只挑一句话就已经乐不可支了：

“现在中国知名饮品连锁店瑞幸，库迪的咖啡，奶茶均价0点几美元包配送，购买力爆赞👍”

朋友，

你的0.几美元是崩溃的商家，崩溃的骑手，坐享其成的你。

朋友，

你的时薪购买力的主张是靠逼近0元购来沾沾自喜。

朋友，

这不是购买力的体现，这是中国人到底是不是人的再一次振聋发聩的拷问。

善待你的同胞。

Q: If I say “I own my words,” does that mean I have to mean everything I say? Every single time?

A:

No.

That question isn't nitpicking— it gets to the heart of something important: Taking ownership doesn’t mean turning every sentence into a legal contract.

If saying “I own it” meant every word had to be carved in stone, conversation would become unbearable. We’d lose spontaneity, humor, play, breath— all the things that make language alive.

So no, not every sentence needs to be owned.

Let’s start with everyday talk:

"Did you eat?" "Yeah." "Man, it’s hot today." "I know, my brain’s melting."

These aren’t declarations. They’re connectors. They keep the rhythm of human contact. You’re not stepping forward as a person with a position— you’re just keeping the conversation going.

You say, “I don’t feel like working today,” that doesn’t mean you’re quitting. You say, “I’m so done with everything,” that doesn’t mean you want the world to end.

People need room to vent, joke, exaggerate. Language has elasticity.

But elastic doesn't mean meaningless.

So when does just talking turn into this is me talking? When does “I own it” actually apply?

Here’s the key: When you let the words stand in for you.

"I think we should start earlier." "I’ve always believed you shouldn’t hit a child." "Honestly, I share some of the blame."

None of these sound dramatic. But if you’re willing to let that sentence represent your current view, your direction, your presence— then yes, it’s worth owning.

Not because the sentence is big. But because you showed up in it.

Now suppose someone asks: “Wait—so is that what you really mean?” And you say, “Nah, I was just talking.” Okay. That’s you stepping back out of the words. You're making it clear: “I’m not in that sentence.”

That’s fine. There’s no problem in saying: "I didn’t mean that to define me."

The problem is when people let their words get picked up, quoted, repeated, used to represent them— and they stay silent. They neither confirm nor clarify. They just let the words float around like orphans, gathering meaning, carrying weight, and they hide behind: “Well, I never officially said that.”

That’s not ambiguity. That’s retreat.

Ownership is not meant to restrict your expression. It’s meant to protect it from being used as camouflage.

Some people love the phrase, “I was just saying.” But funny thing— the things they just say over and over tend to be the things they actually believe. They just don’t want to face it.

You say, “I don’t like her.” Someone asks: “Are you serious?” You laugh it off: “Nah, just talking trash.” But then you repeat it to a third person, and again the next day.

So—was that you talking, or not?

Yes, it’s true: “Not every sentence must be owned.” But what’s not okay is repeating something again and again while expecting others not to take you seriously. If you don’t want to say, “This is what I mean,” then don’t be surprised when people say, “Then you don’t mean anything.”

That too is a choice: “I don’t own this. So I won’t show up.”

Language isn’t only about ownership. There’s room for play, testing, drifting. But if you never show up— if you always say “don’t take me seriously,” then in the end, there’s no you left in your words.

Some people talk all their lives but never stand behind a single sentence. Ask them, “Do you own this?” They say, “You misunderstood.”

Ask again, “Then what are you trying to say?” They shrug, “How should I know? I’m just talking.”

That’s not freedom. That’s erasure.

The reason ownership matters isn’t to weigh down your speech— it’s to rescue you from speech that says nothing.

You are not everything you’ve ever said. And no, you’re not required to own every utterance.

But you do have to own some.

Otherwise, you never exist as someone with a voice.

Which ones? The ones where you’re willing to say: “That was me.” Even if it causes backlash. Even if you later want to revise. You still don’t say: “That wasn’t me.”

Humans aren’t true in every sentence. We are true in the ones we’re willing to carry.

That’s what makes you a person, not just a mouth. A self—not just a speaker.

《认，是不是对所有话都来真的？》 有人听我反复讲“我认”，就问了一句： 是不是所有的话都要认？是不是说出口就必须负责？是不是所有表达都要来真的？

这问题不是挑理，而是恰恰指出了“认”不该变成过度承担的暴政。 如果“我认”意味着每句话都要郑重其事、刻字为碑，那人将寸步难行，话将句句沉重。语言的自由、幽默、游戏、呼吸，都会因此消失。

不是所有话都要认。

我们先看生活里最常见的例子：

“你吃饭了吗？” “吃了。” “今天好热。” “是啊，热得脑子都不转了。”

这些话，是搭话、回应、维持联系，不是表明立场，不是出场为谁。你说这些话的时候，不是在宣布“我是谁”，只是让对话继续。

你说“今天不想上班”，不代表你真的要辞职；你说“烦死了”，不等于你主张世界毁灭。人是有表达余地的，语言里有“只是说说”的空间。

可是，“只是说说”，不代表“什么都不是”。 那什么时候“说说”变成“你说的”？什么时候“我认”才被要求？ ——关键在于：你是否让这句话代表了你。

“我觉得我们可以早点开始。” “我一直认为孩子不该打。” “其实我也有错。”

这些话，不管多轻声细语，只要你愿意让它代表你现在的想法、立场、方向，那就值得“我认”。不是因为这话重大，而是因为它指向“我是谁”。

而如果你说一句话后，有人追问：“所以你是这个意思？” 你回答：“不是啦，我就是随便讲讲。” 那很好，你把自己从这句话里抽出来了，说明你没在里面出现。这时候说“我不认”，是自然的。

但如果你说了之后，被人引用、转述、作为你立场的证明，而你既不否认，也不说清楚，只是任它扩散——那你就是在默认它代表你，你却不肯承担。

这就不是“说说而已”，这是退在模糊里，让语言代替你活着。

“认”不是用来限制表达的，它恰恰是反对那种借表达逃避表达的伪自由。

有些人最爱这句话：“我只是随口说说。” 可你回头看，他最随口说说的那句，常常就是他最深信不疑的。因为他不敢正面表达，只敢藏在玩笑、调侃、暗示里。

你说：“我不喜欢她。” 别人问：“你认真的吗？” 你说：“没有啦，我乱说的。” 可你在饭后又和第三个人重复了一遍。那到底是不是“你说的”？

“不是所有话都要认”，这句话是真的。 但你不能既不认，又反复说，还希望别人别当真。 你不愿说“我就是这个意思”，那你就要接受别人说“你什么意思也没有”。

这也是一种选择：我不认，所以我不出现。

语言不是只有“我认”一种用法；人也不是必须每句话都“来真的”。但你若从未来过真的，你就永远不在。

有些人一辈子都在表达，却从不肯承担其中哪一句。你问他：“这话你认吗？” 他总说：“是你理解错了。” 你再问：“那你到底想表达什么？” 他说：“我哪知道，我就是聊聊。”

这就是用语言取消了“我”。

“认”之所以重要，不是为了压人话语，而是为了把人从话语中救出来。

你不是你说的所有话，你也不是每句话都要认。 但你一定得认几句，你才能存在为“一个我”。

哪几句？——就是那些，你愿意说：“这是我说的。”哪怕有后果，你也不推。哪怕日后想改，你也不说“那不是我”。

人不是句句都真，人是那些愿意承担自己的句子。

Q: If I authorize someone to speak for me—does that mean I said it?

A:

No. Not unless you step up afterward and say: “Yes, I stand by what they said.”

You can delegate the speaking. But you can’t delegate the owning.

You can say, “Can you say this on my behalf?” And they speak. If someone asks, “Did you say that?” They’ll say, “Not me—she asked me to pass it along.”

At that point, it’s still not yours— not until you appear and say: “Yes, I asked them to say that. And yes, I own it.”

Until then, it doesn’t count as you speaking. Not because the idea wasn’t yours, but because you didn’t show up.

Delegation can say the words. But only you can stand behind them.

You might say, “I didn’t feel like explaining. I asked them to do it.” Fair enough. But unless you also say, “And what they said—that’s me talking,” you’re still hiding.

Ownership isn’t paperwork. It’s presence. If you don’t say “I stand by that,” you’re not there.

Some people blur this line on purpose. They use assistants, spokespeople, ghostwriters, burner accounts, or vague “we-statements.” And afterward they stay silent. They neither confirm nor deny. They say, “That wasn’t phrased quite right.”

And so the sentence just floats— half-claimed, half-denied. Sounds like theirs, but no one’s taking responsibility. If questioned, they say, “I never said it out loud.”

That’s not miscommunication. That’s tactical ambiguity. It’s not an accident. It’s absence—by design.

You can authorize, especially in public roles, in teams, in politics. Delegation is often necessary. But responsibility is non-transferable.

You can outsource the voice. You can’t outsource the weight.

If you say, “I didn’t say it myself, but I agree with the message,” that’s still not ownership. That’s passive alignment. If you want it to count as your voice, you have to say it: “Yes. I stand by those words.”

If you delay that moment, if you wait to see how the message lands— you’re not communicating. You’re testing the waters.

You want plausible deniability. If the words succeed, you’ll claim them. If they fail, you’ll blame the execution.

That’s not integrity. That’s strategy.

Ownership isn’t a tactic. It’s not branding. It’s not messaging control.

Ownership is stepping forward and saying: “Regardless of how this goes— those are my words.”

There’s a line between delegation and ownership. Crossing it doesn’t happen when someone sounds like you. It happens when you say: “Yes. That was me.”

Someone can draft for you, polish your sentences, even press send. But unless you say, “I’m willing to stand behind this,” it’s not your voice.

Maybe you were too busy. Maybe you truly needed help expressing. Fine. But later, you still need to add: “I’ve reviewed it. I meant it. It’s mine.”

Someone else can send the email— but you have to say: “That message is me.”

They can post in the group chat— but you have to show up and say: “I said that. Through them, yes. But I said it.”

Otherwise, what they said may reflect your intention, but not your presence.

And without presence—there’s no ownership.

To own your words isn’t about tone. It’s about position. You stand in front of the sentence— not behind it.

You might say, “I couldn’t bring myself to say it directly, but I do own that sentence.” That counts.

You might say, “I instructed them to say it, and I don’t disown it.” That also counts.

But if you say, “That’s just the team’s wording, I have no objection,” —still not you.

If you say, “They spoke for me, but I’m here now to say it myself,” —now it’s yours.

Ownership is the moment you step out from behind the curtain.

You might be the architect. You might be the strategist. But if you don’t step into the light, you’re not the speaker.

Someone else can mimic your phrasing, your tone, your structure. But unless you say, “That was me,” the burden is still on them, not you.

You’re not off the hook. You just haven’t shown up yet.

You might say, “I didn’t say it, but I own it.” That’s real. You might say, “I said it, but don’t blame me.” That’s not ownership. That’s deflection.

Ownership isn’t about who typed the words. It’s about who’s willing to say: “That line—was mine.”

问：我授权别人代表我发言，这算我说的吗？

答：

不算，除非你随后自己认了那句话。

你可以授权别人代你说，但你不能授权别人替你认。

你可以对他说：“你帮我传句话。”他说了。别人问：“这是你说的吗？”他会说：“不是我，是她让我说的。” 到这一步，责任还没到你身上，除非你出来说：“是，我让他说的，这话我认。”

否则，那句话依旧不算是你说的。 不是因为它不来自你，而是因为你没出现。

授权可以完成“说”，但不能完成“认”。

你说：“我懒得解释，你帮我说。”他替你说了。但你没说：“我认他说的这句就是我说的。”你就仍然在隐藏中。

认，不是签署合约；认，是你出现的那一刻。你没说“我认”，你就不在。

有些人故意模糊这点。他们让助理、发言人、公众号、小号、集体口径帮他们说话，说完后自己既不否认也不认，说：“是他们表达得不准。”

于是那句话漂浮在半空中，既像是他说的，又不是他负责的。谁来追问，他就说：“我并没有亲口说过。”

这就是逃。不是表达不清，是表达故意不清。不是语言误差，是承担位置不在场。

你当然可以授权——尤其在公共场合、团队合作、政治操作中，授权必要。但你不能把责任一并授权。

发言可以代，承担不能代。

有人说：“我没亲口说，但我同意他们的说法。” 那还不是认。那只是“我没反对”。你若想让它成为你说的，你必须站出来讲：“这句话，我认。”

如果你迟迟不说“我认”，你就是在保留退路。你不是真的要表达，而是借表达测试效果。

你让别人先说，说得好，你就收回来说“是我指示的”；说得坏，你就推给“理解偏差”。

这不是认，这是设计。

认不是操作，不是代言，不是安排——认，是你肯不肯现身，说：“不管后果，这句话是我说的。”

认和授权之间，有一道不能跨越的线。跨过去的那一刻，不是你讲得像不像，而是你说：“我认。”

你可以让别人草拟、润色、编辑，但只要你没说“这是我愿意承担的句子”，那就还不是你说的。

有时你真没空说，你让别人说了。但你之后要加一句：“我看过了，那是我说的。”这才叫认。

你可以让别人发邮件，但你要说：“那封信，是我。”

你可以让别人在群里讲一件事，但你要出来接：“我就是这么说的。”

否则，那只是你说的“某种意思”，而不是你说的那一句。

认不是口气，是你在句子前面站住。

你说：“我说不出口，但我认那句是我说的。”这就算你说了。你说：“那是我安排他讲的，我不否认。”——这也算你说了。 你说：“那是团队语言，我没有意见。”——还不是你说的。 你说：“我让他们帮我说，但我现在站出来说一遍。”——这才是你。

认，是你从幕后走到前台的那一刻。

哪怕你是幕后主脑，你若不出现，你就不是说话的那个人。

别人说的那句话可以照你的意思、照你的句式、照你的节奏说出来， 但你若不说：“这是我说的”，那句仍是他在承担，不是你。

你不是躲得干净，而是你还没在场。

你说：“这话我没说，但我认。”这是一种真实的出现。 你说：“这话我说了，但你不能怪我。”这不是认，是回避。

认不是谁说出来的；认是你敢不敢说：那一句，我说的。

Q: If someone else says the same thing I did—does that mean it counts as me saying it?

A:

No. Even if the words are identical— it still doesn’t count as you speaking.

You might say, “He said the exact thing I’ve been saying.” Same wording. Same idea. Same phrasing.

But was it actually you saying it?

Not necessarily.

What looks the same on the surface isn’t the same beneath.

Because behind every sentence there’s more than just meaning— there’s timing, context, tone, intention, and most of all: who stood behind it when it was said.

Many people say, “I said that too—once.” But when? To whom? In what mood? With what risk? And more importantly: Do you still stand by it now? Do you own the old version, or are you just agreeing with a current echo?

You think matching content means it represents you. But you forget: Words are only the shell. The real you is the one who stood inside the words and said, “I mean this. I own this.”

Someone else might say the same thing— but from a completely different place. They said it to hide. You said it to reveal. They said it to please. You said it to challenge.

The words were the same. The direction was opposite.

They say, “That’s not what I meant.” You say, “That is exactly what I meant.”

You both say, “I just want to be treated like a human being.” But for them, it’s an excuse. For you, it’s a declaration. They’re dodging. You’re showing up.

Same sentence. Entirely different meaning.

People say “I want freedom” all the time. But some mean, “Don’t blame me.” Others mean, “I’ll take responsibility.”

Some say “I want peace” to retreat and hide. Others say it to stop pretending.

The words match. But unless the position, the why, and the willingness to stand by it match— it’s not the same.

You might say, “Regardless of why he said it, I agree with the statement.” Fine. Then step forward and say, “That sentence—I say it too.”

Don’t say, “He said it like I would have.” Say: “I say it. Here and now.”

Don’t borrow someone else’s voice and pretend that counts as your own.

You might argue, “I said it first.” But what matters isn’t who said it first— what matters is: Do you still own it now? Are you speaking it again? Are you standing in it again?

Many people claim, “I once wrote something exactly like that.” But where are you now? Are you still inside that sentence? Would you say it again—today—and mean it?

If someone else says your words but refuses to take the same risks, to carry the same meaning, to stand in the same fire— then it’s not the same.

They may sound like you, but they’re not in your position.

So ask: Would I say that sentence from their spot? If not—then their version of the sentence isn’t yours.

Someone else may repeat your line— but if they don’t stand for what you stood for, then their words and yours are not the same, no matter how identical they appear.

So don’t just look at the wording. Ask: Who’s inside the sentence?

Real ownership isn’t repetition. It’s not “Yeah, I think that too.” It’s: “I’m here again. I’m saying it again. And I mean it—now.”

That’s when it becomes your voice.

Matching words without matching ownership is just a reflection— not a voice.

问：别人说的跟我一样，这算我说的吗？

答：

不算。哪怕字句一模一样，也不算。

你说：“他说的那句话和我讲的一样。” 你是觉得语言一样、想法一样、表达方式一样。可这句话真的是“你说”的吗？

不是。

你说“一样”，只是看起来一样。 但语言之外，还有立场、时机、口气、承担的位置，还有你说这句话时你在不在。

很多人说“我也这么讲过”，但那是过去。你那时说这话，是在什么场合？对谁？以怎样的心情？想传递什么？你现在还认吗？你认的是原来的那一句，还是只是认现在有人说了类似的话？

你以为内容一样就代表你。但你忘了，话是一层壳，真正的“我”是站在那句话里面——不是你“想过”，是你认。

别人说了和你一样的话，但他可能是在别的位置上说的。他说这句话是为自保，你说是为承担。他说是为迎合，你说是为抗争。语言一样，方向却反着。

他说“我不是这个意思”，你也说“我不是那个意思”。你们都用同样的句子“我只是想活得像个人”，可他是借口，你是承担。他在用它逃避，你在用它现身。你们说的是同一句话，意思却南辕北辙。

就像有人说“我想自由”，这三个字人人会说。但有的人说，是为了拒绝责任；有的人说，是为了承担后果。有的人说“我想清静”，是要退出，有的人说这句话，是为了不再装。

语言表面是一样的，但谁在说，为什么说，敢不敢认，这才是那句话是不是真的“你说”的标准。

你可能会说：“不管他的动机是什么，我认这句话。” 可以。但你要自己站出来说：“这句话，我说。”不是说“他说得真像我。” 你不能用“他说了”来代替你说。你要说：“我也说。”

你可能说：“我说的比他早。” 这不重要。重要的是，你现在还认吗？你认他那句，是你想说的吗？ 你认的，是你自己现在在说吗？还是你只是拿过去做印记，说：“我说过，懂的都懂。”

很多人说：“我曾经写过一模一样的话。” 但你现在在哪里？你还在那句话里吗？你现在再说一次愿不愿认？你是否还在那个“我”的位置上？

别人说的像你，不代表他在你的位置上。你要问： 这句话，是我愿意站在他的位置上说的吗？如果不是，那他这句话就不是你的。

你说的话，别人说了，但他不认你认的东西，那他那句和你那句，就是不一样的。

所以，不要看文字一样不一样，要看谁在里面。

认不是重复。不是说“你也这样想”，而是你要再一次说：“我现在，说这句话，我认。”

那才是你说的。

语言表面一样，认不一样，就不是一回事。

事实上，禁酒令发布至今，中证白酒板块并没有大跌，只是横盘。 受禁酒令影响最大的是烟酒店。 烟酒店可以说是已经来到生死时刻，根据白酒垂类自媒体“徽酒”调研，禁酒令后一个月，部分省市，烟酒店白酒销售同比下滑80%。 烟酒店遇到生存危机，根源在于这门生意的商业逻辑被禁酒令打破。

烟酒店更是披着C端外衣的B端生意。其商业逻辑的核心是B端资源： 一家生意好的烟酒店更依赖政企单位的团购订单。其中，私企团购占比30%，国企事业单位团购占比50%左右，剩下的20%才是零售占比。

如今，禁酒令要求工作餐全面禁酒，占烟酒店销售额半壁江山的国企事业单位采购需求几乎消失，烟酒店的商业根基也被彻底打破。

根据华策咨询数据，政策实施首月，山东白酒行业整体营收下滑18.7%，明显好于烟酒店的收入降幅（40%-80%）。

根据酒业家调研数据显示，“禁酒令”之后，店型即时零售的高端白酒受到冲击，下滑比例约15%-20%左右；大众零售和团购类型，下滑比例约为30%；高端团购、商务场景较高的类型下滑最为明显，约为50%。

Q: If I take ownership of my words, does that mean I can’t change?

A:

No.

Owning your words doesn’t trap you. It doesn’t freeze you in place. It doesn’t lock you into one version of yourself forever. It just means that when you do change, you know who is changing.

You’re not saying, “I’ve always been like this.” You’re saying, “At that moment, I said that. And I’ll stand by it.”

You’re not a stone. You move. Your thoughts shift. Your language, feelings, perspectives—they evolve. And that’s fine. As long as you can say, “This is what I believe now,” you’re still here.

Owning doesn’t mean declaring a permanent self. It doesn’t mean saying, “I’ll never change this view.” It means saying, “That sentence I said earlier—that was mine.”

You can change in the very next sentence. Or in an hour. Or ten years later, look back and say, “I was wrong.” But what you can’t say is: “I never said that.” You don’t get to deny the person you once were— just because you’ve grown.

We fear owning our words because we think it means we’re stuck with them. We’re afraid of being labeled, pinned to a quote, cast as “that kind of person” because of something we once said.

And that fear isn’t unfounded. People will try to box you in. They’ll throw your past words at you like traps. “Didn’t you once say this?” “See—you’ve changed.” As if change cancels honesty. As if to be real, you must be unchanging.

But that’s not what it means to own something.

Ownership isn’t obsession. It’s not gripping a sentence so tightly you choke on it. That’s not responsibility. That’s rigidity.

To own your words is to say, “Yes, I said that then. And now I’ve changed.” That’s not hypocrisy. That’s growth. The only wrong move is to pretend you never said it.

True ownership is changing— without erasing. You say, “I’m different now. But I won’t pretend that old version wasn’t me too.”

That’s how you stay whole.

You’re not a monument. You’re a river. You bend, swell, dry, overflow. And still— you know which turn was yours. Which moments were yours. Which muddy lines were yours.

You fear being inconsistent. You fear contradiction. But humans were never designed to be consistent. You are not a fixed essence. You’re not a brand. You’re a current of choices, a willingness to shift— and to own each shift.

Ownership is not saying, “I’ve always been this way.” It’s saying, “Even if I change, I won’t pretend I never stood where I stood.”

You must own because you do change. If you were permanent, you wouldn’t need to. You could just carve your identity on a sign and wear it forever.

But you’re not that simple. You’re not a label. You’re not a frozen declaration. You’re a living thread of sentences— each one spoken, then owned.

The trouble begins when you cling to some image of “me” that can’t bend, can’t blur, can’t break. It gets painful when you know you’ve shifted— but you won’t admit it. And you won’t go back to say: “That was me too, back then.”

True freedom isn’t the ability to change— it’s the courage to change and still own it. True peace isn’t forgetting— it’s saying, “Yes, that’s where I’ve been.”

You can revise yourself many times. Just don’t erase your trail. Say: “That was me— and so is this.”

That’s not clinging. That’s continuity. You’re not glued to one spot— you’re showing up wherever you go.

Owning isn’t a stone tablet. It’s not a seal. It’s a footprint. You look back and say: “I walked there.” Someone asks where you’re going now, you say: “Still moving.”

You’re not the sentence. You’re the one who said it. That’s a massive difference.

Owning doesn’t mean certainty. It means courage. Not “I will never change,” but “I’m not afraid to show up.”

问：认，是不是等于不能改？

答：

不是。

认，不是锁住你，不是把你定格在一句话里，不是让你不能变。 认，是让你在每次变的时候，知道是谁在变。

你不是认一个“我一直都这样”。你认的，是这一刻说话的你，不是所有时刻都一样的你。

你不是一块石头，不是永远不动。你在变，你的想法在变，你对一件事的看法、用词、情绪都会变。但只要你能一次一次地说：“我现在是这样想的”，你就在。

认不是认一个“常我”。你不是说：“我一直都认这一句。”你是在说：“我刚才那句，是我说的。” 你可以下一句改。你可以一小时后改。你可以十年后说：“我那时错了。”但你不能说：“我没说过。”你不能因为要改，就否认你说过的那句曾是你。

你怕认，是因为你以为认了就不能改。你怕被定型，被粘住。你怕被贴上标签：“你曾经这么说过，所以你就是这种人。”

你怕得没错。因为很多人就是这么做。他们拿你说过的话来堵你。他们说：“你不是说过这个吗？你变了。”好像一旦你认过什么，就得永远不变才算真诚。

可这不是“认”的本意。

认不是执。不是你抓住一句话，死不松手。那是执着，不是承担。

认是承认当时是我说的；不是保证我以后永远不变。

你说：“我那时认，现在改了。”这没问题。问题是你说：“我没说过。”那是逃。

真正的认，是你能一边改，一边认。你说：“我现在不一样了，但我不否认，那句是我说的。” 你这样说，才算没失去自己。

你不是一座城，你是一条河。河会拐，会涨退，会泥沙混杂。但你知道河是河，哪一段弯是你弯的，哪一段清是你清的。

你怕改，是怕别人说你前后不一。但人本就不是一的。你没有一个“常我”。你不是某个永恒的想法。你是一道愿意一改再改、一认再认的流。

认，不是为了说“我一直是这样”。而是说，“即便我会变，我也不假装我没来过这里”。

你之所以要认，就是因为你会变。如果你永远一样，你就不用认。你只要写下一句“我是谁”，贴在脸上就好了。

正因为你不是那个贴标签就能算的你，你才要不断地说：“这句是我”，“刚才那句也是”，“我现在和那时不一样，但我都认。”

烦恼来自于想抓住一个“我”，不许它变、不许它碎、不许它混乱。 痛苦来自于你发现“我”变了，却不肯承认，也不敢回头认自己变过。

真正的自由不是变，而是变了还认。真正的轻松不是忘，而是你能说“我就是那样一路过来的”。

你可以改很多次。你只要每次都认。你不躲、不赖、不撕掉历史。你说：“这就是我，一次一次认下来的我。”

这不是执着，而是承接。你不是黏在一处，而是你在哪一处都愿出现。

认不是石碑，不是封印。认是足迹。你回头看，说：“我走过这儿。”别人问你：“你现在去哪？”你说：“我还在走。”

不是“我是这句话”；是“我说过这句话”。这两者天差地别。

认，不是确定；认，是敢。 不是认你不变，是认你肯出现。

Q: Why is owning your words harder than just knowing them?

A:

Because when you own something, you’re not saying “It’s correct,” you’re saying “It’s mine.”

You’re not claiming the idea is foolproof. You’re saying, “No matter how it’s heard, no matter what gets twisted— I was the one who said it.”

To know something is easy. You read it, heard it, thought about it. You can paraphrase, quote, summarize, or vaguely nod at it. No one needs to know where you got it. No one expects you to defend it. If it backfires, you shrug and say, “That’s not what I meant.”

But when you say, “I stand by what I said,” you’re putting yourself in front of those words— not behind them. Not in the shadows. Right there, visible.

If someone comes at you for those words, you don’t get to duck. You don’t get to say, “You misunderstood, so it doesn’t count.” You can clarify. You can apologize. You can even admit you were wrong. But you can’t say you didn’t say it.

Owning your words means owning the act of saying. Not the clarity. Not the impact. Not the way others hear it. Just this: “Those words came from me. That voice was mine.”

And that— that’s what makes it hard.

Because now, you can’t use misunderstanding as your getaway car.

You can discover you misspoke. You can grow, rephrase, rethink. You can say, “I got that wrong.” But you can’t erase the record and pretend it never left your lips.

Knowing gives you wiggle room. You say, “I just heard about this.” “I’m not an expert.” “Don’t quote me on it.”

But when you own your words, you show up. You plant your flag and say: “That was me.” Now you’re exposed. Now you have to hear how others receive you. You can’t slip away unnoticed.

Once you own it, people will challenge you. They’ll misunderstand you. They’ll weaponize your words. You might wish you’d never spoken. But regret is not a reason to disown. It’s a reason to revisit—never to erase.

You can say: “I didn’t explain that well.” “I didn’t expect it to be taken that way.” “Looking back, I see the problem.” But you can’t say: “So it doesn’t count.”

Owning is harder than knowing because owning leaves no escape hatch.

It’s not “If everyone hears me right, I’ll own it.” It’s “Even if misunderstood, I won’t pretend I didn’t say it.”

Knowing avoids consequence. Owning takes responsibility.

What you’re really afraid of isn’t being wrong. It’s that your words might run away from you— get distorted, quoted, misused— and yet you’ll still have to say: “Yes. That was mine.”

You fear being reduced to one sentence. You fear being labeled by a line, frozen in someone else’s version of your voice. You fear that one moment will drown out everything else you meant.

So you try to backpedal. “You took it the wrong way.” “That’s not what I meant.” “Let’s pretend that one doesn’t count.”

But if you really own your words, you say: “Yes, I said it. I said it poorly. I didn’t expect the reaction. I now see the flaws. And I want to revise it. But no—I won’t deny I said it.”

You can evolve from ownership. You can’t escape through denial.

True ownership isn’t stubbornness. It isn’t being right no matter what. It’s saying: “Even if I was wrong— the mistake was mine.”

And that hurts. But that hurt is also the proof that you’re still here.

Owning is harder than knowing because the moment you own something, you have to face the mess, the gaps, the imperfections, and you’re not allowed to hide behind “That’s not what I meant.”

You have to say: “I didn’t express it well. But that’s still what I said.”

You can change your view— but you can’t erase your steps. You can grow— but not pretend you never stumbled.

To own something isn’t to be confident you’re right. It’s to be honest that you were the one speaking.

That’s the real difficulty. It doesn’t demand perfection. It demands presence.

问：为什么认，比知道更难？

答：

因为你认的不是“对”，不是“懂”，而是“我说”。 你说“我认”，不是在说“这句话没有误会”，是说“不管怎么被听见，这句话是我说的”。

知道，是你听过、想过、读到过。你可以转述、引用、甚至模糊地带过，不必交代清楚是谁说的，也不必负责这句话之后被怎么理解。你只是“知道”。别人误解了，你可以轻松一笑，说：“他听错了，不关我事。”

但你一旦说“我认”，你就站在那句话前面。别人冲着那句话来找你，你不能退。你不能说：“你误解我了，所以这句不算。”你可以解释，可以补充，可以道歉，但不能否认那是你说的。

你说“我认”，是认你把它说出来了。你认的，不是别人听懂没有，不是有没有争议，而是你承认——那是你发出的声音，是你承担的表达。

这就是难。难在你不能再用“被误解”当借口，把话收回。

你可以发现自己说错了。你可以在认了之后，改。你可以说：“我那句话不对。”你可以认错、承认自己表达有误，甚至推翻原意。但你不能说：“我没说。”你不能因为结果不理想，就假装那句没发生。

知道让你轻松。你说：“我只是知道这件事。”你随时能跳开，说“我也不确定”、“别太当真”。 认要你现身。你说：“这句话是我说的。”那你就得在场，就得听别人怎么理解、怎么看待你。你没法溜走。

认了，别人会质问你；别人会误解你；别人会引用你的话做他们要做的事。你会后悔。但那不是认错的理由。那是你要面对的后果。

你可以说：“我那句话没说清楚。” 你可以说：“我没考虑到那样的理解方式。” 你可以说：“我后来看出了问题。” 但你不能说：“所以那不是我说的。”

认比知道难，是因为认不能赖。认不是“如果大家理解正确我就认”，认是“不管有没有误解，我都认那句是我说的。”

知道可以不承担。认必须承担。

认的真正困难，不在于你怕说错，而在于你怕那句话脱离你、变了形、被误会、被引用、被利用，而你却必须站在那句话前面说：“是我说的。”

你怕那句话被拿去攻击你，甚至代表你。你怕你只说了一句，却变成了别人口中的“你这个人”。你怕这一句话，遮住了你想表达的所有其它东西。

所以你想收回。你说：“你误解我了。”你说：“我不是那个意思。”你说：“这句不算。”

但你如果真的“认”，你就会说：“那是我说的。我承认说得不够好，我没想到会这样被理解，我现在愿意补充、修改、甚至否定我说的内容。但我不否认那是我说的。”

你可以从认中改，不可以从误解中逃。

真正的认，不是绝对不动，不是执迷不悟。真正的认，是即使你错了，你也不赖给别人。你说：“这错是我认的。”

这句话说出口，你也许会觉得痛。但这就是你还在的证明。

认，比知道难，是因为你一认，就必须面对错误、面对不完整、面对解释不清。你不能只躲在“我原意不是那样”后面。你要说：“我没表达好，但这就是我当时说的。”

你可以改变观点，但你不能否认你曾说过。你可以成长，但不能假装没走过那一步。

认，是对说话这件事负责，不是对正确这件事自信。你不是认你一定对，是认你一定是说话的那个人。

这才是认真正的难。它不要求你完美，只要求你不退。

在中国纯实体消费人口基本只有老年人，中老年网购群体，点外卖群体的时薪购买力是更高的，拼好饭均价1美元一餐

现在中国知名饮品连锁店瑞幸，库迪的咖啡，奶茶均价0点几美元包配送，购买力爆赞👍

美国时薪12，外卖小费8美元，点餐8美元，欠债4美元，所以美国人均信用卡奴，美国所有的消费力都是在透支基础上计算的，中国人要人人学美国比例月光族，GDP下个月超美。

中国是世界上仅有的通缩大国，而且是天文数字的QE后还通缩，说明物价太低了，物质太充沛了，没有国民争抢消费任何东西。消费内需当然体现不出来，什么都不缺，还买什么。

共产主义社会有购买力这个说法吗？没有吧，物质已经极大充裕。

西方人还没有流行偷渡到中国，就是被西方经济学的GDP，人均收入，购买力这些骗了，看不见真相：如果你什么都有，你不需要消费。

Q: What does it mean to say “I stand by it”?

A:

It’s not a nod. Not saying “makes sense.” Not “I get it.”

To stand by it means: You place a sentence on yourself and say, “These words—I said them.”

It’s not proof. Not citation. Not agreement with a theory. It’s stepping in front of your sentence— not behind it, not off to the side.

It’s not about endorsing an idea. It’s about saying: “This is mine. I’ll take responsibility.”

Standing by something doesn’t mean it’s right. You can stand by something and still be wrong. Because what you’re owning isn’t the truth of the words— it’s the fact that they came from you.

It’s not saying, “This is what I meant.” It’s saying, “This is what I said. And yes—I said it.”

It’s not about having a clear intention. It’s about taking ownership of what actually came out.

You don’t stand by it because you’re confident. You stand by it because you’re done hiding.

You don’t stand by it because you know more. You stand by it because you’re done dodging.

When you say, “I stand by it,” you’re not claiming the sentence was necessary or wise— you’re saying: “The one who said it… was me.”

Someone else might say it better, but if they won’t own it, it’s just noise. You might say it clumsily, but if you claim it, you’re present.

To stand by a sentence isn’t to recite a creed, or to obey logic, or to mimic what once worked. It’s saying: “I know this might get misunderstood. I know it’s risky. But I said it. And I mean it—because I said it.”

It’s not in your words— it’s in your posture when questioned. When someone asks, “Why would you say that?” you don’t flinch. You don’t shift blame. You say: “Because I did. That was me.”

This isn’t stubbornness. This isn’t ego. This is not pretending the sentence came from someone else.

It’s not about making a point. It’s about showing up. You don’t just speak— you exist in the thing you said.

You don’t do it to win. You do it to stay real. You say: “That was me.” Even if you regret it five minutes later— if you still admit: “Yeah. That was mine,” you’re still here.

To stand by something isn’t noble. It’s honest. It’s not loud. It just doesn’t lie.

It’s not a label. Not a flag. Not a slogan like “I support XYZ.” You don’t stand by to perform— you do it because you refuse to act innocent.

It’s not “I’ve always believed this.” It’s: “This is what I said—right now.” Maybe you’ll change. But this sentence— you don’t pin it on the past, and you don’t toss it into the future.

It’s not a state of being. It’s a position. You plant your feet and say: “This line—I said it.”

To stand by something means you left a trace inside your words. People can read them and know: You stood there. Not for credit— but because you didn’t run.

It’s not silent. You have to say it. Even if quietly: “I stand by this.” That voice—however small— means you’re still alive.

It’s not about having it all figured out. It’s saying, “I may not know everything, but I know I said this— and I’m not hiding from it.”

You don’t owe this to others. You owe it to yourself— because you’re tired of pretending.

You say, “I stand by it,” not because you’re flawless, but because you’re willing to be wrong. You say: “That was my mistake. But it was mine.” And that— means more than any perfect phrase ever could.

So what does it mean to stand by your words?

It means: You said something— and you didn’t delete it, didn’t deflect, didn’t disguise, didn’t pretend it came from someone else. You said: “I stand by this.”

And in that moment— you arrived. That’s not just a sentence. That’s you, finally showing up.

问：什么叫“我认”？

答：

认，不是点头，不是听懂，不是说“对”。 认，是你把一句话放在自己身上，说：“这句我说的。”

认，不是证明，不是说明，不是引用。是你站在这句话的前面，不在后面，不在边上。

不是你同意这个观点，是你对这句话说：“我负责。”

认不是正确的标志。你可以认错话。你认的是“这句话是我说的”，不是“这句话没问题”。

认不是说：“我是这个意思”，而是说：“这句话出自我，我认。” 不是你有意图，是你认那句实际说出来的句子。

认不是因为你很有把握，而是因为你不想退。

认不是因为你懂得多，而是因为你不想再躲。

认的那一刻，你不是在说“这句话值不值得说”，而是在说“说这句话的是我”。

别人说得再对，如果他不认，那只是风声。你说得再错，只要你认，那就是你在说。

认不是重复信仰，不是服从道理，不是照抄成功经验。 认是你明知道这句话可能被误解、可能有风险，但你说：“我说了，我认。”

认不是靠嘴说，是你不怕别人追问。“你怎么会这么说？”你不慌，你不推，你说：“我就是这么说的。”

认不是倔，不是硬撑。认是你没有假装这话是别人的。

认不是为立场，是为出现。你出现在这句话里。你不只在说话，你在这句话中被看见。

认不是为赢，是为活。你愿意说：“是我说的。”你就还在。哪怕你马上反悔，你认“刚才是我说的”，你也还在。

认不是高贵，是真实。不是高调，是不撒谎。

认不是标签，不是立场，不是“我支持XX”。 你说“我认”，不是为了表态，是因为你不愿装无辜。

认不是“我一直都这么想”，是“这句是我现在说的”。 你可能会变，但这句话你不推给过去，也不留给未来。

认不是一种状态，而是一种位置。 你站在那里，说：“我说这句。”

认是你在话里留下了影子。别人看这句话，就知道你站过。不是为了留下名字，而是你没躲。

认不是沉默。认必须出声。哪怕只是小声说：“我认。”那也是你活着的声音。

认不是想了很久才认，是你哪怕没想清楚，也不拿这个当借口逃走。你说：“我还不懂全部，但我认这句。”

认不是要对别人有交代，是你对自己不想再假装。

你说“我认”，不是因为你完美，而是你愿意错。你愿意说：“我错了，但这是我说的。”这句话，比任何聪明的说法都重要。

所以，什么叫“我认”？ 一句话你说出来，你不删、不退、不甩、不装。你说：“我认。”

这不是普通的三句话，是你出现的那一刻。

Q: Who is doing the "knowing"?

A:

You say, “I know.” Sounds fine. But who’s saying it? Who is that “I”? Are you really claiming knowledge— or just repeating something you’ve heard?

Sometimes “I know” just slips out of your mouth. You don’t pause to ask: Do I actually know? Why do I think I know? Am I even present in this sentence?

Knowing doesn’t always mean you are there. Knowledge can pass through you like wind through an open window. You hear it. You remember it. You repeat it. But you never entered the room. You became a channel, not a source. You say, “Everyone knows this,” but “everyone” is not you.

You might carry entire libraries in your head, quote experts, recall data, explain theories. But when someone asks: “Do you stand by that?” suddenly, you hesitate. Suddenly, the voice dries up.

Knowing isn’t the mistake. The mistake is confusing “I’ve heard it” with “I believe it.” You didn’t ask: Did this come from me? Or did it just pass through me?

You say, “I know he’s upset.” But did you truly see it? Or just guess? Or did someone else tell you, and you passed it along? Are you offering a truth you’ll stand behind— or just tossing out something safe?

The more you “know,” the easier it is to hide. You say, “I heard it from someone.” “Seems likely.” “Most people think so.” And just like that, you quietly exit the sentence. You don’t want to take ownership— you just want to sound informed.

So—who’s doing the knowing? Maybe no one. Maybe the sentence floated in, floated out, and your mouth was just the middleman.

But if you pause— and ask: “I say I know this—was that really me talking?” —that’s the moment you show up.

Between knowing and not knowing, there might be nothing. But between “I said this” and “I didn’t say this,” there is you.

If you say, “I said it. That was me,” then you know. That’s when you exist.

Most people talk without ever speaking for themselves. It’s the algorithm talking. The parents talking. The tribe talking. The noise talking.

You’re just the one wearing the mouth.

You think you know, but someone else knew— you’re just the courier. You don’t want to be wrong, so you don’t say, “I believe this.” You say, “Some people say…”

You’re not lying. You’re just avoiding responsibility. Because if you say “I believe,” someone might say you’re wrong. So instead, you pretend it’s just “knowing.”

But if you live your whole life like that— you never really arrive. You speak, but no one’s home. It’s just sound. Just air.

“Knowing” isn’t evil. It’s just empty. It’s saying, not owning.

But when you say, “This is what I believe,” —even if it’s shaky, even if it’s wrong— you come alive.

So—who’s doing the knowing?

You say, “I know.” Then ask: “Was that sentence truly mine?”

If yes—then you’re here. If no—if you’re just repeating—then you’re not.

The moment you appear is not when you say you know. It’s when you say: “This is mine to say.”

Many people know. Few are willing to show up.

Can you step out from behind the script, and say: “I’m not reciting. I’m taking a stand.”

You say, “It’s just a fact.” But who said it? Was it you?

You say, “I’m not sure.” Then ask: “Do I own even that uncertainty?”

You say, “I’m just quoting.” Then ask: “Was it me who chose to quote it?” “Or am I just afraid I have no words of my own?”

If you can trace who is doing the knowing— you’ll know who’s still really speaking.

问：谁在“知道”？

答：

你说“我知道”，这句话看起来没问题。但谁在说这句？这个“我”指的是谁？你是在表达“我真知道”，还是只是在说“这事我听过”？还是，其实你也不确定，是别人说的、你跟着说的、说完就忘了？

有时候你说“我知道”，只是习惯说法，你没停下来想：我真的知道吗？我为什么知道？这句话里，我还在不在？

知道，不等于我在。知道可以像风一样刮过你，你听到了、记下了、复述出来，但你不在里面。你只是被动地接收，像管道，不是源头。你说“这大家都知道”，但“大家”不是你。

你可能背得出很多知识，讲得出很多道理，可你不一定认得那是你说的。你可以很熟练地说一个观点，讲一个结论，但别人问你一句：“你认吗？”你忽然说不出话来。

知道，不是错；错在你把“我听过”当成“我说过”。你没分清，那是进来的，还是发出去的。你只是说了，但你没认是你说的。

有时你说“我知道他生气了”，但你是看见的，还是猜的？你自己在这句话里，还是只是转述别人说的？你是在表达一个你愿承担的理解，还是只是重复一种安全的说法？

你知道得越多，越容易躲。你说“我也听人说过”、“应该是这样没错”、“我看很多人这么讲”。你在这些句子里，逐渐退场。你不想承担这句话是你讲的，你只是当个搬运工。

谁在“知道”？也许没人。只是一些话从那里飘来，又从你嘴里飘出去。你没真的在说，只是在流动。

但你一旦停下来问一句：“我知道这件事——那这句话，是我说的吗？”那你就在了。这一问，让你重新出现了。

知道和不知道之间，没有人；但“我在说”与“我没在说”之间，有你。你若认：“我说这句是我说的”，那才是你知道。

很多人说话，不是自己说的。是惯性在说，是朋友圈在说，是家族观念在说，是道听途说在说。你只是嘴巴借来用，声音从你这儿响起，但你不在这句话里。

你以为你知道，其实是别人知道。你只是在当那个传话的人。你怕说错，所以你不说“我认”，你只说“有人这么讲”。

你也不是故意骗人，你只是怕负责任。你怕一旦你说“我认”，别人就会说你错。所以你装成只是“知道”。

但如果你永远都只“知道”，你就永远不会出现。你说再多，也只是空气在说，不是你。

“知道”不是错，只是空。“我认”，才是你真的开始活。

所以，谁在“知道”？ 若你说：“我知道”，那你要问你自己：“这句话，是我说的吗？” 如果你说：“是”，你就在了。 如果你说：“不是，我只是重复”，那你不在。 你出现的那一刻，不是你“知道”，是你“认这是我说的”。

知道的人很多，愿意出现的人很少。你能不能从“知道”走出来，说：“我不是背诵，我是认。”

你说：“这只是一个事实。” 但谁说的？你说的吗？ 你说：“我不确定。” 那“我不确定”这句话，你认吗？ 你说：“我引用而已。” 那引用这句话，是你愿意引用的吗？还是你只是怕找不到自己的话？

问清谁在“知道”，你就知道谁还在讲话。

Q: What separates humans from animals?

A:

It’s not how we walk. Not whether we speak. Not our tools, our homes, or our smartphones. It’s not that we eat standing up, or build cities, or go online.

It’s not intelligence. Not culture. You study; a bird hunts. You solve equations; a fox solves escape routes. Those aren’t the differences that matter.

The real difference? Humans can see themselves.

Not in a mirror— but in a moment, you can say: "That wasn’t me."

It’s not that you express more. It’s that you can question your own expression.

Animals react. But they don’t reflect. They lie down when tired, flee when scared, snatch when hungry. So do you. But you can also pause and ask: "Was that the right thing to do?"

Animals don’t reject themselves. They don’t praise themselves. They don’t regret yesterday. They don’t picture a better version of themselves tomorrow.

But you do.

You act—and think about the action. You think—and second-guess the thought. Sometimes you don’t even know why you think what you think. You just know—this isn’t like me.

When you say, "I don’t want to become this," you’re comparing yourself to... yourself. That comparison means something: You’re not just your reaction. You can step back and see yourself— and that’s something no animal does.

You take a wrong turn, and you notice. You say the wrong thing, and you replay it. You do something that makes your stomach twist— not because others judged you, but because you knew: "That wasn’t me."

In that moment— even if you can’t explain what’s wrong— you feel it. There’s a light inside. It doesn’t shine brightly. But it never fully goes out. Sometimes it’s dimmed. Sometimes you shut your eyes to it. But it’s there.

Animals don’t ask, “Who am I?” They don’t say, "I don’t feel like myself today." But you do. You struggle with the thought: "I’m not who I wanted to be."

You want to become someone else. That’s not fake. It’s a sign you know: "I don’t have to stay this way."

You have a gap. Animals don’t. They are what they are—no more, no less. But you have a “true me,” a “different me,” a “me I’m becoming.” You jump between them. You stumble, you ache— but you don’t disappear.

As long as you can say, "I know I’m changing," you’re still human.

The difference between you and an animal isn’t that you know more— it’s that you know you’re not the same anymore.

You don’t just live inside your reactions— you watch them. You notice. You question. You remember.

Animals don’t look back. They don’t feel shame. They don’t feel guilt. They don’t lie awake replaying a conversation. They don’t feel a sentence was left unsaid, or that it came out wrong.

But you do. That’s what makes you human.

You’re not just alive— you know you’re alive. That knowing? That’s the difference.

问：人和动物的差别在哪？

答：

不是走路的姿势，不是有没有语言，不是使用工具。不是站着吃饭，不是能盖房子，不是会玩手机。

也不是智商，也不是文化。你聪明，它灵活；你上学，它觅食。不是这一类的不同。

真正的差别，是人能看见自己。

不是照镜子，而是你能对着自己说：“刚才那一下，不是我。” 不是你比它更能表达，而是你能对自己的表达提出质疑。

动物能反应，但它不会反省。 它累了就躺，它怕就逃，它饿就抢。你也是。但你还能问：“我这样对吗？”

动物不会嫌弃自己，也不会称赞自己。它不会后悔昨天，更不会想象明天的我该成为什么样子。

你会。你一边做，一边想；一边想，一边犹豫；你甚至不知你为什么这么想，但你知道这不太像你。

你说“我不想变成这样”，就是你在对比。而你能对比，是因为你不只是当下的反应，你还能折回来，看你是谁。那不是动物能做的。

你走错路，会停下；说错话，会回想；做了事，会难受，不是因为别人不喜欢，而是你自己知道“这不是我”。

那一下，哪怕你说不清哪里不对，你也知道你不对。你心里有个光，不亮，但一直在。有时被蒙住了，有时睁不开眼，但它从未彻底熄灭。

动物不会问“我是谁”。它不会觉得“我今天不像我”。你会。你甚至会因为这句话而苦恼：“我不是我想成为的那样。”

你愿意成为另一个你。这不是虚伪，是你知道“我可以不是现在这个样子”。

你有差距，动物没有。它就是它，不多想。但你有“原本的我”，有“别样的我”，有“想成为的我”。你在这些之间跳来跳去，摔倒了会痛，但你没死。你只要还能说：“我知道我在变”，你还是人。

你和动物的差别，不在你“知道得多”，而在你知道你“不一样了”。你不是活在反应里，而是活在反应之后，还有一个在看的你。

动物从不“回头”。它不会羞愧，不会自责，不会扪心自问。但你会。你夜里睡不着，你脑中重复对白，你心里有话没说出口，你知道那句话没讲好。那些都是人。

你不是动物，因为你不只是活着，而是你知道你在活。

Q: What does "now" mean?

A:

It’s not the time on the clock. Not the “today” on the news. Not the alert on your phone that says “This moment.” It’s not a timestamp. Not a tick on the timeline, cleanly sliced.

Now is a flash— a moment you can answer to. Not the moment something happens, but the moment you know you’re seeing it happen. Not when words come out of your mouth, but when you hear yourself speaking.

It’s not about being intense. Not about being calm and clear. It’s about knowing it’s you who moved. Even if it’s rushed, messy, wrong— if you own it, that’s now.

Now doesn’t last. You don’t “enter” it and “stay.” It’s like a wave— you don’t choose when it comes. The only question is: Did you fall out, or did you return?

Now isn’t about standing firm. It’s when you slip—then notice, stumble—then admit, take a wrong step—and say: “That was mine.”

Sometimes hours pass, and you were never really there. You were busy. Efficient. Responsive. You did everything right— and still, you can’t nod when someone praises you. Because deep down, you don’t know: Was that really me?

And sometimes, you jolt back. Not because time moved, but because you heard something. Or saw a face. Or a strange feeling broke through— and suddenly you realize: What just happened wasn’t me.

That jolt— is now. You didn’t snap out of a trance— you came home. You didn’t get smarter— you got honest.

It’s not memory that proves you were there. Not emotion that proves it was real. Now is quiet— but not fake. You may still be confused, but you didn’t dodge. You say: “I’m here.” Even if you haven’t figured it all out.

The real now can’t be scheduled. Can’t be scripted. It doesn’t show up once you’re ready— it’s the fact that you’re already in it.

You say, “I felt real just now,” —that’s not now. That’s a past moment, remembered. You say, “I want to stay like this forever,” —that’s not now. That’s a future wish.

The more you talk about now, the further it slips away. Explain it too much— and it’s gone. You can’t hold it. You can only stand in it long enough to say: “I know I’m here.”

No one else can say it for you. No one else can prove it. It’s not about doing the right thing— it’s about owning it.

Sometimes, the moment you claim it, it’s already gone. You fall back into old habits— go numb, speak clichés. That’s okay. Because at least once, you said: “That was me.” And that moment counts.

Now is not a length of time. It’s not a state you can preserve. It’s a single yes— a willingness to say: “This was mine.”

The moment you say, “This is a good now,” —it’s already over. The moment you say, “I was real just now,” —it’s memory, not presence.

Now is not bright. Not stable. Not provable. It’s just the moment you say: “I know this sentence is mine.”

And that one sentence— is enough to call it now.

问：什么叫“现在”？

答：

不是现在几点，不是新闻上的“今天”，也不是手机弹出的“此刻提醒”。 不是一个可以指的时间点，不是一格格切开的横轴。

现在，是一瞬，是一次能回应的事实。不是你看着发生，而是你知道自己正在看。不是你被推着说话，而是你说话时能听见自己在说。

不是你感觉强烈，也不是你冷静清晰，而是你知道那是你在动。那一下，不管你动得多快、多错、多慌，只要你认了，那就是现在。

现在不是持续的，不是你“进入”后就能“保持”的。 现在像浪，不是你选来的，是你有没有掉下去。 它不是站稳，而是你一滑又一醒，一顿又一认，一步错了又说：“这是我踏的。”

有时你不知不觉过了很久，好像从来没“在”过。你忙，你应付，你反应得很好，但你不记得你在哪里。别人说你那时做得对，你也不敢点头。因为你不清楚：那是不是我？

有时你突然回神。不是时间让你回来的，是你自己听见一句话，或碰到一张脸，或某个感受打进来，你一惊，才发现：刚才那些，不是我。

那一惊，就是现在。你不是跳出来，而是回来了。不是更聪明，而是更诚实。

不是回忆才说明你在，不是情绪才说明你真。现在无声，但不假。不是你想清楚了，而是你没躲开。你可以还没想好，但你认：“我在这里。”

真正的现在，不能提前安排，不能提前写好。不是准备好了才来，是你正在里面。

你说“我刚才很真实”，那不是现在，是已经过去的真实。 你说“我想一直都保持这样”，那不是现在，是未来的幻想。 现在不能讲太多，它一讲就远了，一解释就滑了。它不是你拥有的，是你敢不敢对它说：“我知道我在。”

不是别人说你在，是你自己知道。不是因为你做对了，是因为你认了。

有时你认的那一刻，就过去了。你接着又昏，又假，又套话。但没关系。你曾说：“是我。”那一下，就够。

现在，是一次愿意承担的“是我”，不是一段可以留住的时间。 你一说“现在很好”，它就已经不在。 你一说“我刚才很好”，那不是现在，是记忆。

现在不亮，不稳，不可证。它只是你在说：“我知道这句话是我说的。” 就是这一句话，就够它叫“现在”。

Q: What does it mean to be alive?

A:

It’s not your heartbeat. It’s not your breath. It’s not the fact that you’re walking around with your eyes open.

It’s not that you haven’t died— It’s that you haven’t gone numb.

Being alive isn’t about quick reflexes or loud emotions. It’s not that you laugh louder or cry harder. It’s that you know you’re laughing. You know you’re crying. You’re not faking it. You’re not avoiding it. You’re not pretending everything’s fine.

Living isn’t measured by what you’re doing— it’s measured by whether you are still in there. Not that you’re holding on— but that you know you’re holding on. Not that you’re feeling— but that you haven’t forgotten what it means to feel.

Numb people move. They eat, they reply to messages, they even smile. But they’re not in it. They’re just following the current, like an empty shell. You won’t notice anything wrong. Even they won’t notice anything missing. But ask: “What were you thinking just now?” They shrug. “Why did you say that?” They pause: “I’m not really sure.” That’s not living. That’s drifting.

To live is to be present. Not “I’m fine,” but “Something feels off.” Not “Don’t worry about it,” but “I’m angry.” Not “Whatever,” but “I don’t know what this is, but I’m not feeling nothing.”

Living isn’t about staying calm or sounding wise. A person who’s alive feels and judges. They hurt, and they admit it. When they say “I’m not okay,” they’re not asking for pity— they’re just not lying to themselves.

Numbness isn’t death. It’s quieter than death. It’s not the absence of feelings, but treating feelings like background noise. It’s not that you have no thoughts— but that you think they don’t matter. It’s not peace— it’s fear of picking things back up.

A person who’s alive can fail— but won’t pretend they didn’t. They can fall apart— but won’t say “It’s all someone else’s fault.” They’ll say: “I’m not okay right now. But I know this is me.”

To live is not to hide behind reasons. Not “This is normal,” not “I shouldn’t feel like this.” It’s the quiet moment when a voice inside whispers, “Something’s shifted.” That— that’s life.

It’s not that you’re brave. It’s that you’re not lying to yourself. It’s not that you’ve fixed anything. It’s that you didn’t flinch away. You’re not trying to impress anyone. You just… looked in, and saw yourself—still there.

Living isn’t being strong. It’s not being clear. It’s refusing to give up on knowing: “I’m still here.”

You don’t have to be fully alive every day. Sometimes, you go numb. Sometimes, you want to run. But if even once you pause and say, “This doesn’t feel right,” then yes— you are still alive.

To be alive is to not be numb. It’s to hear, however faintly, that inner voice whisper: “I’m here.” Even if it’s small, shaky, and late— if it’s still there, you are still living.

That— that is what it means to be alive.

问：什么是“活”？

答： 不是心跳，不是呼吸，不是睁着眼走来走去。 不是你还没死，而是你还没麻木。

不是反应快，也不是说话多。不是你笑得大声，哭得激烈。 而是你知道你在笑，知道你在哭；你不装、不躲、不假装没事。

活，不是你做了什么，而是你还在里面。不是你在撑，而是你知道你在撑。不是你有感觉，而是你没忘记那是感觉。

麻木的人也会动，也会吃饭，也会回复消息，但不在里面。他只是顺着走，像个壳。你看不出不对，他自己也不觉得有什么错。但问他：“你刚才在想什么？”他答不出；再问：“你是怎么决定说那句话的？”他只会说“我也不清楚”。那就不是在活。

活，是你知道你在里面。不是“我很好”，而是“我现在觉得自己不太对劲”。不是“别管我”，而是“我在生气”。不是“随便啦”，而是“我说不上来，但我不是没感觉”。

不是装没事，也不是只讲道理。活着的人，有感觉也有判断，有痛也有承认。你说“我难过”，不是要人可怜，是因为你没骗自己你不难过。

麻木不是死，却比死还安静。不是没有感觉，而是把感觉当成空气。不是没想法，而是觉得想了也没用。不是放下了，而是你不敢捡起来。

活着的人，可以失败，但不能假装没失败。可以低落，但不能说“无所谓”。可以崩溃，但不能说“都是他们的问题”。你要说：“我现在不行，但我知道这是我。”

活是——你没有用理由把自己藏起来。你没有说“这很正常”，你也没有说“我不该这样”。你只是在心里，有一个声音轻轻说着：“我好像不一样了。”那就是活。

不是你多勇敢，是你没骗自己。不是你能解决，而是你没跳开。不是你要表现，而是你愿意看一眼里面的你，还在不在。

活，不是强，也不是清楚。活，是你没有放弃知道自己还在。

你不需要每天都活着。有时你会麻。有时你想逃。但只要你在某一刻对自己说：“我这样不太对”，你就还在活。

活，是不麻木。是你还听得见那个声音说：“我在。”哪怕它很小、很虚、很迟，它没消失。

那就是活。

Q: What is the “I”?

A:

Not a name. Not a body. Not a thought. Names change, bodies age, thoughts rise and fall— but when someone says, “This name is mine,” “This body is me,” “This thought—I thought it,” there is something saying it. That’s the “I.”

This “I” isn’t a thing. It’s not in your organs, not in your brain, not in the words. But if you ever ask, “Was it really me who just said that?”— in that very moment, the “I” appears.

Not everyone asks that question. Not everyone wants to admit: Yes, I said it. Not everyone cares enough to wonder: Was that really me?

When a child speaks, it’s not always the “I” speaking. They echo others, repeat what they’ve been taught. Even in dreams, the words spoken might not be yours. But when you wake up and ask, “Was that me?” —that’s when the “I” begins.

The “I” is not a substance. But it’s not nothing either. It may not always be present— but when it is, you know. Not because you know there’s an I, but because you know it is you—here, now.

The “I” is not a label, not a theory. It’s the moment you take responsibility for a sentence. Not who you are, but who is speaking.

Sometimes, you know it’s you. You say something wrong, but you don’t blame anyone. You say something right, but you don’t show off. You just say it—and you own it. You say: I said that. Even if it was wrong, you own it. And there it is. The “I.”

Sometimes, you don’t know if it was really you. You follow trends, copy others, dodge questions, tell lies. Later, you say: “That’s not what I meant,” “I don’t know why I did that,” “I didn’t think it through.” In those moments, the “I” wasn’t there. Your mouth was. Your brain was. But not the “I.”

The “I” isn’t built by definitions. You can describe all kinds of versions— the child you once were, the ideal self, the person others see you as. But none of those are the one who is speaking now.

There is only one real “I”: Not the one who says “I am this or that,” but the one who says, “I said this.” The first is responsibility. The second is description. The first is alive. The second is a name tag.

You don’t become the “I” because of any special trait. You become the “I” the moment you speak without hiding, without shifting blame, without pretending. That moment—you are.

You’re not always the “I.” Sometimes you’re just a shell, a machine, a bundle of reactions, pushed by the world. But the moment you stop, and ask: “Did I really say that?” —that moment, you’re no longer a shell. You’re a human being.

The “I” is not power. Not freedom. Not dignity. Not identity. It is the point of responsibility in speech. You don’t have to be smart or brave. But you can say: “I said that.” That one sentence— needs no other condition.

No one can say it for you. No one can admit it for you. No matter how well someone knows you— they cannot take responsibility for your words.

Sometimes you say, “Yes, I said it,” and you were wrong. People attack you. You regret it. You promise not to do it again. But you still admit it. And that admission—brings the “I” to life.

Other times, you dodge it: “It wasn’t me—it was my father’s idea.” “She provoked me.” “The company told me to.” Maybe you’re right. But the “I” is already gone.

The “I” never wins by being clever. It only lives in the moment you’re willing to say: “Yes. That was me.” Right or wrong.

So: The “I” exists only in this moment of judgment— Not handed to the past, Not hidden in the future, Not held by titles, Not proven by outcomes. It lives in this: “I am speaking now.”

Only the one who can say that— is the “I.”

问：什么是“我”？

答： 不是名字，不是身体，不是念头。名字会换，身体会老，念头起落不停，但说“这名字是我的”、“这身体是我”、“这念头我想的”时，有个在说的，才是“我”。

这“我”不是某种东西，不在内脏，不在脑子，不在语言里，但你若真问“刚才说那句话的，是不是我？”这句话一出口，它就在。

不是谁都能问出这个问题。不是谁都肯认那是“我”说的。不是谁都想管那句话是不是自己说的。

小孩说话，不一定是“我”在说，是习来的、大人教的。梦里说话，也不一定是我说的。但醒来后回想：“那是我吗？”这一下，才开始算是“我”。

我不是东西，但不是虚无。我不一定一直在，但我在的时候，你是知道的。不是知道有“我”，而是知道“是我在”。

“我”不是标签，不是概念，是你在说这句话时，能不能承担是谁在说。不是“你是谁”，是“谁在说”。

有时候你很清楚，就是你。你说错话，你不推给谁。你说对了，你也不炫耀。你只是在那里，说了话，愿意认，是我说的，就算错也认。

有时候你不清楚，是不是你说的。你跟风、重复、应付、撒谎，事后也说不清那是不是你。你就会说：“不是我意思”、“我也不知道怎么会这样”、“我当时没想清楚”。那些时候，“我”是不在的。嘴巴在，脑子在，动作在，那个“我”不在。

“我”不靠定义。你可以说很多种“我”：小时候的我、理想的我、在别人眼里的我。但这些都不是“正在说话的我”。

真正的“我”只有一个——当你说“是我说的”，而不是“我是……”。前者是承担，后者是说明。前者活着，后者是标签。

“我”不是因为拥有某种特质而成为“我”，而是在说话当下，不逃避，不推脱，不掩饰，那一下，就在。

不是一生都是我，有时你也只是一个机器，一套反应，一个被推着走的壳。可只要有一刻你停下，问一句：“这话是不是我说的？”那一刻，就不是壳，是人。

“我”不是力量，不是自由，不是尊严，不是身份。是一个在说话的承担点。你不一定聪明，不一定勇敢，但你可以说：“这是我说的”。这一句，不靠任何条件。

没人能帮你说这句话。没人能代你认。别人再了解你，也无法代你承担你的话。

有时你愿意说：“是我说的”，可你错了，别人骂你。你后悔，说下次不敢了。但你还是认，这一认，“我”就在。

有时你不愿认，说：“不是我，是我爸叫我说的，是她气我，是公司安排的”。你说得也对，但“我”已经不在了。

“我”从不靠道理赢。它只在你肯不肯认这句话是你说的，不管对错。

所以，“我”是活在判断当下，不推给过去，不躲向未来，不靠身份，不看结局，只在此时此地说：“我在说”。

说得出这句的人，才是“我”。

这不关俺们的事情，，，

那是中国人的想法，大多数白右只是单纯看不惯白左后面代表的人群而已

这人天天胡说八道

喜欢润是政治黑暗带来的不安全感导致的，俄罗斯韩国人一样喜欢润。

韩国肯定是发达国家里政治最黑的，凡是落后国家有中国城的地方就有韩国城，也是宁可吃苦在落后的地方生活也没打算回韩国，他们和印度人一起组成华商的最大竞争对手，但凡祖国正常些都不至于逼成这样出海，小中华这块。

引子：不是模糊，不是不确定，而是分不清是谁在活 有时候你会说：“我不确定”，可你在说这句话的时候，是清楚地知道有个“我”在说。你说你不太清楚发生了什么，也许是糊里糊涂，也许是过于疲惫，也许是陷在情绪里不想动。但奇怪的是——只要你能说“我好像不对劲”，那你就还“在”。那个说出这句话的你，是醒着的，是“在觉”的。

但也有一种状态，看起来也在动、在说、在发消息、在应付人，却怎么也找不到“是谁在做这些事”。你回头看一整天，像是梦游。你记得你说过话，但不记得是怎么说的；你记得你做过决定，但不确定那决定是不是你真正想要的。你甚至无法确切说出：刚才那个“我”，到底是不是“我”。你只是顺着习惯走完了一天，整个人像个壳。

这，就是“昏”。

第一节：“昏”不是睡着，是失去分辨 我们通常以为“昏”就是睡着了、不清醒。但其实真正的“昏”并不等于身体停机、眼睛闭上。相反，“昏”可以在你最活跃的时候发生：刷手机、开会发言、社交时假笑、甚至做出重大决定的时候。

昏是一种“没有分辨能力的状态”。不是不知道发生了什么，而是你知道，却没有判断是谁知道的。

你会说：“我是不得不这么做的”、“谁不是这样？”、“社会就这样”，但这些说法都把“我”藏起来了。你没有说清是谁做了选择，只是让外在的因果链条替代了判断。你以为你在“活着”，其实只是“被活着”。

这种状态并不罕见。早上闹钟响，你下意识地关掉，继续睡——没什么。可有一天你突然发现：你已经连续三年都在“下意识地”活着。你以为是“习惯”，其实是“昏”。你没有判断，只是在自动执行。

真正的“昏”并不是混乱，而是一种看似有序、却无人在场的假秩序。

第二节：“觉”不是聪明，是知道谁在看 很多人以为“觉醒”或“觉察”是一种了不起的洞察力，是智慧，是控制情绪，是通透和冷静。但其实，“觉”最简单的定义，就是：

知道现在的感受是被谁在感受。

如果你能说：“我现在很烦，但我知道这个烦不是永恒的我，而是现在这个状态的我。”这就是觉。你没把情绪等同于自我，也没否认它的存在。你只是知道：这个感受有个感受者。

觉不是对错的判断，不是控制的能力，而是谁在此刻活着的确认。

一个人可能做错了事、说错了话、伤害了别人，但只要他能停下来、回头看，哪怕一句简单的：“刚才那句话好像不太像我自己”，那一刻，他是“在觉”的。

“觉”不是圣人专属，不是修炼成果，不是顿悟。“觉”就是在此刻，对自己的状态有一个最基本的照面——不是想明白了，而是知道自己在经历什么。

第三节：“昏”与“觉”之间没有中间地带 有些人会说：“我可能有点半昏半觉吧。”或者说：“我没那么糊涂，但也没那么清醒。”听起来像是中间态，但其实只是“昏”的一种伪装。

因为，“觉”并不是指一种固定的状态，而是一种结构性的位置： 你是否站在了那个能看到“此刻的我与此刻的非我”的位置上？

只要你没站在那个位置上，那你就是在“昏”。

很多人害怕“极端”的判断。他们觉得非黑即白太过分，觉得人本来就模糊。但请注意：“昏”与“觉”不是说你这人是好是坏，也不是你聪明不聪明，而是你是否“在”你所说的话、你所做的事中。

如果你只是随口附和：“我也不知道，就这样吧。”、“我也没仔细想过。”、“大家都这么做。”——这就是昏。

而哪怕你一句话都不说，只是默默地观察着自己当下的反应、觉察到这反应并非你的全部，那你就是觉。

这不是情绪问题，是结构问题。

第四节：为什么必须二选一？ 你可以有一百种状态，一千种情绪，一万种立场。但在这一刻，你要么“在”，要么“不在”。

这不是“非此即彼”的简单判断，而是判断是否有判断者在场的前提。

你可能说：“我很迷茫，我不知道怎么选。” 但“我不知道怎么选”这句话本身，就是一个判断。你在陈述自己的不确定。说明你还在。你还在，就不是完全昏。

但如果你说：“无所谓啦，哪样都可以。”、“命运会安排的。”、“看缘分吧。”而你不是在开玩笑，而是认真地用这些话把自己的立场糊掉了，那你就在“昏”。

你可以不做选择，但不能没有判断。 你可以暂时不动，但不能不知道是谁决定了不动。

一旦“我”消失在句子里，世界就变成了自我运转的惯性机器。你成了其中一个部件，你以为你在活，其实只是“被运转”。

而只要你能停一下，哪怕只是问：“刚才那话真是我说的吗？”——这一问，本身就已经是觉的起点。

第五节：“觉”不是完美，而是愿意承认“我在” 有些人追求觉醒，是为了成为一个更完美的人。他们想清明、想不痛苦、想不纠结、想放下。这是另一个陷阱。

真正的“觉”不是一种超脱的状态，而是一种愿意说出“是我”的承认。

哪怕你正在崩溃，正在犯错，正在伤人，只要你不是说“我没办法”、“我就是这样”、“我控制不了”，而是说：

“我知道我这样不好，但这一刻我还是这么做了。是我。”

那你就“在”。你不需要改正，不需要高尚，只需要不逃。

“觉”不代表你没有问题，而是代表：你没有把自己藏起来。

你可以想变好，也可以不想变好，但不能装作这一切都与你无关。

尾声：每一次“在”的确认，都是“人”之所以为人的一刻 很多时候我们活得像程序，甚至比程序还没有逻辑。我们跟着热点走、跟着别人的期待走、跟着小时候的模式走。我们一边重复着过去的自己，一边又否认说：“这不是我。”

可你说出“这不是我”的那一刻，其实已经比很多人更“在”了。

你不是因为完美而成为人。你是因为有那个可以说“这句话是我说的”，“我刚才状态不对”的能力，才成为人。

“昏”不是罪，但如果你永远不愿面对“觉”，你就永远只是一个角色，一个被动者，一个“正在被活着的壳”。

但只要你能说：“此刻的我，还在。” 哪怕你没有答案，哪怕你正在黑暗中挣扎， 那你就不是“昏”。你就是活着的那一位。

支那体量在这摆着

不过老百姓依然住鸽子笼，省部级依然住大耗子，火车站依然舍不得开空调

支那人才有钱人还是移民澳美加，长期不会改变

有钱有西方护照，短期来支那花钱确实很爽

不去，日本都没吸引我去办经营管理签，觉得和巴西也就五五开，各有长处吧，何况美国还不如日本。我受不了日本餐厅和酒店那种幽默的空间大小和催促吃了赶紧滚的氛围，我说日本年轻一代服务态度普遍还不如南美巴西，智利的年轻服务员有礼貌，估计反贼很多觉得不可思议，但事实就是这样。

我润国家首先看做生意利润空间大不大，所以高度发达国家除了意大利西班牙基本都不考虑，法治健全的地方要交税，职务和雇佣关系找律所造假的成本高，特别麻烦，利润又低，五金百货利率润普遍低于50%，对我这种发展中国家赚惯了300%起步的来说很煎熬

来南美的人很多去过欧洲或者北美，都说还是南美和东南亚最好赚钱。

反贼对中国有多富裕根本没有概念，随便一个落后省份的官员身家几亿美元起步。

“劳斯莱斯、宾利、悍马、限量版克莱斯勒猎兽，上百辆豪车总价值近亿元。这不是车展，这些车都是原哈尔滨市电业局原副局长李伟的私家资产。

清代蓝底蟒袍、清代雍正年制黄地绿彩龙纹菱口盘、乾隆年制粉彩花卉大碗，这不是清宫藏品展览，而是哈尔滨电力实业集团公司原总经理李桐的个人藏品。

李伟和李桐是亲兄弟。李氏兄弟在松花江还有一处豪华码头。李氏兄弟拥有的房产数量多达69套。

李氏兄弟在松花江还有一处豪华码头。查扣的现金（含银行存款）近10亿。”

中国富裕不富裕，你看民间公司私人接待和请客的开支标准就知道了，算成美元都比美国企业接待客户和官员的开销大。私企老板愿意出钱，说明他觉得以后能赚更多，也能侧面证明中国人比美国富裕。

穷酸美国特朗普的总统晚宴，许诺给内幕消息，最高票价才十几万美元。在国内要保证私企老板能参加习近平晚宴还有内幕消息，几百万美元随便卖，还得谢谢兄弟你给条路子让他能买到，给你好处费都几十万美元

中国企业为了表示尊重一般出阿尔法或者雷尔法接贵宾，在中国都卖二十几万美元。换成美国车价就是公司车队普遍用宾利接待客户和官员，美国最赚钱企业苹果，微软，特斯拉舍得吗？中国普通私企舍得，因为知道可以赚的更多。

我还是那句话，中国户均家庭资产在几十万到百万美元左右，和美国加州家庭资产一个区间。

我早说东京的物质条件也就是中国二线城市的水平，全靠审美硬撑。大阪和三线差不多。我去年关西机场转机，国际出发厅地板砖部分渗水，部分下陷凹凸不平，而且看地板砖磨损程度是机场反复抹干过的，都抹黄了，我都惊了。

日本人的钱少得可怜，日本近年多起涉及网红被杀的案件都是十几万，几十万人民币引发的纠纷。中国看主播给个十几万都排不上号，一个总督一个月18888人民币，累积打赏个几十万，大家都觉得普普通通，上百万才开始有新闻性。

日本无人问津的底边主播火羽，到中国来开播后顶峰时期月入20多万人民币，大家纷纷询问，这人谁？就这种中国网友都没听说过的底边，在中国月入几万美元轻轻松松，在日本必须要头部主播。

嗯，那就是对方骗我，餐厅是虚空开的。

好多海外支黑几十年不回支了

不了解情况。

事实就是俺支虽然很多残酷黑暗，但是整体发展在走上坡路

它霉这几十年就是不断走下坡路，出个疮破直接光速坠落了。整个一黄昏帝国

你不认同我这话可以问问华川粉霉国是不是在走下坡路

不说活摘，强拆啥的

支那县城这两年发展的确实不错，我在某山西县城旅游，这儿的万达广场都比 Seattle bellevue downtown的那个大mall大的多的多，更别提别的购物广场。当地菜也很好吃。路也是新修的。风景名胜古迹人文比霉国强到姥姥家了，黄河明显比尼亚加拉瀑布壮观磅礴

当然当地人素质差，坑蒙拐骗多，衙门办事不行，挣钱少也是事实。有旅游资源也开发不起来

但问题是：支那好多小地方确实是发展起来了，除了没有大耗子，私人飞机游艇不能持枪，大部分物质确实在对标发达国家。支那农村县城屁民生活质量提高一次，白人至上主义就小破产一次，白人利益就被损害一次

我说这话不带任何政治立场，反贼支黑罔顾这个事实，只能把洋爹带进沟里。最终一败涂地 粉身碎骨

10年后这个项目就被支那民玩烂了。

洛杉矶华人圈人尽皆知

我操，你这个农村逼根本球事不懂。

拿了工卡只能本城市打工，去本州外市比如sa打工都不行。你想去外州打工必须转移庇护案子。除非你打黑工

你找润人自己问去吧。看看真的假的

再说你以为所有人都像你们农逼一样不出国旅游？不逛逛欧洲日本？那我没说话了

对北约盟友的国土：“不排除武力夺取可能”

对五个共产党国家的国土：“........”

评价乌克兰：“独裁者”

评价中国：“习近平是个聪明人”,“我不怪习近平，他贸易双标是为了中国好”，“我们会达成协议，我们会相爱很久”

对日本：“8月1日起將對等關稅調整至25％”

对韩国：“将从8月1日按照25%的新税率征收关税”

对欧盟：“自8月1日起，对欧盟出口到美国的商品将征收30%的关税”

对越南：“已达成协议，越南销往美国的商品将被征收20%关税”

哪个政权抢走华工血汗钱盖的房子，让他们好不容易给家族囤的地没了，不就是现在控诉的人和他们的祖先这些共匪吗。

华工受两茬苦，第一次是自己被剥削，第二次自家被定义剥削阶级。华工终于明白为什么粉红口中新中国是阶级流动性最高的国家，原来是人人有资产阶级当。

全网老保派国男当看不见这规定。看见了也狠狠共情学校不执行规定，毕竟违规是犯了男人都会犯的错误。不然全校男学生记大过起步，每年“以上处罚”劝退千人。

每个男人都违规，等于没有人违规。而不是每个女人都违规，所以女人违规一定是违规，必须严肃执行相关条例。

川是亲共派。他孙女学中文，家族虚拟币事业交给中共政治局讲师孙宇晨管理，自己第一个海外酒店在越南，访问朝鲜，女婿到中国推销美国投资移民项目。

现在美国对港澳，越南的税率比对日本低

他以反共名义抓人，和邓小平以搞市场经济的名义给四人帮定罪一样，随便说说而已。

你人脉太少，看的网上公布的过时规定吧。没拿到工卡的时候才只能在本州活动，拿到后你可以自由活动，案子在申请的地方应诉而已，我朋友加州申请，加州工卡和白卡，德州开餐馆，实现从无身份到开餐馆总计不到一年，期间早就打黑工了，很容易找的。

难道你要告诉我他大摇大摆的拿着不被德州承认的证件在德州开餐馆，还有驾照？

工卡可以外州打工，一开始我朋友去了个都没什么人听说过的什么州打工，觉得没钱又回洛杉矶了。而且中国人主要聚集在纽约，加州，华盛顿，实际上自由不自由你也只会去这几个地方赚钱，没区别。确实不能回支那，干嘛要回，娘死了认为值得就回，家庭关系不好就不回，个人选择，回了国去不了又怎么了，总比没待过美国好，亏不了。

川皇的冲锋队只能欺负欺负打工人和学生？对支那农村无赖毫无办法🤣

咱支人黑着，90%以上都是准备赚一笔钱，然后回大支那的

所以说你这个猪头只知其然 而不知其所以然。他们都把很多重要过程全部忽略了，不会告诉你

首先真庇护不到1%，谁都知道

1:从打指纹到拿工卡需要多久？这中间吃什么？

2工卡的使用范围？比如la申请的工卡，工作范围仅限la，你想去外州，就必须把案子转到外州

3办庇护你不能回支那，也不能离开美国，也不能外州打工。等于只要办了庇护，你就绑定丑利尖变成现代奴隶了。你爹娘死了你也回不去。连人伦都被剥夺了。对于农村县城出身的农逼，或许看似翻身。

但是对于家庭条件稍微好一点的富裕阶级来说，这你妈完全是浪费时间浪费生命的现代吸血奴隶制！仅仅比偷渡客好一丢丢。说白了基本是黑奴制度的替代品

叔作为一个长者，让你学习一个

别发达国家了，你知道世界上只有是个国家，无论非洲还是南美，都有大量中国人黑在当地吗，觉得日子比国内幸福。这就是所谓的五常大国，世界第二的国民生存情况。