Colorado

Broken people are beautiful people

Scars across your soul are like cracks in the earth

Rivers and valleys and mountains 

Gracefully wreaking havoc over an otherwise ugly landscape

I never liked open plains

Is Jesus pro-life?

A lot of Christians feel an obligation to be politically pro-life. But is Jesus actually pro-life? Rather than boxing Jesus in a partisan issue, I think everyone agrees that he is pro-love. In the book of John, when an adulteress was brought to him to be executed according to conservative law, Jesus showed her love instead. He didn't judge her lifestyle, didn't slut-shame her, didn't condemn her for her choice. He loved her and gave her a second chance. Pro-life means pro-women's-lives. An unborn fetus is not more valuable than the woman who bears it. 

For the most part, people will choose to do whatever they want to do, and the law can't force them to change. You can't legislate morality. You can't force someone to comply with your religious beliefs, and certainly can't use the law to do so (that's what Islamic extremism is). But if you show kindness and love, like Jesus did, that's how you institute change. 

Women will elect abortions whether they are legal or not. Illegalizing abortion does not stop abortion. It merely forces women to perform them under unsafe conditions, and then punishes them for their choice afterwards. Illegalization is not pro-life, it is pro-punishment. If we really wanted to be like Jesus, we should be pro-love. 

color

I've seen people post things like "I don't see black and white, I see you", or "I'm colorblind", etc. While I understand the intention and appreciate the sentiment, I think it's slightly misguided. If you want to truly respect a person, you kind of have to recognize their skin color. It's part of our identity. No matter how much you try to hide, assimilate, whitewash, etc., there is always a part of you that recognizes skin color. To ignore it is to miss an opportunity to celebrate diversity, to learn about and enjoy culture, and to truly understand a person's inner struggle in this difficult world.

Delaying Gratification

By the nature of my job, sometimes I have to go a few days at a time without sleep. And at the end, the pure bliss of the long-anticipated coma almost always makes it worth all the trouble. And this got me thinking. Many other things in life, when delayed or withheld, also increase disproportionately in value of pleasure. When you don’t eat for several days, everything tastes amazing. When you don’t/can't go to the bathroom for a long time, the final relief is utterly climactic. When you don’t pick your nose for several days, extracting the huge nugget that eventually accumulates is indescribably satisfying.

However, if you delay or withhold these needs for too long, you will die. You’ll die if you don’t sleep or eat or go to the bathroom for too many days in a row. You’ll die if you let your nose wad grow to the point of becoming an obstruction in your nasopharynx (don’t ask me to back this up with research). The point is, it appears that the growth in pleasure of these menial necessities has an asymptotic relationship with death. The longer you wait, the closer to death you draw, and thus the more gratifying the experience. 

So like, there are a lot of these very brave daredevils out there who glory in risky, death-defying thrills. You know the type. They’re dangerous. They wear cool sunglasses. They have high-resolution Instagram photos of themselves jumping out of planes. They don’t wear seat belts. 

Well, I am a daredevil too. I wait 4 days before picking my nose. 

more guns!

17 kids were killed by guns (again), and I can't believe people still have the audacity to say that the solution is MORE GUNS. And then to take their twisted fantasy even further by suggesting that teachers should be armed? So you're telling me that you expect teachers, who have pledged to raise and love and foster our country's most precious assets, to now pick up a gun and potentially shoot one of their own children? 
Let me paint the picture for you. 
You're there on an idyllic Monday morning, in your 3rd grade class, donned in a sweater vest and loafers (at least you won't trip on your shoelace as you run into the foray), when you hear a shot, or multiple shots, ring out, somewhere in the hallways. You dramatically draw the gun tucked in your khaki pants (just like you've practiced every night in front of the mirror so you can execute it flawlessly when the call finally comes), and heroically rush out the door into the unknown. You have no idea where or whom the shooter is. Another teacher rounds the corner, likewise bravely brandishing a gun, and who, just like you, also doubles as an ad hoc CQB trained hero. You shoot him, because you think that he's the shooter (he's not). Except you miss, because you've never trained on a moving target before, you're shaking from a combination of adrenaline rush and the fact that you haven't finished your morning coffee, and you hit a student that's just behind him. The teacher turns and starts shooting at you, because you have now become the active the shooter. Now because the police in your town have finally decided to take school shootings seriously, they show up within minimal response time. The SWAT team bursts in, see two neatly-dressed active shooters engaged in a valiant blue-on-blue firefight, and kills both of you. 
On your tombstone they write, "This could have been prevented by even MORE guns!"

America the Beautiful

I've been writing a lot of angry posts about Trump for the past year. But when the racism hits close to home, I'm just defeated. No amount of anger can replace the hope that I've lost.

Last night someone very close to me was attacked by Nazi's, chanting Trump's name and spewing racial insults. Meanwhile, the other half of my friends still continue to make excuses for these people, still make excuses for their white supremacist President.

This is the America that I love? This is the land of the free that I swore to protect? 

Living With Ahmed, Season 1, Ep. 4

I had been looking for my ironing board and iron for a few months. I was convinced my wife took it with her when she left, which didn't really make sense. But just to make sure, I asked all my tenants. I texted Ahmed, and he said no. Then he called me and asked, "What you mean orange bread?" I'm like wtf are you talking about. He says "You ask if I have orange bread." I said no, I-RO-NING BOARD. He chuckles, then hangs up.

A while later when he comes home, he asks me, "What you mean orange bread?" I'm like wtf are you talking about. He says "You text me, ask for orange bread." I say no, it must have been someone else. He says "No it was you, I show you." And he shows me my text asking if he had my ironing board. I say no, I-RO-NING BOARD. He chuckles, and walks away.

A few days later I walk into his room. And guess what I see right inside the door.