The Great and Spacious Starter Home

It became official while closing on a house. As it turns out, you can’t buy a house unless your spouse signs the title. Jessica Christensen, the loan officer, was the first person we told that we were separating.

In 2012 Claire and I made to decision to buy a 1966 26′ Airstream Overlander. It was a pretty romantic concept, but it was also our religion.

The tracts on Jesus Christ have had just as much weight in my mind as the ones on self sustained and debt free living. Physical fears and famines even held a greater urgency than the spiritual ones.

For a long time I had wanted to live in a Silver Bullet. This probably had more to do with MTV than it did with prophetic counsel, still the trailer was teaching me how to be prepared without having over-abundance. The trailer was helping me to understand God.

So at 23 years old, we moved from our great and spacious basement apartment in the low income part of Provo to embark on our holy quest of stripping ourselves of commercialism. I earnestly believed that doing so would help me understand why I felt like an outsider among my people, and would bring me peace.

We sold our clothes, paints and canvases, musical instruments, recording equipment, and leftover wedding gift crock pots. It was hard, but there was a little consolation in getting one step closer to that peace I felt owed. And a decent baptism it was into the community of minimalism. I felt a little proud, and it was hard not to ostracize those who were not baptized as I was. My wayward grandmother pressed us, “what will you do with your wedding gifts?”

Girls would often give Claire uncomfortable looks when she showed them her clay engagement ring (valued at about twenty dollars). We weren’t traditional in a lot of ways, but we were fully there where we thought it counted. But you don’t have to be on the outside to feel like an outsider. Not so deep down, this caused a discomfort that made understanding spiritual and community signals confusing. Many messages felt mixed, and things were beginning to feel a lot more gray.

Around that time we visited some family friends to announce our engagement. They had met Claire many times, but I probably wouldn’t say they were comfortable with each other. Still, when she held out her hand, I vividly remember the way the father tilted his head while dropping his tone to mutter, “interesting.”

After a year of restoring and repairing, finally graduating from BYU, and quitting our jobs, we hit the road for Portland. I had been offered an internship there, so there was much to be excited about. We felt truly free for the first time in our lives.

Still at the time Claire was suffering with extreme depression. Despite many low moments it felt like if we were faithful in holding our arms wide the fruit of our labor would fix many things.

About 30 miles before arriving in Portland we pulled off the freeway, near the Columbia River, to sleep for the night. In the process Claire found herself up a dead end without the space for our forty-seven foot rig to turn around.

She jumped from the truck and sat on the ground, just feet from the open door, running her hands through her hair. Earlier in the day a storm had torn our roof vent, a window, and an aluminum panel from the trailer. And although this type of anxiety was not unexpected, it was becoming more and more common (the opposite of our prediction). The look in her eyes matched how she looked each day after work, each night before school, and each Sunday before church. They screamed. They screamed that I should put the truck in reverse and not stop until we were back in Utah.

After the sun had set Claire climbed back into the truck. I put my hand on her leg and gently tightened my grasp as I said to her softly, “you got this. You’ll figure this out.”

She didn’t speak, but her ten mile stare suggested, “this isn’t what I signed up for.”

Charles was the sixty-year-old obese, gay, machismo manager of a trailer park on Killingsworth street, just six miles from my internship. He was sitting across from us in the front room of his double wide trailer while helping us fill out the necessary paperwork to live in his poverty stricken macro city. His perfectly parted pompadour stood heroically against the three rotary fans that surrounded him.

“So you want to move in. You and your,” he paused from filling out paperwork, pointing to me with his elbow.

“Husband,” Claire said quickly.

“Husband? You’re really married, for real?” Charles frowned through his questions.


“Well. Lots-a kids roaming round the park, but your spot’ll be hitched on a solid slab of concrete. No grass, gets pretty hot and isn’t much fun for little ones.”

“We don’t have any kids.”

“How old are you?”


He turned to me.


“You’re twenty-god-damn-years-old and you didn’t get married because you got pregnant? Well. You are a rare breed here.”

And although I have a hard shell from a lifetime of peculiarity, I couldn’t help but feel sad that perhaps this would be another place where we would be outsiders.

In that brief interview he told us his only rule: go about your business as you please, just don’t bring it outside. “I don’t care if you knock your husband around, just keep it in the trailer.”

Though, nobody really ever did keep it in the trailer. Certainly not the man directly behind us, whose 2am shouting at a prostitute seemed to go relatively unnoticed against the backdrop of the woman to our left whose turrets (we could only pray) caused her to scream unmentionables like clockwork from 11PM to 3AM. And though strange those people were, Claire and I found home in dropping our reservations and fighting the pains we were feeling in being far from home, poor, lonely, and stuck living in a perpetually broken trailer.

I hastily backed our truck into a fire hydrant during one particularly memorable fight.

I can only imagine this is why Mormonism thrives in the sprawl-ed suburbs of the West where there are a great many rooms and spacious fields whereby we can all the easier “keep it in the trailer”.

Even with the crime—the drug deals and the thefts, the three strip clubs across the street, and the mangy homeless dogs—that neighborhood became my home. I got to see the subtle beauties of a community in depression. They were good people who cared about us—and let us know we belonged.

They were the glimmer of gold on my road to El Dorado. They were humble, and they didn’t have the ability to let possessions burden them. Still they didn’t have peace.

Our journey continued across the country. A year later, we stumbled back to Utah. I was certain that the experiment had failed, and was pretty vocal about needing space. The two year long marathon in 120 sq/ft had left me gasping for space. But Claire, the long distance runner that she is, wanted to keep running.

I bought a small house on a large lot with 10 large fruit trees, high ceilings, and a garage the size of four Airstreams. This was when Claire left. If you don’t count brief interactions about taxes, we haven’t talked since then. And although I know her better than anyone else, in a way we’ve become outsiders to each other. We had started a religion, and I had abandoned the fold.

So I to my great and spacious, and her to even simpler living. Each walking in opposite directions, in search of the gospel we’d been promised.

Social Progression — A Mormon Narrative on Common Ideological Issues

Here are some musings on the culture of Mormonism. I have nothing to say on the doctrine, as that is not my place.

“Any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of;—and yet we learn to read only as far as Easy Reading…and our reading, our conversation and thinking, are all on a very low level, worthy only of pygmies…” — Henry David Thoreau, Walden

I like the idea of Easy Reading. It lends itself well to an analogy I’d like to make about walking.

“We boast that we belong to the Nineteenth Century and are making the most rapid strides of any nation. But consider how little this village does for its own culture. […] We need to be provoked—goaded like oxen, as we are, into a trot.”

Also for the purpose of my narrative in this analogy: Thoreau’s townsmen are the members of my community: Mormons.

And now, the main event.

The request to lengthen your stride (1) insists that you both become more kind or charitable while also becoming more disciplined. Flexible, and strong. Often the two tasks confound one another. So it’s easier to just pick one and stick to it. Lately Mormons are stuck on obedience—discipline. Easy Walking: good pace keeping.

But the confounding of charity is not necessary. There is room if we are willing to re-examine our gait. The command to lengthen is not to operate beyond your capacity but to operate within the fulness of your capacity, not unlike this commandment from the New Testament, “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.” The command resides within the confines of “all,” the command makes no request for beyond. And within that all is both compassion, and strength.

“It is time that villages were universities…”

Mormonism is the village whereby we learn and grow socially, and culturally. It is our relationships, and the major sum of them are of one mind. Thoreau is not asking that our village gain the bureaucracy, or fraternities, of universities. But that the culture take on the innate, individual, mutability of academia. The fearless longing for truth. Like Oxen, we will push along until the trot changes—collectively, not individually.

“…let us have noble villages of men. If it is necessary, omit one bridge over the river, go round a little there, and throw one arch at least over the darker gulf of ignorance which surrounds us.”

Fear is a dark shadow, drawing a confrontational line that insists we take sides. In fear there is no moderation, there is no grey area. And in ignorance there is no room for compassion.

Because of these looming threats, many of us have not prepared well for mixing personal ideology with lifestyle. So we walk confidently but misguidedly into life, lacking empathy, and treating our personal community with love but those outside (general humanity) with misunderstanding and disrespect. We’re stuck in bomb shelters, having a cold war against intellectuals, feminists, and the state of Colorado.

The guise of better form and longer strides has become a sure way toward social damnation.

Let us have noble villages of men. Let us be proud of a stride which has within it a sense of duty for bettering the world around us. Let our stride not just be disciplined in trot, but open to change of pace and willing to break form for charity, education, and social betterment. Change must become a part of our gait, and understanding manifested within our form.

It’s Not All About Satisfaction

I’ve decided that it’s just about time I put together some of the thoughts I’ve had since starting the passionately project with Claire.

The question we posed as our thesis was, “is it possible to feel successful and satisfied?” And as we wrapped up our seventh video today, I’m getting stuck on this quote that he gave:

“… there’s also just the satisfaction of doing a job. There’s a client and they have a problem, and it’s hard and you can’t fix it, and then you figure out a way [to] solve their problem.” — Dan Cassaro

This got me thinking about how much we had painted our project into a corner. We had assumed that everyone wanted to feel satisfaction—which is an awfully presumptuous thought. I’ve since tried to determine all the things in my life that make me feel good but that I certainly wouldn’t call feeling satisfied. To be satisfied, I think, is to feel a little bit of resolution. It is to say that a thing is done and that there is no longer a draw to be doing it. But I love: cleaning, going for a run, drinking soda, talking with friends, getting caught up on twitter, taking photographs, playing the guitar; and the thing that I love about these things is that they are constant and do not have the qualities of a satisfied thing.

Dan’s mentioning of a simple, punch the clock kind of, job reminded me that art is not always about overcoming something. Often it is about being counted on to just punch the clock and do the thing. And that, in its own way, can have a very healthy satisfied feeling without ever actually being called done. Sometimes punching the clock is doing a draft, and sometimes its fixing a bug from a project you thought was finished.

Always expecting an orgasm out of art when more often than not you’re just holding hands will lead to a very bad relationship. And one that, logistically, would be pretty time consuming and not all that desirable.


We live such monogamous lives.

We’re not just afraid of plurality, we’re entirely afraid of the infinite. We’re afraid of all that can’t be seen and touched. We live a duality with our love of the internet in that it gives us access to all but we are insufficiently tooled with the ability to actually obtain and comprehend it all. This is terrifying.

This is also why we both love and hate marriage. To be married is to obtain it all, but it is also to know that you can be closer to someone than anyone else is on the planet and still not fully understand the full depth of their person.

My mind only lets me love what it can comprehend, yet it fantasizes with unexperienced realities in a hope that there is something more love-able outside those confines. This is the societal struggle with all forms of love. How can you have a love for a couple in a homosexual relationships if you have not understood what it is like to be a homosexual? And that same brain makes me wonder, how can you love your job knowing that their might be better jobs out there? The push and pull is relentless, and the relentlessness is so overwhelming that it can become sedating.

I’m finally beginning to feel like I “get” love. It’s always seemed so much bigger than me—like a poem I can memorize but I could never write. But lately it’s so simple without actually becoming any smaller or insignificant.

It is plurality. It is bigger than me, but it is also just the right size. Like trudging through the infinite and seeing the final milestone, I feel refreshed in my understanding that I have had a place in this task. That I have a gift to give that is bigger than just being myself or being someone worthy of a laugh. There is an opportunity to be bigger than a guy whose thoughts are worthy of giving company to. In this moment: no longer is uniqueness, or individuality, the priority of my life.

And in the beauty of the paradigm, I know that I am still being monogamous in this thought. I know that tomorrow I will be dual in my hate, and the next day triple in my confusion. But for the first time, in the repertoire of my talents, I feel like I can be loving and that that love can be felt.

I have finally learned to love, and I am no longer afraid of dying alone.

A Dutiless Year

This last year taught me a lot about living. As a classically trained Christian who was obsessed with a dutiful desire to be obedient to God by expressing charity and love, I’ve always felt that it is rather difficult to be a decent human being. And that thought extends far past that thought and into ambiguous territory like the difficulties of: reading the right books, feeling the correct emotions, using my time in the right ways, or having the appropriate self body image.

Anyone who has the background that I do loves programs because they give a life rubric that is easy to carry around in your pocket. For those who know me well, I’m sure you’ve heard me reference Quadrant 2 (from 7 Habits) or codependence (from Codependent no More) quite a few times. The not so easy, but task focused, philosophies within self help books have always offered me an out for my unwillingness to be disobedient to those aforementioned ambiguous rules.

And though they may have made me a good, or successful, person they have not made me a person worth being in the company of. A drone will always make a lousy friend.

Don’t get my wrong: I’m writing this article now because of my need to see it as a task accomplished. Tasks are not inherently wrong, but they are highly addictive and in so being become life dominating. They are the mechanics of the day to day, but nothing more. In looking back in my life, I would hope those day to day trees are forgotten for the sake of the forest.

If you were to die right now, what would be the feeling texture of your last moment? […] Are you so absorbed in some task that you would hardly notice death upon you? — David Dieda

So, as I begin this year, I’m trying to take more opportunities to celebrate my failure at keeping to all the lofty goals I’ve set for myself in 2014. Any disenchantment with tasks is a cause for celebration, especially if your grand tally of tasks kept was hindered by a grand tally of moments lived.

There is no way to turn loving someone, or becoming a decent human being, into a series of tasks. That act is achieved in the being, not in the doing. And if being takes all day, at the cost of disrupting a pattern of doing that you’ve long hailed as an indicator of success, I’d consider it a day well spent and a pattern rightly sacrificed.

Has your task addiction built blinders that limit the vastness of your vision? — David Dieda

The Object of Your Concentration

Living in the Airstream, these last seven months, has meant spending a lot of time cleaning. Unlike a house, an Airstream often has direct access to dirt and mud simply because its intention is to not be surrounded by concrete. Likewise, being on the road has done some major damage to the cleanliness of the truck. I spent an hour or so yesterday, deep cleaning the exact same areas I had cleaned a week ago. They looked like years of soda, soil, and dog hair had been piling up. I’m sure you can all all imagine how a road-tripped car floor looks.

But I enjoy it. Cleaning something makes me more grateful over it. It’s a unique time to take an account of things. A time to look at what you own, care for it, summarize its value in your life, and try to return it to the state in which you bought it. Usually by the end of the experience I’m filled with a kind of profound gratitude for that thing which has been so filling to serve me and my needs.

To know something is to clean it.

Lately I’ve been thinking quite a lot about life, why we are here, and what God expects of us. I’ve come to more firmly believe that God wants us to experience life, make mistakes, and expect His forgiveness and Love through the example I’ve explained above.

“All things are numbered unto me, for they are mine and I know them.”

— Moses 1:35

God’s ability to know all of his Children, and to number them, is connected with the time he has spent cleaning them and caring for them.

A Disciple once came to a teacher to learn to meditate on God. The teacher gave him instructions, but the disciple soon returned and said that he could not carry them out; every time he tried to meditate, he found himself thinking about his pet buffalo. “Well then,” said the teacher, “you meditate on that buffalo you’re so fond of.” The disciple shut himself up in a room and began to concentrate on the buffalo. After some days, the teacher knocked at his door and the disciple answered: “sir, I am sorry I can’t come out to greet you. This door is too small. My horns will be in the way.” Then the teacher smiled and said,: “Splendid! You have become identified with the object of your concentration.”

— How to Know God, The Yoga Aphorisms of Patanjali

I have thought often of this passage in the context of modern Christianity, and what it truly means to become the object of your concentration. As Christ is the teacher, in the passage above, I concede that he intends on us becoming as he is through this very same act of meticulous meditation. Not that we live perfect lives, on the contrary, but that we begin to know who Christ is by doing as he does. Perfection, or to be perfect, is not a verb nor an act. When Christ says, “that which ye have seen me do, that must ye also do,” he is talking about the acts of a Christ, of a Savior. And one significant act that we often overlook, as we emulate the savior, is the act of cleaning.

A great teacher was once asked to explain one of the most seemingly mysterious actions recorded in the Gospels, Christ’s cursing of the barren fig tree. “Become a Christ,” he replied smilingly, “and then you will know why he did that.”

— How to Know God, The Yoga Aphorisms of Patanjali

God’s plan was marvelously crafted so that we would be inclined to park our trailers near mud, because he knew the significant gratitude and love we would learn to have in the process of cleaning them. Only by regularly meditating on Christ would we come to know Him and to be known of Him.

I believe we spend too much time mourning for our mistakes, and not enough time emulating Christ through cleaning up our mistakes. The process of having Faith, and seeking repentance through Christ, is the Christlike act of cleaning. In that moment we are able to become the object of our concentration and see ourselves through his eyes.

I have always seen repentance as an act of humility, not as a pursuit of value and knowledge. It’s more clear to me now why God would have us perform this act quite regularly rather than a single proclamation of Faith and a desire to be clean from that moment forward.

In each of these repentant moments we gain esteem and gratitude for our imperfections, and fondness and love for our weaknesses. To know something, is to clean it.

What 13-year-olds Taught Me About Being an Adult

I’ve certainly learned more during my time at Mountain Ridge Jr. High than I’ve taught. By the end of it I’ve realized that it wasn’t my college degree, nor my age, nor my lower voice that separated me from them, but simpler things. Some of them are cliche, or ego-ethics, but I think they’re important.

Here are some of my favorites:

  1. You have always been a snot nosed kid, and you will continue to be a snot nosed kid. Learning strategies like blowing your nose in a bathroom stall, or picking your nose during your 30 minute commute, will come with time.
  2. You become an adult when you learn how to frame your hair against your face. Catch me right after I roll out of bed and you’ll agree that I don’t look that different from many Jr. High students.
  3. Forget about respecting your mentors, begin to respect your peers. Those you look up to will forgive you for your disrespect—that’s why you started looking up to them in the first place. Someone who is truly an adult will take the time to respect those that are easy to look down on.
  4. Creativity is not a genetic trait. We are only as predisposed to a talent as we choose to be.
  5. Sometimes you need a pat on the back, sometimes you need a rebuke, most adults need both. 13-year-olds needs as many hugs as 18-year-olds need slaps. As adults, we assume that it’s all slaps from 18 on. Many of the largest critiques of Dribbble is its cultural inability to critique—as if respectable adults don’t support and comfort each other. A healthy adult will seek to stroke their ego just as often as they’ll seek to critique their ego.

An Experience in Masculine Development

I had the occasion, tonight, to see my little brother Mark become just a little more defined as a man. I’m grateful that God above let me be witness to such a sad and beautiful milestone in his young life.

While staying over the night at my parent’s house, Mark and I took the dog out to pee just before going to bed. He quickly and quietly pointed out a woodpecker, to me, perched near the door, asleep. He ran to get his bb gun while explaining that mom and dad had commissioned him to kill it, should he see it.

Sidebar: have you ever seen a woodpecker? They are extraordinarily beautiful.

As he readied the gun, I stood anxiously by the window, not knowing what to expect. Me: the boy who cried the first time he caught a fish; the boy who sobbed until he shook while gutting that fish; the man who was racked with guilt when he accidentally hit his dog in the eye with a tennis ball, last week. As an older brother, how should I represent myself? The marvel of the beautiful bird stood between my morals and my mouth. Conscious decision or not, I watched my thirteen year old brother as he shot the bird and watched it fall. I watched as he turned to me in shock, his face flush, and his eyes honest. The bird flopped and it turned, trying as well as a bird might with a piece of metal lodged somewhere in its chest.

There was sadness in his young eyes, but he had not seen it yet. He shot the bird again, for good measure, and with haste reported the news to dad. After surveying the scene, dad gave Mark a high five and asked him to clean up the mess before going to bed. I stayed inside and did my best to calm the dog after all the excitement, and Mark went back out with some newspaper.

When he came back inside his flush face was now set deep into the contrast of pale and purple tones. The bird was not dead, and he hoped to have my advice on the next step. The bird, now standing, looked just as magnificent as Mark looked afraid. Showing my inability to acknowledge emotion, once more, I advised that he let the bird find a place to die on its own. Mark, reminding me of his tender age, asked, “do you think it’s in pain?”

I saw his posture before I saw his face as he slouched back inside after shooting the bird for a third time. He shook violently as the reality of the crime sunk in.

The shame of a young boy, making masculine decisions encouraged by ridiculous culture, is heart wrenching. Those eyes, those eyes that I’ve known for as long as he has, have never looked so deep and stripped of hope. How I tried to hold him and how I tried to tell him that he was right to feel pain. But what is my voice against the many who insist contrary? What is my voice against Call of Duty, MTV mutilation culture, or the senselessly homophobic male role models that will taunt him with emotionless, passionless, and sexist living until the day he dies?

As I pulled his head against my shoulder and felt his frail figure shake, I was filled with immense appreciation for a God who gave a little boy an older brother. I can’t keep him from being manipulated by this awful masculine factory, but in this moment I can hug him; in this moment I can cry with him; in this moment I can remember that I once was him. And maybe the next time he feels like he needs to throw his voice a little lower on the phone, or say something degrading amongst his friends, he’ll have this moment to fend off that ever present masculine pressure.

But most of all, maybe we can all remember that moment when we drew a line in the sand and decided that we would not be participating in killing, or insulting, or suppressing. No, it’s not as simple as it used to be. Yet, in this moment, it all seemed within reach. And God providing, I hope I turn out to be the man that Mark became today.

Timeless Design is a Lie

Timeless design. Who started this lie? I want to find someone to blame. Timeless design is a candy bar wrapped in a banana peel: you’re going to need to examine the evidence before you give full credit to the surface and become convinced of its health. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately as people (designers, mostly) have scrutinized the new American Airlines identity.

“The object of a design is to create an image that the public will remember and associate with the company or product. It should have a lifespan of fifteen to twenty years or more; it is costly to introduce a new logo.” – Doyald Young Dangerous Curves

Now that’s more like it, Doyald. Like any good piece of art, a well designed thing is composed of mostly tradition, partially trend. Trend will bring both striking beauty and mortality to any piece just like eggs will do to rice. Rice will last longer, uncooked, and on its own. But any taste test with fried rice vs. plain rice will yield a predictable winner.

It’s kind of a silly, and flimsy, lie when you think about it. What design has lasted beyond two hundred years, let alone all of time? Elements maybe, but not pieces. And I’m not going to argue against any evangelical traditions concerning a God achieving long lasting beauty through the creation of plants, animals, and the universe—because, well, it makes things too complicated. Not to mention, conceiving that a perfect God would create a timeless design is one that both seems obvious and is incomprehensible.

This is a lie that bleeds into daily living. We’re obsessed with viewing timelessness as a possibility. We want to get to the point where every interaction is a kind one, or that if we take good enough care of our vehicles they will never break down, or that if we practice enough we will make perfect. Whatever “making perfect” means.

I’m sure I’ll rant on this more, later. But for now this satisfies what irks me.

Consumers of Judgement

When I started student teaching a couple weeks ago, I noticed that memes and Pinterest are the entertainment of choice for students in my classes. I fear this kind of entertainment isn’t as much entertainment, as it is education—and the instructors for this kind of education, shouldn’t be trusted with the task of molding minds, or what-have-you.

Judge Judy, American Idol, sensationalized media, and Instagram are not all that different. They are all textbooks in a large class they’re all taking titled Judgement 101. I’m giving it a class name to suggest that it was preconceived or that it has class objectives. I’m also not suggesting that all who take this class are going to ace it and slide down the slippery path to hell. I just want to point out a few thoughts I’ve had, and hopefully suggest some ways in which we can better the situation.

Imagine that the greater than symbol stands for “requires”.


Capture can be anything. In fact, we’re so obsessed with capture, that we meticulously label everyone we know and everything we do. From tags on Twitter and Instagram, to tags on friends, family, co-workers and even strangers: we love to have an absolute definition for everything we do. Why? So that we can best decide how to judge.

  1. “Oh, your photo was #nofilter? All judgements must be strictly content based, now.”
  2. “You’re tweeting that you’re about to see the Hobbit? I’ll file you under #lotrfan.”
  3. “Own a Martin Guitar? File under guitar player, sub section singer-songwriter.”

The devil you’ve captured versus the devil you haven’t. That’s why get-to-know-you activities are so tough. We’re all so naked, unlabeled, not judge-able!


All of the “must-have” tools in a high schooler’s tool box were recommended by the instructors of Judgement 101. The better the camera on your phone is, the higher chance people will consider your capture to be a fact and consider that fact judge-able. Sites like and thrive because of well placed Judgement 101 classmates with the necessary tool for the job.


Mobile internet increases the speed at which the judgement can be made, and sites like Wikipedia are simply stepping stones toward backing up the evidence presumed by the capture.


Some Solutions
Are you setting a good example to those who don’t know how to accurately judge for themselves? Do conversations you have with your peers eventually lead to judgements on people who deserve your affection? When you’re alone, do you compare yourself to others or do you appreciate all that you have been given?

Judgement is where we land to have a good laugh, feel the sensation of a dramatic situation, or experience the thrill of surprise. All usually at the expense of others.

Not all Judgement is bad. Judgement is a motivator, a decision maker, and priority divider. But a hasty judgement is bad. There is a common sense correlation between fast judgements and the incorrectness of those judgements.

I fear for the future, should the great advancements in technology become the downfall of civility, kindness, and humanity. For the aforementioned popular entertainment providers, judgement consumption seems to be the overwhelming use.

Have we given too much power to judge into the hands of the naive? Is the beauty of the advancement flower lost in the stench of the indecent manure you used to fertilize it?