This world is full of things that we don't need.

"You say to your soldier, 'Do this,' and he doeth it, but here [in America] I am obliged to say, 'This is the reason why you ought to do that': and then he does it." - Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben

"You're a good person," I said, hugging with all my might.

However, was that really the case?

"I did what I did from love, while you know nothing but the commands of your hormones." - Mikage

There was this pulse:

• CNN fails to credit artist: http://marikurisato.com/Neda.htm

Which Omelettes responded to:

I wondered, "What if you make an innovation, or a concept, or something you can't directly sell?"

This answer floored me:

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Twitter has finally killed someone. Original article: http://bit.ly/wFzNN English: http://bit.ly/rKf6z

A Romanian teenager was electrocuted in her bathtub last week after she dropped her laptop into the water as she Twittered. 

Maria Barbu, 17, was found dead in the bathroom of her Brasov home in central Romania by her parents, Croatian Times reports. Her laptop was lying next to her.

So prepare yourselves for another round of outcry against social media.

Which is worse, to be with no one, or to be with someone who doesn't appreciate you and doesn't love you? - futureamadeus

At any given moment, to be with no one says nothing about your identity.  However, to be with someone who doesn't love you speaks volumes about you.

Being with someone who doesn't love you is worse.

I have every confidence it will be like this:

 . . . well, maybe a little different.

Use the following words: amoeba, tomato juice, tire, tiger lilies

It was always the damn tiger lilies.  I growled as the coppery scent filled the air, a red, tomato-juice consistency filling the sides of the planter.  From the way the light slanted I could still pick out the letters, "OODYE R" from the tire it had once been.  Waste not, want not.

Startled by my movement, or perhaps sensing my body heat, the whispers began again.  "Feed us . . .  Feeed usssss . . . "  Absent-mindedly, I reached for the sheaf of papers tucked into my coat, shuffled through it . . . gunshot wound, car crash . . . yes, this one.  This one would do.

My hands closed around the slip of paper indicating a young man who had died of amoebic dysentery.  "Soon," I whispered to the flowers.  "Soon."  I thought of how the last body had looked under the light, how the plants had spread their creepers, how the flesh had been stripped from the bone before it had time to rot.

Waste not, want not.

Let us salute Abigail Brown for not curling up, for not hiding from the truth, no matter how unpleasant.