L.H. Grey engagement report

Best tweets

• Feb 26, 2013299x their median

  Good men must die, but death can't kill their names.

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• Sep 14, 202662x their median

  Leftists suffer the consequences of gloating about Charlie Kirk's murder. https://t.co/kxNEesemo1

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• Oct 10, 20266.6x their median

  This is a terrible look. Benny Johnson, you are embarrassing yourself and conservatives everywhere. https://t.co/2vhk04d9rE

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• Sep 13, 20264.6x their median

  Goodnight, my darlings. Last night and today were ugly little bastards. The heart decided it wanted to throw a tantrum and I let it, briefly, because that’s what happens when you get sloppy. COVID is still hanging around like a cheap date who won’t leave, so I live on Delsym to keep the coughing from turning into a full-on demolition job. Julie and I forgot the damn dose last night. This morning the coughs hit and my heart went south for a minute like it had somewhere better to be. Stabilized. Fine. That’s why the expanders sit here with us like loaded insurance policies we actually remember to keep loaded. I’ve been off the board all day. Horizontal. Resting. Not heroic. Just necessary. I will not miss that dose again. I refuse. Healing is slow and it is hard and it is ugly and I will do it this way or I will not do it at all if I can help it. No shortcuts. No pretending I’m tougher than the meat and wiring I was issued. I love you. All of you. The fight is still on and I am still here. Grey

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• Sep 11, 20262.8x their median

  Twenty-five years on, and the sky over Lower Manhattan is still the same indifferent blue it was that Tuesday morning. That is the first cruelty. The weather did not confess. The light did not flinch. Ordinary people poured coffee, kissed children, stepped onto elevators, and walked into a morning that had already been sentenced. What happened at 8:46 was not weather. It was not geopolitics in the abstract. It was not a “tragedy” in the bloodless language of people who cannot bear to name a murder. Nineteen men, trained, funded, and catechized by al-Qaeda, hijacked four airliners and turned civilian aircraft into guided weapons. They flew them into the North Tower, the South Tower, the Pentagon. The fourth plane, United 93, they meant for Washington. Ordinary passengers and crew understood what that meant and rose up in a field in Pennsylvania and died stopping it. That is not a metaphor. That is the last civic act some of them ever performed. Do not sand the edges off this. The ideology was not “extremism” as a weather pattern. It was a specific, articulated death-cult: the conviction that infidel blood in a financial capital would please God. Bin Laden wanted the towers down. He got them down. Nearly three thousand people were murdered in a few hours...office workers, dishwashers, bond traders, secretaries, tourists, a priest giving last rites, 343 firefighters who ran up. The buildings did not “fall.” They were dropped on the people inside them and on the people trying to pull the people inside them out. If you need a word for that, the word is slaughter. And then the other thing happened, the thing this country still does not know how to hold without either cheapening it or turning it into a slogan: strangers became a single organism. Cops and firefighters and EMTs walked into a vertical furnace because that is what the job is when the job is no longer theoretical. Ironworkers came off other jobs and cut steel until their hands gave out. Nurses stood in hallways that filled with the burned. Civilians carried the wounded down stairwells they did not know they had the lungs for. People on the street handed water, shoes, phones, their own shirts. Nobody asked for a statement of principles first. They just moved. That is the part that still wrecks me, and it should. Not because it cancels the evil. They did not get the last word that day, even as it got the body count. The men who flew those planes wanted a city of cowards and apostates. What they got, for a few terrible hours, was a city that ran toward the fire. Remember the names if you can. Remember the ones you cannot. Remember the people who coughed their way through the next two decades and died later of the dust, which is another kind of murder with a longer fuse. Remember Flight 93, because courage is not only the people in uniform. Remember that “never forget” was never supposed to mean “never think.” It meant: do not let the murderers write the meaning of the dead. Here is the venom, then, without costume jewelry on it... The men who did this were not freedom fighters. They were not a “response.” They were not a weather event produced by American sin. They were killers who studied flight manuals so they could burn secretaries alive. Anyone who cannot say that without a paragraph of throat-clearing has already begun the work of forgetting. Soft language is a second burial. And here is the gratitude, which is not softer than the anger....it is the thing the anger is supposed to protect. Thank you to every firefighter who went in knowing the math. Thank you to the cops who held the perimeter while the skyline came down. Thank you to the Port Authority people, the EMTs, the ironworkers, the chaplains, the volunteers who stood in the pit until their names were also on a list. Thank you to the civilians who became a human chain because no one had issued them a title for it. Thank you to the families who have had to listen to twenty-five years of other people narrating their dead. The towers are gone. The hole in the ground was filled with a memorial and a city that kept living, which is both victory and insult, depending on the hour. Living is what the murdered were robbed of. The least we can do is refuse to make their deaths vague. Never forget is not a hashtag. It is a refusal. Refuse the lie that this was inarticulate chaos. Refuse the lie that the helpers were just doing a shift. Refuse the sentimental fog that turns nineteen hijackers into a mood. Name the crime. Bless the people who ran toward it. Keep both in the same sentence, or you have already started to lose the day.

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• Sep 23, 20262.8x their median

  I just got back from Walgreens and Michael’s because Claire wanted to pick out a Halloween decoration(she loves Halloween). Claire smiles at everyone no matter what mood she’s in and today she’s in a good mood. A young woman in line caught Claire’s eye and Claire was smiling at her. She asked Claire, “Why are you smiling at me? Do you know me?” I explained to her about Claire and that she smiles at everyone. The young lady(with an annoyed look on her face) just turned around all snotty. Y’all know me. I said, “Sorry she didn’t give you a dirty look instead”. Her whole demeanor changed and she gave us a nervous smile and moved on. When did people get offended by being smiled at? As long as I am breathing no one will harm my daughter.

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• Sep 5, 20262.2x their median

  #NewProfilePic https://t.co/9FKUpN0LBF

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• Sep 10, 20262.2x their median

  I did not write this to soothe anybody. A year ago they put a round through a man whose crime was remaining seated while other people talked. They did it at noon, under a tent that invited contradiction, in front of three thousand witnesses and two small children who will spend the rest of their lives knowing what a public argument costs in this country now. That is not a “moment.” That is a diagnosis. What follows is not a soft memorial and it is not a press-trained lament about “polarization,” that coward’s weather report for a shooting that had a rooftop, a rifle, a calendar, and a sentence. Some hate can’t be negotiated out. That was the theology. The rest was ballistics. I wrote this because the official language has already started sanding the murder down into atmosphere…as if a sniper were a climate event and Charlie Kirk were a temperature. He was not a temperature. He was a mind that would not grant the other side the mercy of silence. They answered him the only way a bankrupt idea ever answers a living argument: they ended the mouth. If you came here for comfort, leave. If you came here to watch someone perform grief for clicks, leave harder. This is the record, the psychology, the permission structure, and the debt. It is written with the understanding that a culture which recodes speech as violence will eventually recode a corpse as closure. Charlie Kirk wanted to talk. They made that expensive. So I am going to talk anyway…precisely, without apology, and without letting them launder a neck wound into a lesson about tone. Read it. Then go find an argument and stay in it. That is the only honor that does not spit on the chair he fell out of. Grey Link to article in the comments.

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• Sep 6, 20262.1x their median

  I woke at 5:30 a.m. and reached for my phone before my eyes had even fully opened. I have learned that these sudden middle-of-the-night stirrings are rarely random. They mean my soul-sister is drowning. And tonight, she was. Every voice message sounds like she's struggling for air and I can feel her pain through the wires. I wonder if you have any idea what you did to her. I wonder if you will ever understand that an ultimatum is not a request. It is an execution. It is the moment a relationship stops breathing. Toxicity, unexamined insecurity, and jealousy of the people who love her are not small flaws. They are poison. They seep into every room, every conversation, every quiet hour until the whole thing is contaminated. Grey and I share the same rare wiring: Enneagram 5. It is uncommon in women because it carries so many of the traits the world still codes as masculine. We are brutally logical. We are intellectuals with a burning need to take the universe apart molecule by molecule just to understand how magnificently it works. We are incredibly insular. If we were castles, the gates would be iron, the walls would reach heaven, and the moat would be filled with leviathan. Our circles stay small because we do not do surface-level thinking or surface-level feeling. As she told me in a message today, “We’re not just deep. We’re Mariana Trench deep.” That is what confuses people. We are deeply affectionate, yet there is no romance here. We are simply sisters of the soul. Grey is now heavily considering going fully under the knife, cracking her chest open like a walnut to repair the heart you helped break. I told her it would be an epic scar. The kind the hot girls would swoon over. I want this woman to heal. I want her to soar. I know, deep in the marrow of my bones, that we were brought together for a reason and that she still has work to do. There are not fifty shades of Grey. There are infinite ones that will weave themselves through every molecule of her body. And she will rise from this like the dark phoenix I have always known she is. I love you, my sister. ~Leigh @Grey_0G

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• Sep 28, 20261.6x their median

  If I’m not on here, don’t hunt me through the glass. My baby lives close. She’s in my space most of the time. Between her and Julie I have no appetite left for this screen. I forgot....actually forgot...how holy it is to have a girl who isn’t filtered through pixels 100% of the time. That shit is healing my heart. She’s a cardiac nurse. Same as Julie. Somehow I lucked the fuck out twice and I know it. So if you’re wondering where I am… that’s where. If I’m not talking to my beautiful Twin 24/7, I’m hanging with my redheaded lover. This song. She says it reminds her of me. I’d have to agree. I'm slightly crazy. So it fits. Love you guys very much. I'll be around. 🤣😈😌

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