Ever walked into a health‑related office and felt a subtle, invisible toxin in the air?
It’s not the bleach or the coffee—it's the quiet habits that quietly sabotage our long‑term health.
Here’s a roundup of the most lethal (and hilariously common) habits you’ll find in clinics, gyms, and therapy rooms:

1. Self‑Criticism on Steroids​

In the age of “you’re a genius” memes, some people have taken self‑criticism to a whole new level.
“I cannot trust myself.”
“I don’t deserve good things.”
“I am unlovable.”
If you’re a health professional, you’re probably already the first line of defense against depression—so why become your own worst enemy?
Result: Lower self‑esteem, higher cortisol, and a slightly increased risk of developing a new habit of binge‑watching self‑help documentaries.

2. The “Sit‑and‑Think‑It‑All‑Out” Syndrome​

We’re all busy. You’re on your feet all day, so why not just sit around and let the brain do all the work?
The truth? Idle brains are a breeding ground for procrastination, rumination, and the occasional existential crisis.
Result: Increased risk of forgetting to exercise, coupled with a dangerously low “brain‑exercise” level.
Side effect: The office chair may start looking like a throne.

3. The Butt‑Shoving Revolution​

If you’re an ER nurse, you’re probably familiar with the phrase “shove it up the ass.”
But we’re not talking about actual butt‑shoving.
We’re talking about the metaphorical butt‑shoving of unnecessary medical jargon into patients’ ears, the shoving of new guidelines into the back of a drawer, and the shoving of our own doubts into a never‑ending mental stack.
Result: Confusion, anxiety, and the occasional “I have no idea what I just did.”
Pro tip: Try speaking in plain English—your patients might thank you, and your brain might thank you, too.

4. The Unexpected Object Saga​

Every ER nurse has at least one “unexpected object” story.
We’re talking about the time a patient’s coconut was found in their stomach, the tissue that turned into a mini‑tornado in the triage room, or the mysterious sock that keeps disappearing from the linen drawer.
Result: A lifetime of “what if” questions and an uncanny ability to spot a missing sock in a hurricane.
Fun fact: The average ER nurse has seen at least ten such stories—so if you’re a doctor, you’re in the right place.

5. Bleach‑Fever and Tooth‑Decay​

Tooth whitening was once the pinnacle of dental fashion, until we learned that bleaching + charcoal toothpaste = enamel erosion.
Result: Tooth decay, a cascade of dental issues, and a surprisingly strong link to cardiovascular disease.
TL;DR: Keep the bleach in the bathroom, not in your mouth.

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TL;DR​

The quiet habits that quietly wreck our health:

• Self‑criticism that makes us feel like we’re on a personal “no‑trust” list.
• Sitting around and letting the brain do all the heavy lifting.
• Butt‑shoving—both literal and metaphorical—into our patients’ lives.
• Unexpected object stories that make you question your life choices.
• Tooth‑bleaching that’s actually a recipe for heart disease.

If you’re a healthcare, fitness, nutrition, or mental‑health professional, remember: the quietest habits can be the loudest killers. Keep an eye on them, laugh at them, and maybe, just maybe, ditch them for a healthier, happier you.

Ever wonder what the Earth feels when a global tragedy wipes out millions of souls? Some think it’s a quiet, lonely planet; others think it’s just a lot of empty seats in the cafeteria. Let’s take a stroll through history to see if the planet actually grew quieter after its biggest bloodbath – World War II – and how that compares to other calamities that left the world oddly still.

From the Harrying of the North to the Potato Famine​

The story starts way back in 1066 when William the Conqueror, fresh off his Norman conquest, decided to Harry the North of England – not the Harry Potter way, but a brutal campaign of oppression and depopulation. The result? A region that still feels a bit thin‑lined today, almost a thousand years later. Think of it as the ancient version of a “no‑go‑zone” for people.

Fast forward a few centuries, and we land in Ireland, where the potato famine turned a thriving nation into a ghost town. The population plummeted from 8 million to 2 million. That’s a 75 % drop in people you might know and a lot of lonely streets. Yet, people still call Ireland a people place – maybe because the survivors were just that good at making the most of a quiet country.

The Black Death, WWII, and a Few Other “How Did We Survive?” Moments​

• The Black Death – Roughly 50 million people vanished, wiping out about half of Europe. That’s a massive empty‑room scenario, but it’s still a smaller percentage than some other historical plagues and wars.
• WWII – About 36–40 million deaths, roughly 3 % of the global population at the time. It’s the biggest conflict in history, but the percentage hit is surprisingly modest compared to the Black Death.
• Three Kingdoms War (220–280 AD, China) – An estimated 18 % of the population died, a higher percentage than WWII but still less than a plague‑driven collapse.

The takeaway? Percentage of deaths and the “feel” of emptiness aren’t always linearly related. A smaller percentage can feel like a larger vacuum if the loss is concentrated in a tight community, while a huge loss spread across continents can feel… well, still.

The Planet’s Quiet? Or Just a Big, Silent Crowd?​

So did Earth feel emptier after WWII? The numbers suggest not as dramatic as the Black Death or a plague, but the cultural impact was huge. We lost millions of lives, saw entire cities turned into husks, and the global psyche was forever changed. Imagine a world where the majority of the population is suddenly gone – that’s a quiet, lonely place. But if you’re looking at the planet as a whole, it’s still bustling, just with a few extra empty chairs.

TL;DR​

• William the Conqueror Harryed northern England, leaving a “thin” region centuries later.
• Ireland’s potato famine cut 75 % of its population, yet it remains a people place.
• The Black Death killed ~50 % of Europe; WWII killed ~3 % worldwide.
• The feel of emptiness doesn’t match the percentage of deaths; it’s all about context and community.

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So there I was, the proud host of my first ever Friendsgiving. I had everything lined up: turkey on the table, pumpkin pie that could pass for a trophy, and a seating plan that would make a wedding planner jealous. The only thing that was missing? A dog‑free zone.

Enter Kara, the “dog‑mom” who treats her two canine companions like a furry entourage. Last year, while the rest of us were glued to the big screen, one of Kara’s pups decided that the Thanksgiving dressing was the perfect snack. Picture this: a slobbering, fur‑covered dog munching on a turkey’s side dish while we all cheer for the game. Fun? Not so much.

So I sent out a group chat reminder: “Start time, folks! Also, no pets this time, please.” No explicit shout‑out to Kara, just a general “no pets” rule. She hit me back right away: “Does that mean my dogs?” I said yes—dog hair on the food? I’d rather not. Plus, with little kids in the mix, I didn’t want a repeat of last year’s canine culinary catastrophe.

Kara was not a fan. She launched into a full‑blown “dog‑family” monologue, claiming the pups were better behaved than most adults and that I was being “controlling.” She threatened to skip the party if the dogs weren’t welcome. I told her I’d be sad but that the rule was set. She’d been bringing cake and potato salad, and I even offered to pick it up, but she’d flat‑out refuse to supply any food if her “family” was turned away.

I’m not a monster—except for a tiny, minor thing: I still expected her to bring the dessert she’d promised, even though she was apparently not going to show up. In the end, I had to sprint to a grocery store halfway across town to snag a new dessert and potato salad.

Now friends are debating my sanity. One says I was fine to ask her not to bring the dogs but absurd to demand she still deliver food. Another says I was mostly NTA but weird that I still wanted her to bring dessert when she’d no longer be there. Still another says I should have been more transparent earlier, especially since she apparently always has her pups in tow.

The comments (with a side of humor)​

• Commenter 1: “I didn’t single her out specifically; I just made it a general statement.”
  Commenter 1 says it was fine to say no dogs but absurd to demand dessert from someone who’s not attending. Classic case of “I’m the host, I’m the boss” meets “I’m a generous friend, I’m the host.”

• Commenter 2: “Mostly NTA, but it's weird that you were still expecting her to provide dessert and a side to an event she was no longer attending.”
  Commenter 2 thinks I was mostly fine for the no‑dog rule, but I should’ve known that “dessert for a ghost” isn’t a good idea.

• Commenter 3: “I agree. People shouldn’t expect to bring their pets everywhere... But you should have told her as soon as it was decided that you would host.”
  Commenter 3 points out the “communication gap” and says I should’ve set the dog rule early—so Kara could’ve hired a pet sitter or found a new host.

• Commenter 4: “N T A about dogs at your house, that is perfectly reasonable, but YTA for springing it on her the night before, and also still expecting her to provide food.”
  Commenter 4 calls me a bit of a “Host‑Hog” for expecting her to bring cake after she’s not attending. A subtle reminder that “if you’re not coming, you’re not contributing.”

TL;DR​

You’re the host, you set the dog‑free rule—check. But expecting a “ghost” to bring dessert? That’s a “Dessert‑Ghost” situation. Future hosts: Drop the dog ban early, keep the cake for people who’re actually there, and maybe keep a spare turkey on standby—just in case a pup decides it’s a new side dish. Happy Friendsgiving, and may your plates stay fur‑free!

The Cookie Conundrum
An 8‑month‑old, a best friend, and a cookie that somehow became a family‑sized snack.
Our hero (the parent) was hosting a casual brunch with their bestie, who brought a plate of seasoned delights. The parent, being the responsible one, waved the plate away—no seasoned food for a tiny human. Instead, they offered a “baby cookie” that looked innocent enough to appease the little munchkin.

The twist? The baby pretended to gobble the cookie, making it look more enticing. The friend, thinking the baby was on a “cookie adventure,” handed over the entire cookie. Later, the parent noticed the cookie was gone… half of it. “Did the baby eat the half?” the parent asked. The friend replied, “No.” Then the friend revealed that they’d bit off a chunk of the cookie and fed it to the baby.

The parent was not amused. “No more food from your mouth to my kid!” they declared, labeling the friend a “hygiene freak.” The friend was defensive, insisting it was just spit and that the parent was overreacting. The parent? “If I catch you doing it again, you’re out of the house.” The burning question: Is the parent overreacting or is this a legitimate baby safety issue?

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The Parent’s Point of View​

• Safety First: Baby’s immune system is still learning, so any food from a stranger’s mouth could carry germs.
• Cookie Ethics: A cookie isn’t just a snack; it’s a potential pathogen delivery system.
• Boundary Setting: Friends should respect the limits set by a parent, especially when it involves the child’s health.

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The Friend’s Defense​

• Spit is “just spit”: The friend argues that a small amount of spit doesn’t carry much risk.
• Common Sense: “You’re being too strict,” they say, implying the parent is overreacting.
• Practicality: For a busy mom, a quick bite or a shared cookie is a harmless gesture.

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Reader Reactions​

• “Not a big deal”
  “I wouldn’t even rinse a pacifier that falls on the floor.”
  “Babies put EVERYTHING in their mouths—if you’re not sterilizing every 20 minutes, you’re already over the line.”

• “Practical hygiene hacks”
  “Wipe it on a shirt tail and pop it back in.”
  “First child, huh? Soon your kid will be licking milk off the floor and grabbing fistfuls of dirt.”

• “Totally overreacting”
  “My kids ate off the floor at that age, and nothing bad happened.”
  “You’re probably just a hygiene freak.”

• “It’s not a big deal”
  “Unless there’s a reason to suspect an illness, it’s probably fine.”
  “The baby will survive a little spit.”

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TL;DR​

Friend gives baby a bitten cookie → Parent freaks out over hygiene → Friends think it’s just spit → Readers split between “overreacting” and “practical parenting.” The moral? When it comes to baby food from a stranger’s mouth, the safest bet is to keep the cookie and the spit where they belong—on the plate, not the little one’s tongue.

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The Great Tampon Debacle of Dorm‑Life 101​

Picture this: you’re 19, living in a dorm that has a bathroom (because, surprise, it’s a dorm). Your roommate, Alyssa, is a fellow 19‑year‑old who apparently has a personal tampon supply that’s conveniently next to the toilet—a shelf that the two of you built because “why not?”

Enter Claire, your friend who drops by for a casual hangout in the common area. The water cooler is a social hub, the snack drawer is a community resource, and the bathroom is now a tampon central.

Claire goes in, returns five minutes later, text: “I just started my period. Can I borrow a tampon?” The answer? A confident, “Sure thing!” because you’re the kind of person who thinks sharing a tampon is just like sharing a pizza slice.

Fast forward to Alyssa’s grand return. She pops into the bathroom, sees the tampons slightly fewer, and immediately pulls out her most dramatic accusation: “Did you just steal one of my tampons? Did you forget that you’re on the Depo‑shot? You’re a serial tampon‑thief”.

Your brain goes into overthink mode: “Am I a jerk? Am I a terrible roommate? Did I just commit a crime against my own personal hygiene?” Meanwhile, the tampon basket is still full.

Enter the Overthinker
You, the rational human, explain to Alyssa that Claire was in a period emergency and you just handed her a tampon like a knight handing out swords. You’re not telling her she can’t borrow a tampon outside the dorm because, well, you’re not the gatekeeper of the “tampon kingdom” (you don’t even own them). The whole thing spirals into a debate about ownership, consent, and the sacred nature of feminine hygiene.

The Moral of the Story
Is it okay to loan a tampon to someone who’s on a period emergency? Is it okay for a roommate to feel like the tampon is a personal property? Is the Depo‑shot a valid excuse for denying a tampon? In a world where the only thing that matters is whether the tampon supply is full or empty, your roommate’s anxiety is high and your sanity is questionable.

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TL;DR​

You gave a tampon to a friend in a period emergency. Your roommate got offended because she thinks the tampon stash is her personal property. The comments say you’re not a jerk, but you’re also not a hero. TL;DR: It’s a tampon war.

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Picture this: a cozy apartment, a fluffy cat that knows the difference between a litter box and a sofa, and a woman with a down coat so expensive it could double as a small house. She brings the coat over for a casual hangout, slips it onto the couch like a lost sock, and leaves. Hours later, the cat, in a dramatic display of independence, decides the coat is the perfect spot for a little pee‑spray performance.

You, being a seasoned pet‑owner and part‑time janitor, immediately advise her to treat the coat with a bio‑enzymatic cleaner. She shrugs it off, takes the coat home, and, two weeks later, texts you: “The coat is ruined. Should I replace it? Should I bill you?” First time she brings up money. Cue the dramatic “I’m sorry, but I can’t replace a $1,000 coat.”

She follows up with a flurry of moral lessons: “Cat pee is forever,” “If my pet ruined something of yours I’d make it right,” and a reminder that she once paid for your rug when she accidentally turned your couch into a red‑wine spill zone. She even insists on sending you $50, which she later complains she didn’t send.

You’re juggling rent, bills, and kids. A $1,000 replacement is out of your league. The cat’s little mischief? The cat’s little mischief. Your house? The house is your house. The coat? It was the lady’s coat, left on your couch, now… ruined.

She’s a nurse earning $120k, lives with family, and apparently can’t afford to replace a coat. You’ve been helping her manage debt, setting up an IRS payment plan, and trying to keep her from losing her wages. Now she’s asking you to foot the bill for a coat she left in a cat‑friendly environment.

The question on the subreddit: Am I the asshole for refusing to pay for a $1,000 coat?

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Hold onto your gravy boats, folks. This Thanksgiving, the turkey drama got so hot that even the cranberry sauce was trembling. The star of the show? A perfectly good bird that got a weird makeover by a guy who clearly thinks “skin‑on” is a personal challenge.

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The Turkey Saga​

Long story short: my sister has been hosting holidays with her boyfriend since 2012. I love cooking, so I’ve offered to bring the turkey every year—only to get politely turned down. The result? A turkey that’s more “dry, white meat” than “flavorful, juicy.” It’s a tradition, and I’ve grown to dread the first bite of that sad, crumbly bird.

This past Thanksgiving, I asked for a piece of dark meat—the part that’s usually the star of the show. My sister got flustered. “My boyfriend likes the dark meat,” she said, and then tried to hand me a shriveled, gonad‑looking piece of turkey. I said, “I just want a piece of dark meat with some skin on it,” and then I literally went into the kitchen to grab it myself.

Turns out, the boyfriend had peeled the turkey and kept all the skin and dark meat for himself. The rest of us got the bare, dried out white meat that had been left on the back of the carcass. I flipped the carcass over, because everyone forgets there’s skin on the bottom. But the whole thing left a sour taste in my mouth.

So the question is: am I the asshole (TA) for wanting a decent slice of turkey, or is my sister’s boyfriend a culinary psychopath? And should I just stay home and make my own turkey for Christmas?

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The Comment Section​

Below is the Reddit comment section, stripped of usernames and sprinkled with a bit of extra seasoning for flavor:

NTA that man is a psycho

This. My whole and immediate reaction was “That is psychopath behavior what the hell?” 😡

NTA

I think it must be a cultural issue (individual vs. collective?). In my culture, just the idea of taking the best part of a meal and keeping it for yourself is absolutely unthinkable.

I think it would be considered rude in many cultures to keep the best part of a meal for yourself and serve your guests the less desirable portions.

Even in an individualistic culture, this specific situation is ridiculous. If you invite guests over for a nice meal, then you wouldn't do this kind of thing.

It’d be one thing if it was a more casual meal that had like premade sandwiches with slices of light meat in them, but if it's a holiday dinner with a full turkey being made for the occasion, then this would be considered wild to do.

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TL;DR​

Sister’s boyfriend thinks “skin‑on” is a personal challenge, leaves the turkey looking like a paper‑mache bird, and the only thing left for us is a dry, white meat that could double as a paperweight. I’m not the TA—just a turkey‑suffering sibling. If you’re hosting, remember: keep the skin and dark meat for everyone, not just the boyfriend. 🍗✌️

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The Office Heater Saga​

It was a chilly Tuesday at the office—think frostbite, not a frosty coffee. Everyone had their heaters on like it was a sauna, so when I trudged in at 7:30 am the lobby felt like a winter wonderland… or a very warm, very heated winter wonderland.

Three hours later, I’m lounging with two coworkers, basking in the rare glow of downtime (because, let’s face it, the rest of the day is a marathon of “can we get this done?”). Suddenly, Jay, the office’s resident conversational pivot, turns to me with the subtlety of a penguin at a barbecue.

“Hey, are you cold?”

I, ever the dramatic, answer in the affirmative, because I’m anemic (you know, the real reason I’m so chilly). Jay, eyes widening like a squirrel in a nut factory, turns to the other coworker and declares:

“See, this is the reason it’s so hot in here right now, because he’s cold, that’s why I’m so hot right now.”

I’m not sure if he’s trying to be a meteorologist or just a master of heat‑to‑cold logic, but I reply with a dignified “I’m so glad you have the liberty to go outside where it’s much cooler whenever you feel like it.”

He looks at me like I just announced that the office needs a new HVAC system. He snaps, “Aye aye, calm down…,” as if my comment was a direct threat to the thermostat.

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The Misunderstood “I’m So Hot” Exchange​

I didn’t think my response needed a “calm down” because I’m not the kind of person who turns a simple temperature complaint into an existential crisis. We both clocked in at the same time, the heaters had been on all night, and we’re all aware that the office could practically boil if we didn’t do a heat‑balance.

So why am I responsible for his heat? Why didn’t we just open a door or turn the heater down instead of blaming me for his personal thermoregulation? I guess it’s all part of the office drama—except it’s a real drama, not a Netflix binge.

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Ever feel like your workplace has turned into a karaoke bar where the same line gets belted out over and over? Let's dive into the most over‑used office catch‑phrase and see if it’s worth a standing ovation or a gentle reminder to switch it up.

The Question

What is a phrase you use at least 20 times a day at your job?

(No answers yet—time to let the comments do the talking.)

We’re in the classic “we’re living with my mom” saga, but with a twist: the house is run by a guy named Brian, the mom’s boyfriend, and his friend Christine, who apparently thinks the world is a giant chewing gum station.

Our protagonist (OP) and his wife Rachel are in a financial jam and have been squatting in their mother’s place. Mom’s been a saint—she’s got the kids and the free lodging—but the plot thickens when Brian starts hosting parties, and Christine shows up to “add flavor” to everything, even the expensive Canada Goose jacket that now bears her teeth prints. Rachel is less than thrilled, especially with a sick little boy in the mix, and she wants Christine banned. Mom says no, because “she’s the owner, not Brian.” Rachel points out that Mom owns the house, not Brian, but Mom calls that “controlling and weird.” Classic family drama.

Then Brian gets called out for inviting Christine to a party while the kid has a cold. He says he’ll “talk to her” (but has already tried). Rachel calls him a “loser who mooches off his girlfriend.” Brian laughs, calls her “stupid mouth,” and claims he can have anyone he likes over in the house he pays for. Rachel cries. OP tells her the truth: the financial arrangements are none of her business, and she’s entitled. She accuses him of not caring about the kid’s health and being afraid of Brian. Now she wants OP to talk to Mom, but OP says he doesn’t want to.

Long story short: Mom, Brian, Christine, and a hypochondriac wife are all living under one roof, and no one’s sure who’s in charge. OP is stuck between his love for his wife and his desire to keep the peace with Mom and her “favorite” boyfriend.

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