, the guy behind the counter, took a picture of me with dirty hair, no makeup, and a really pissed off look on my face that any respectable customs agent will undoubtedly interpret as a terrorist threat). However, looking at this photo, I’m not sure which is worse.

real passport photo
No admittance

I think the appeal of the Facebook app that renders your ordinary self into a smokin’ hot goddess is that we mere mortals rarely have the opportunity to make over ourselves into our fantasy selves. Because this is what this is, and it is what it is. The churched-up image might be pretty to look at, but it doesn’t begin to describe the wonderfulness of who we really are inside, right?

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

Surrogate Mothers

My mum was extraordinarily energetic and not only worked full time as a teacher but took on a long list of extracurricular projects like coaching cheerleading and volleyball, running a recreation program for our community in the summer months, and being the chaperone for the local beauty pageant queen in her quest to become Miss Pennsylvania.  She became sick in September 1973.  Her brief illness forced her to slow down somewhat and take time off from teaching, and for the first time, my mum was home all day.

Back then that was called a housewife.

Not content to sit around and watch her “stories” or suddenly take up baking, my mother found and befriended another housewife—our neighbor down the road Mrs. Ferraino.  They became daytime BFFs, and soon, my mum was drinking coffee, learning to bake, talking about kids, and running around (literally) with Mrs. Ferraino—the one member of the duo who didn’t have leukemia. (Mrs. Ferraino admits today that she had trouble keeping up.)

Mum died in May 1974.

The summer that followed (and for countless summers and winters thereafter), Mrs. Ferraino, along with Mr. Ferraino and their four kids—David, Mary Ann, Annette, and Deanna—took us in.  When I say they “took us in”, it wasn’t “taken in” in the sense that we moved in with them or that they became our parents.  They took us in when we needed taken in—rides to practices, rides to the emergency room (on several occasions), and rides to church.  Or, one of the family members would call our house and announce that it was bread baking day (Friday) and did we want some bread?  (Uh, yes, please.) We also would pile into their yellow station wagon on trips to down to their hometown of Kittanning to see their extended family and even started calling their grandparents and aunts and uncles by the same names used by their family.  We camped out in their backyard in tents, hiked with them in the woods surrounding our respective houses, begged anyone nearby who had a horse to let us ride it, and went sledding and ice skating in the winter.

Another family who took me in were the Byers’.  I was the same age as Deedee and because she was nothing but a big ball of fun, I fell in easily with her and her five siblings.  My mother’s maiden name was also ‘Byers’, so we secretly agreed that we must be cousins.  (We aren’t.)  There were (and still are) six Byers kids—Donny, Deedee, Dougie, Davey, Danielle, and Denny, then one more:  me.  Their mom Rosie (who refused to allow me to call her ‘Mrs. Byers’) worked as a hairdresser and worked hard, owned her own shop, and yet kept an immaculate and well-run household.  Again, this family always had room for me—we went camping, swimming all the time, rode the Stewarts’ pony whenever we had a chance, and because they lived “in town”, we made a little bit of mischief along the way.

Rosie and Mrs. Ferraino with ten of their own kids among them always had room for me.  I was subject to their family rules, took my share of the blame when our shenanigans went south, but was always welcomed at their homes.

I did appreciate being a part of their families, such as it was, but I appreciate it now even more since I’ve raised three of my own children.  Sometimes you just want your own kids running around your house, not an extra neighbor kid (or two or three).  If they minded an extra kid, they never, ever, let on.

All I wanted after my mum’s death was normal.  Mrs. Ferraino and Rosie gave me normal and then some.  I will be forever grateful to each of them and to their kids who put up with an extra sibling—kids who are now grown with kids and grandkids of their own—and on this Mother’s Day, I want to thank all of them.

But I especially want to thank the two women who knew exactly what I needed at a very lonely time in my life.  Thank you, Mrs. Ferraino.  Thank you, Rosie.  I don’t think you’ll ever realize how much you did for me.

I love you both very much.

An Inconvenient Analogy

The most egregious form of oppression known to mankind …

Female genital mutilation has lately been in the forefront of the mainstream media. In Detroit, a second doctor has been arrested for allegedly performing genital mutilations on minor girls; the first doctor, a female, was arrested in April for the same thing.  Female genital mutilation is considered a felony in the U.S.; internationally, it is recognized as a human rights violation, considered torture, and at the very least, is an extreme form of violence and discrimination against women and girls.

I won’t go into the sad and appalling details of FGM—feel free to Google it for yourselves.  Suffice it to say that it is an abomination, one of those sickeningly despicable acts that defies all that is decent and right in this world.  If adult women choose this for themselves, that’s one thing.  But mutilating a child for some perceived religious or cultural objective is nothing short of barbaric.

We can all agree on this, am I right?

Another practice that continues to dominate the media—mainstream and otherwise—is fetal mutilation.  This is when a human fetus is viciously dismembered (causing the demise of the fetus) and is removed from its mother’s womb.  Suffice it to say that this, too, is an abomination. If adults choose this for themselves—and I’ve yet to learn of any adult choosing to dismember himself or herself—that’s one thing.  But mutilating a child for some perceived cultural objective, just like FGM, is nothing short of barbaric.

The difference here is that when human fetal mutilation (resulting not only in the fetus’ dismemberment but also its death) is performed, no one is arrested.  In fact, the very organization that provides the service—the mutilation and death of a fetus—is funded by the federal government!  And get this:  There are actually men and women—seemingly intelligent, rational citizens—who will fall on their metaphorical swords defending the rights of women when it comes to fetal mutilation and death.  To them, anything that would prohibit a woman from having this procedure (that being the brutal mutilation and death of an unborn child) is considered the most egregious form of oppression known to mankind.

Here’s another way the pro-fetal mutilation and death contingent choose to spin the issue:  Human fetal mutilation and death is part of that (non-pejorative) thing called “women’s healthcare”.  Because, you see, when framed within the robust and sanguine, it sounds as if fetal mutilation and death is a healthy thing, like getting your teeth cleaned every six months or having a mammogram once a year.

I don’t think there is anyone who would disagree with me when I assert that female genital mutilation is an abomination, but you can be damn sure there are plenty of folks who are sanctimoniously outraged that anyone would deny a woman the right to allow her own fetus to fall victim to the act of fetal mutilation and death.

Why is it okay to mutilate and kill a baby but not okay to mutilate the genitals of a young girl?  Both are sickeningly despicable.  But not equally.

Only one kills.

My Elusive Search for the Baby Jesus

I get that Christmas means different things to different people.  What I don’t get is that there is not equal time given to the actual reason for the celebration.

It’s time for the Springers to “put up” Christmas, and since it’s been such a good year, I’ve decided to update some of my worn out janky-looking Christmas accoutrements including the Nativity scene I purchased at Walmart about 20 years ago.  Joseph broke in half a long time ago, so I subbed in a worthy-looking shepherd for him ever since (not sure how Mary felt about this, but he seemed like a utility player), both oxen are missing their ears, and for some reason, there are only two wise men.

(I think the other one—the one who brought the myrrh—must have been embarrassed by the ordinary nature of his gift.  This was before the current obsession with essential oils, so Myrrh Man, if you’re somewhere hiding in the attic, it’s okay to come out now.  Essential oils are a thing now.)

And because I was there to buy laundry detergent, tampons, and dog food, I swung by Walmart’s dedicated acre of Christmas crap in search of some JV players to fill out the varsity bench of my Nativity scene.  Or, as a last resort, I’d retire the current team and purchase a new one, maybe get some bigger, stronger players and a better, sturdier barn for them to play in.  Like I said, it’s been a good year.

After all, Jesus is the reason for the season, right?

Wrong.  I found *Disney character ornaments and other assorted Disney-themed Christmas stuff (‘stuff’ being the optimal word here—some of this shizz was pure junk), plenty of IU and Colts ornaments (I live in Indianapolis), stockings, and bric-a-brac, a lot of nonsense tchotchkes that had absolutely no relevance at all to the birth of our Savior, and even gifts for the family pet.  As if.

I found the same situation at other retail outlets.  There may have been one or two vague, one-dimensional, and poorly proportioned representations of the Holy Family, such as stuff one places in the yard (like the deer who often wind up posed in provocative mating rituals), but no Nativity scene.

Growing up, my dad, ever the craftsman, carefully and lovingly made several crèches—tabletop-sized displays of the Nativity (he made the barn part; my mom found the principals somewhere and I always found them fascinating).  Not sure where those beautifully made stables ended up, but whoever has them, take care of them (and if you have two, holla).  Because you won’t find anything like that ever again.

I finally found a Nativity scene at Kohl’s and guess what?  It was half off.

(Aside:  Why doesn’t Kohl’s just price their items at the current sale price?  The jig is up.  You’re not fooling anyone.)

This Nativity scene is white with gold accents, and the oxen are whimsical-looking, but at least they have ears.  Baby Jesus has one foot kicking out of his little nest, and I thought that was adorable.  But here’s the thing.

Kohl’s has an enormous space dedicated to their Christmas products, but there were only two varieties of Nativity scenes.  Again, like it’s lesser-educated drunk uncle across the street, Kohl’s had the Disney-themed crap, the sports-themed ornaments, the Dickensian villages (never quite got the allure of the “village” thing), and a few other secular items that had nothing to do with the birth of our Savior.

I get that Christmas means different things to different people.  What I don’t get is that there is not equal time given to the actual reason for the celebration.  And yes, I get, too, that Jesus was most likely born on a day that was not December 25, but that’s when we metaphorically blow out the candles on His birthday cake.  You got any better ideas?

I found my Nativity scene.  But the problem should have been that there were so many varieties in so many different retail establishments that I lost my mind trying to make a decision about which one I would proudly display in my home for the next 20 years.

*Full disclosure:  There is very little about Disney that I like.  Get over it.

Miss Guided

You know something?  Not everybody looks good when they take off their clothes …

Lena Dunham makes my skin crawl; however, I’m not going to go so far as to say she offends me.  I pride myself on the fact that I am seldom if ever offended by anything.  In my world, those who are perpetually offended by people, their remarks, their choices, or their actions are buying into the zeitgeist of victimhood.

Having made that proclamation, let me say that Lena Dunham’s latest video (albeit being marketed as a spoof) where she raps about her BFF Hillary Clinton, tongue in cheek or not, is going to come back to bite her fat ass.  After I watched it, all I could think of was that even Clinton’s supporters are doing a collective face-palm.  Would you really want her on your side?  Because in the worst possible way, Lena Dunham represents the worst ideals of liberal ideology.  When I think of the body of Americans who identify as liberal or who belong to the Democrat party, I’m pretty sure that not all of them rally behind Lena Dunham’s misappropriated tribute to their candidate, her morbid, obsessive, and worshipful love affair with Planned Parenthood, or her contempt for any man who doesn’t find her do-able.

Or, maybe they do.

You see, Miss Dunham resides in that artificial world where actively hating everything that is considered a mainstay of traditional American values is part of her brand.  That’s how she gets everyone’s attention.  Her latest attack on straight white men would be ridiculous if there weren’t others out there who are swayed by Dunham’s relentless bullying of the vanilla establishment.  In her world, unless you’re LGBTQ, had an abortion, or think that climate change is the sole responsibility of the same straight white men she wishes were extinct, you can’t possibly expect to be treated with any modicum of respect or acknowledged as a contributing member of society.  She’s the savior of the progressive movement.  She’s the stalwart champion of all those who have been hapless victims of the same slice of society she so enthusiastically despises.

The utter lack of tolerance Lena Dunham has for those who don’t endorse her particular brand of misanthropy screams irony.  Look, it’s okay to be edgy, different, to march to a completely alternative drummer, but it’s not okay nor is it very tolerant to spew hatred at what you perceive to be the establishment, but in reality is the foundation of our very culture.  Not everybody’s queer, most rational people don’t take off their clothes to get attention, and for the love of all that is holy, ending your sentences with an upward inflection suggests that even you are not sure about what you are saying.

Not that I have any skin in the game (she’s not my kid, thankfully) but I can’t help but wonder if she could have made a more positive and rational impact upon those causes she champions if she used her powers for good.  Go ahead and be a Hillary fangirl if that’s how you swing politically, but understand, too, that if you’re preaching tolerance, you might want to steer clear of suggesting that the world would be a better place if an entire segment of that world’s population—straight white men—would become extinct.

But what am I saying?  I take it all back.  Go ahead and make an ass of yourself, dear.  It’s working.  For me, anyway.

Oh to be young and ignorant …

You see, it’s all fun and games until you realize you’ve got nothing of substance on your opponent and you’re so desperate to deflect attention from your most obvious crimes that—with quite a bit of help from the media—you’ll take the risk of going there.

Continue reading Oh to be young and ignorant …

Keeping up with why people care about Kim Kardashian

Why is it that we care so much about people we don’t even know?


Continue reading Keeping up with why people care about Kim Kardashian