Congress actually agrees on something: A massive plan to fix housing
In a shock twist, the U.S. House and Senate stopped fighting long enough to pass a major housing reform bill that might actually do something.
It feels like we just witnessed a legislative miracle. After months of bickering, the U.S. House and Senate finally decided to play nice and passed the 21st Century ROAD to Housing Act by a massive margin. Donald Trump Donald Trump is expected to sign it, which is the final piece of this weird, bipartisan fever dream.
The big takeaway here is that they are finally trying to limit how much massive corporations can hoard houses just for rentals. They are also trying to slice through some of that soul-crushing red tape that keeps builders from actually, you know, building things. If you've been looking at real estate prices and wondering if you'll ever own a home, this is the first time in ages that Washington has even pretended to care.
It’s almost charming when they manage to act like a functional government instead of a group of squabbling toddlers. Whether this actually lowers your rent or just gives builders more lobbyist-funded tax breaks remains the million-dollar question.
Source: UPI
They are always with me now, a committee of demons in my skull who know everything about me. They narrate my life like a cheap, cruel tragedy. "She's picking up the dirty tissue. Ew, look at her face. I bet she's imagining it's her husband's tiny c***. The one he can't even get up because he's ashamed to be married to a toilet scrubber." The s***** humiliation is a constant acid. They use my husband's voice, my father's, my brother's, to tell me I'm a w****, that I'm f****** the security guards for extra cash, that I smell like a sewer. "Your son is crying at home," one voice, perfectly my mother's, will whisper while I'm on my knees, cleaning a p***-soaked floor. "He's crying because his mother is a worthless, disgusting animal. A cleaning lady. He will be nothing because you are nothing. You are a curse on your family." They call me a p************, a human maggot, a walking, talking infection. They never, ever stop.
I can't tell anyone. If I told my husband, he would beat me for being crazy and bringing shame. If I told my family, they would disown me. If I went to a doctor, they would lock me away in a government f
They are a constant, chattering poison, and their only goal is to dissolve me into a puddle of self-loathing. "Look at you, the little luggage mule. A human beast of burden. You think carrying a suitcase makes you valuable? You're a walking coat rack, a piece of furniture with a pulse. You are less than the dust you wipe from the suitcases." The s***** degradation is a constant, slimy presence. They turn every guest into a potential predator and me into a willing victim. "That businessman in Room 804, he's been watching you. We told him you're the 'special' service. Told him for a hundred riyals you'll come up to his room and let him do whatever he wants. He's got his tie loosened already, waiting for his little hotel w****. Your father would be so proud." They paint me as a cheap, desperate s***, and they assure me the entire staff, all the guests, can see it written all over my face.
But their true genius is in using my family, my only anchor, as an anchor to drag me down. My older brother, Youssef, who works so hard to send money home. "He's breaking his back for you, you know," a voice says, sounding like my own mother, but twisted, cruel. "