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Kitz News Room, Anderson, SC (2026)

04/13/2026

Linda Hamilton got ripped at 35 for Terminator 2, setting a new standard. Hollywood loved it. Then she aged, and Hollywood turned on her. At 69, she says: "This is the face I've earned." Her twin sister just died. She's done apologizing.
Linda Hamilton is 69 years old (turning 69 in September 2025).
In Hollywood, that's supposed to mean invisibility. Retirement. Graceful fading into the background.
Linda Hamilton doesn't do invisible.
The woman who taught an entire generation how to survive a robot apocalypse is now teaching them how to survive a culture obsessed with eternal youth.
And she's doing it by refusing to apologize for aging.
Linda recently said:
"I don't spend a moment trying to look younger. This is the face I've earned, and it tells me so much."
It's a radical statement in an industry where actresses are pressured to freeze their faces in time, where wrinkles are treated like career-ending failures.
But Linda's philosophy didn't come from nowhere. It came from decades of battling Hollywood's impossible standards—and winning.

Linda Hamilton was born in 1956 in Salisbury, Maryland. She had a twin sister, Leslie Hamilton Gearren, who was also an actress (and doubled for Linda in Terminator 2).
Leslie died in 2020 from COVID-19 complications. Linda lost her twin—the person who'd been with her from the beginning.
That kind of loss changes you. It makes you stop caring about superficial things like wrinkles.
Linda's career exploded in 1984 when she starred as Sarah Connor in James Cameron's The Terminator.
She wasn't a typical action heroine. She was terrified, overwhelmed, learning to fight as she went.
Then came Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991).
For T2, Linda transformed her body. At age 35, she got absolutely shredded—arms like steel cables, zero body fat, doing her own stunts.
She set a new standard for female action stars. Hollywood loved it.
She was tough, fierce, undeniable.
But then she aged. And Hollywood turned on her.

Behind the scenes, Linda was struggling.
She'd been diagnosed with bipolar disorder in her 20s—a condition that brought volatile highs and crushing lows.
For years, she battled it privately while dealing with the relentless scrutiny of fame.
In 1997, she married James Cameron (director of Terminator and T2). They had a daughter, Josephine, in 1993.
The marriage lasted two years. Cameron left her for actress Suzy Amis (who he's still married to today).
Linda was devastated. Divorced. Raising two kids (she also has a son, Dalton, from an earlier marriage).
And Hollywood had moved on. Younger actresses were getting the roles. Linda was in her 40s—"too old" for action, "too old" to be a lead.
So in 1999, Linda did something rare: she left Hollywood entirely.
She retired. Moved away. Focused on her mental health, her kids, her life outside the spotlight.
For 10 years, Linda Hamilton disappeared.

In 2009, Linda returned to acting—small TV roles, independent films. Not chasing stardom, just working.
Then, in 2019, at age 63, Linda was asked to return as Sarah Connor in Terminator: Dark Fate.
She said yes.
And at 63, Linda got back in fighting shape. Not as shredded as T2—she was honest about that—but strong, capable, still doing her own stunts.
The movie flopped at the box office. But Linda's performance was celebrated.
She proved that a 63-year-old woman could still be a badass action hero.
But she also proved something else: she was done playing Hollywood's game.
Linda started giving interviews where she talked openly about aging, refusing cosmetic procedures, embracing her wrinkles.
She said she's "unruffleable" now—a state that only comes when you stop trying to prove your worth to a world that will never be satisfied.
Her daughter Josephine once told her: "You're beautiful because your face is filled with joy."
That became Linda's mantra. Beauty isn't youth. It's joy. It's life lived fully.

Linda still works out—not to look 30, but to honor the body that's carried her through decades of action and adversity.
She's honest about her relationship with food. She loves jelly donuts. She doesn't believe in rigid diets.
She prioritizes joy over impossible standards.
And she refuses to hide her face.
In an era of filters, Botox, cosmetic surgery, and AI-smoothed skin, Linda Hamilton shows up with wrinkles, gray hair, and zero apologies.
She's not fighting the mirror. She's enjoying the view.

Linda's stance is radical because Hollywood built her up for being strong, then tore her down for aging.
At 35, they celebrated her shredded physique.
At 50, they told her she was too old.
At 63, they were shocked she could still fight.
At 69, they expect her to disappear.
Instead, Linda is still here, still working, still refusing to play by their rules.
She's living proof that relevance doesn't vanish with youth—it deepens with experience.

Linda Hamilton's life has been hard.
She lost her twin sister.
She battled bipolar disorder for decades.
She endured a painful divorce from James Cameron.
She was forced out of Hollywood in her 40s for being "too old."
She came back at 63 and proved she could still kick ass.
And now, at 69, she's teaching the world that aging is not a failure—it's an achievement.
"This is the face I've earned."
That statement is a middle finger to every industry standard that says women expire at 40.
It's a love letter to every woman who's been told she's "too old."
It's a reminder that your face is not meant to be frozen in time—it's meant to be a living record of your life.

Linda Hamilton didn't just play Sarah Connor. She became her.
Sarah Connor fought machines. Linda Hamilton fights a culture that treats aging women like broken machinery.
And she's winning.
Because the only thing more dangerous than a woman who knows who she is, is a woman who has earned every inch of her reflection and refuses to apologize for it.
Linda Hamilton is 69.
She has wrinkles.
She has gray hair.
She lost her twin sister.
She battled bipolar disorder.
She was discarded by Hollywood for aging.
She came back anyway.
And she says: "This is the face I've earned."
Remember her courage.
Not just in fighting robots.
But in refusing to fight the mirror.

04/12/2026

Our military exists for one purpose: to fight and WIN wars. Not to be a social experiment. Not to be a platform for gender ideology.
Secretary Hegseth is restoring the warrior culture that made America's armed forces the greatest fighting force in history — and the radical left is LOSING THEIR MINDS over it.
Standards matter. Readiness matters. Mission matters. Thank God we finally have a Secretary of Defense who puts warriors first.

04/12/2026

Betty White spent eighty years making America laugh—and just as long quietly breaking every rule Hollywood set for women.
In the 1950s, while most women weren't allowed in writers' rooms, Betty was running her own show. Writing it. Producing it. Making decisions that would have gotten anyone else fired.
Then came a moment that revealed exactly who she was.
In 1954, Betty hosted her own variety program, The Betty White Show. One of her regular performers was Arthur Duncan, a gifted Black tap dancer who captivated audiences every week.
Then the letters arrived.
Southern television stations threatened to boycott the show if Duncan remained. Network executives told her to let him go. The message was unmistakable: remove Arthur Duncan or lose everything.
Betty listened carefully.
Then she made her choice.
"I'm sorry," she told them, "but he stays. Live with it."
She didn't just keep him on the show.
She gave him more airtime.
The network canceled her show by the end of that year. Betty White never apologized—and Arthur Duncan never even knew about the threats until decades later. She had protected him in silence, believing his talent deserved to speak for itself.
But Betty always found another door.
In the 1970s, she reinvented herself on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, playing Sue Ann Nivens—a perky homemaker whose sweetness masked a razor-sharp wit. She won two Emmy Awards for the role and proved women could be charming and fierce in the same breath.
Then, in 1985, came The Golden Girls.
Four women over fifty. Living together. Talking openly about s*x, aging, loneliness, and joy—with humor sharper than most dramas dared attempt.
Some doubted a show about older women could succeed.
Everyone watched anyway.
Seven seasons. Multiple Emmys. One of the most beloved sitcoms in television history. Betty played Rose Nylund—the gentle soul from St. Olaf whose innocence was its own kind of weapon.
And just when Hollywood thought her time had passed, she proved them wrong again.
In 2010, a grassroots Facebook campaign convinced NBC to let her host Saturday Night Live. At eighty-eight years old, she became the oldest host in the show's history—and she won an Emmy for it.
She didn't slow down after that. She worked, she laughed, and she reminded an entire generation that age is not a limitation. It's just another stage.
When Betty White died on December 31, 2021—just seventeen days before her 100th birthday—the world didn't just lose a comedian.
It lost a pioneer who hid in plain sight.
Her legacy isn't just the laughter she gave us—though she gave us oceans of it.
It's standing your ground without raising your voice.
It's proving that kindness and strength aren't opposites—they're partners.
It's showing us that women don't fade with age. They shine brighter.
Betty White smiled her way through eighty years of barriers—and walked through every door that mattered.
The world is quieter without her.
But braver. Kinder. Funnier.
Because she was in it.

04/12/2026

These signed photographs are connected to Rochus Misch, who served in Hitler’s inner circle as a bodyguard, courier, and telephone operator during the Second World War.

He was wounded early in the war, and after recovering, he later served in the Führerbegleitkommando from 1940 to 1945. Misch was among the final survivors of the Führerbunker in Berlin and was one of the last people present in the bunker before its fall. On 2 May 1945, he left the bunker in the early morning, only hours before Soviet forces took control of the area. He was then captured and remained in Soviet captivity until 1953. He died in Berlin in 2013 at the age of 96.

For collectors, items like these are part of documenting history through original artifacts, signatures, and personal traces from the past. The purpose, at least for many historians and collectors, is not political support or admiration, but historical research, preservation, and education.

To be clear, my interest in these items comes from an interest in World War II history and historical preservation only. This post is shared for archival and educational context, and not to promote any ideology or political movement.

What do you think is the importance of preserving personal artifacts from difficult chapters of history?

04/12/2026

She was 37 years old, a housewife in Ohio, and she knew something nobody talked about openly: being a mother was exhausting, imperfect, and sometimes quietly hilarious.

So she walked into the office of a small local newspaper in Kettering, Ohio, and asked to write a column about it.

They offered her three dollars a week. She said yes without hesitating.

She wrote on a typewriter balanced on a plank between two cinder blocks in her bedroom. Her subject was the one thing polite society insisted must remain sacred and perfect: motherhood. Dirty dishes. Chaotic kids. Laundry that never ended. The quiet, unspeakable exhaustion behind a smile.

Three weeks after a larger paper picked up her column, it went national. Thirty-six newspapers. Then hundreds. By the 1970s, 900 newspapers in the United States and Canada were carrying her words to 30 million readers — twice a week, every week.

Her name was Erma Bombeck.

Born February 21, 1927, in Bellbrook, Ohio, and raised in working-class Dayton, Erma lost her father when she was nine. She found her footing in humor. By thirteen, she was writing columns for her junior high school newspaper. At fifteen, she marched into the Dayton Herald and talked her way into a job as a copygirl. Her English professor at the University of Dayton later told her three words that changed her life: "You can write."

She did. Relentlessly. Even through the thing she kept secret for most of her life.

At twenty, Erma was diagnosed with polycystic kidney disease — an incurable, genetic condition that would eventually destroy her kidneys. She told almost no one. For decades, she went to dialysis and came home and kept writing. She made America laugh while quietly fighting to stay alive.

Doctors once told her she would never have children. She and her husband Bill adopted a daughter, Betsy, in 1953. Then, despite the diagnosis, she gave birth to two sons: Andrew and Matthew.

When all three were in school, she made her move. Thirty-seven years old. A small newspaper. Three dollars a week. A typewriter on a plank.

What she wrote was unlike anything that existed. Erma didn't romanticize motherhood — she punctured it. She told readers to clean their toilets, lock them up, and send the kids to the gas station. She wrote about post-natal depression, about selling kids, about septic tanks and grocery lines and the beautiful absurdity of a life spent making other people's lunches while the world called it a lesser thing.

Millions of women read her and felt, perhaps for the first time: someone sees me.

Her neighbor in Centerville, Ohio, was Phil Donahue — the future talk show legend. "Motherhood was sacred," Donahue later said. "Mothers were put on pedestals. Then Erma wrote, 'I'm going to sell my kids.' She punctured that pretense and was suddenly speaking for millions."

Fifteen books. Nine New York Times bestsellers. Over 15 million copies sold. Eleven years on ABC's Good Morning America. More than 4,000 columns written over 31 years.

She went public with her kidney disease in 1993. In 1992, she had survived breast cancer and a mastectomy. By 1996, with one kidney removed and the other failing, she received a transplant on April 3rd.

On April 17th, five days before she died, she wrote her last column.

She was buried in Dayton under a 29,000-pound rock shipped from the Arizona desert she had come to love — a monument as big and immovable as the laughter she gave the world.

She started at 37, for three dollars a week, on a typewriter balanced on a plank.

She knew from the age of twenty that her body would eventually fail her.

She wrote anyway. All the way to the end.

"Success," Erma once wrote, "is outliving your failures."

She succeeded beyond all measure. Not because she was famous. Because thirty million ordinary people — people whose names nobody knew, women whose lives nobody was writing about — picked up a newspaper on an ordinary morning and felt less alone.

That is a life well lived.

04/11/2026

On a sweltering morning in the summer of 1924, a teenage girl stood on the stone steps of a county poorhouse, holding two things against her chest: her eight-month-old son, and a small envelope that had taken everything she had to earn.
Her name was Clara.
Two days earlier, she had been cast out of the home where she worked as a live-in servant — no warning, no wages, no mercy — simply because her employer had discovered she had a child. The choice given to her was not really a choice at all: surrender the baby, or leave with nothing.
Clara gathered her son and walked away.
Twelve miles. No money. No family willing to open a door. The baby's father had been gone for months.
When she finally arrived at the poorhouse, officials told her what they told most unmarried girls in her situation: the child would be placed in an institution, and she would be hired out for labor. It was simply how things were done.
That night, Clara barely slept.
The next morning, she asked to speak with the superintendent.
She was not loud. She did not demand. She simply stood before him — a thin girl, still barely more than a child herself — and made a promise. She would do any work they needed. Laundry. Kitchen duty. Scrubbing floors at dawn. Field labor in the heat. Whatever they asked. She would cost them nothing.
All she asked, in return, was to keep her son.
Those who were present that day remembered one thing above all else: her voice trembled. But it never broke.
After hours of deliberation, the superintendent granted what was, at that time, an uncommon exception.
Clara could stay.
The small envelope in her hand held the written permission — fragile paper, fading ink — proof that a mother and her child would not be torn apart.
For the months that followed, she rose before sunrise to wash linens and scrub floors while Daniel slept in a basket beside her. At night she held him on a narrow cot. Slowly, carefully, she saved whatever small coins came her way.
By spring of the following year, she had saved just enough to leave. A boardinghouse offered her a job and a tiny attic room — barely large enough for a cot and a cradle — but it was theirs.
Life never became easy. Meals were thin, clothes were secondhand, and worry was a constant companion. But Clara had the one thing she had refused to surrender: the right to raise her son.
She never remarried. She simply worked — year after year, quietly, without recognition — so that Daniel could attend school, build a future, and have the life she never had the chance to dream for herself.
Clara lived to the age of seventy-five.
At her funeral, her son — fifty-nine years old, grey at the temples — stood before the family holding a small, worn envelope. The same one she had clutched on those poorhouse steps more than half a century before.
"She was barely more than a child herself," he told them, his voice low. "She had nothing. No money. No one. But she stood in that office holding me, terrified — and she fought anyway. Quietly. So I could grow up beside her."
Some people leave behind buildings or fortunes or names carved into stone.
Clara left behind a son who knew, every single day of his life, that he was worth fighting for.

04/11/2026

🚨Carlos Aguilar Reynoso, a Guatemalan illegal alien, is charged with the horrific r**e of a five-year-old girl he was babysitting in New York.

The innocent child, whose mother returned home to discover blood in her underwear, suffered such severe internal injuries that she required surgery.

04/10/2026

A N**i officer once painted a white line across the entrance to St. Peter's Square in Rome.
It marked the exact border between Vatican City and N**i-occupied Italy. Armed guards were stationed on the other side with a single order: if the Irish priest crosses, shoot him.
Monsignor Hugh O'Flaherty crossed it anyway.
Born in County Cork and raised in Killarney, Ireland, O'Flaherty arrived in Rome in 1922 to study for the priesthood. He stayed for decades — walking every street, learning every corner, building friendships across every class and background. He was a Vatican diplomat who had served in Egypt, Haiti, Santo Domingo, and Czechoslovakia. He was a scratch golfer, a boxer, a big warm-hearted man who played golf with Mussolini's son-in-law one day and heard confessions in a restored stone shed the next.
When Germany occupied Rome in September 1943 and thousands of Allied prisoners of war were suddenly released and left wandering in enemy territory — they remembered the big cheerful Irish priest who used to visit their camps. And they came to him.
He didn't ask permission. He just started hiding people.
He recruited priests, nuns, Roman aristocrats, communist partisans, diplomats, and escaped soldiers who became rescuers themselves. He built nearly 200 safe houses across the city. He disguised himself as a coal man, a postman, a street sweeper — once, reportedly, as a nun. Gestapo chief Herbert Kappler eventually identified him as the man behind the disappearances and had that famous white line painted to trap him. Kappler placed a bounty on his head. He sent agents in elaborate plots to kidnap or kill O'Flaherty — even on Vatican soil.
Every single plan failed.
When the Allied forces liberated Rome in June 1944, O'Flaherty's network — which became known as the "Rome Escape Line" — had kept over 6,500 people alive: Allied soldiers, Jews, Italian civilians, anti-fascist partisans. He received the Medal of Freedom from the United States and was made a Commander of the British Empire. He accepted both and quietly moved on.
But the story doesn't end there. It ends in a prison cell.
Herbert Kappler — convicted of war crimes and sentenced to life in prison — wrote to the man he had spent years trying to kill. He asked if O'Flaherty would visit.
O'Flaherty went.
He went every month, for ten years. The only visitor Kappler had. They talked about religion. About literature. About whatever men talk about when the war is finally over and all that's left is the truth about who they are.
In 1959, Herbert Kappler asked to be received into the Catholic Church.
Monsignor Hugh O'Flaherty baptized him.
O'Flaherty suffered a stroke in 1960 and returned home to Ireland. He died in Cahersiveen, County Kerry, on October 30, 1963, at the age of 65. His death made the front page of the New York Times. A statue stands in his honor in Killarney today.
His motto, carved in stone at his memorial, was simple:
"God has no country."
He didn't just rescue bodies. He rescued souls — including the one that had tried the hardest to destroy him.
Some people play it safe behind the line.
Others keep crossing it.

04/10/2026

She had done it every morning for 55 years — wake before him, head downstairs, and start breakfast. It was her quiet way of saying I love you without words.
That morning, she never made it to the kitchen.
He heard the fall. And with a body worn by age and a heart about to break, he carried her — half-lifting, half-dragging — to his truck. He ran every red light. He prayed at every intersection.
By the time the hospital doors opened, she was already gone.
At the funeral, he barely spoke. His eyes were distant, dry, like a man still searching for something he couldn't name. That evening, surrounded by his children and the weight of a thousand memories, he turned to his son — a theologian — and asked quietly:
"Where is she now?"
His son spoke of eternity, of peace, of reunions beyond this life. Dad listened without blinking. Then, mid-sentence, he stood up.
"Take me to the cemetery."
It was 11 o'clock at night. We protested. He silenced us with eight words that no one dared challenge:
"Don't argue with the man who just lost his wife."
We drove in silence. At the graveside, under the narrow beam of a flashlight, this old man — who had built a life with his bare hands — knelt in the grass and placed his palm gently against the earth, as if she could still feel it.
He prayed. Then he turned to us, and said something I will carry for the rest of my life:
"Fifty-five years. We shared everything — the crises, the laughter, the hospital waiting rooms, the Christmas mornings, the arguments we later forgave. And now she's gone.
But I'm at peace. Because she didn't have to lose me first. She didn't have to wake up in a house that still smells like someone who isn't coming back. She didn't have to learn how to be alone after a lifetime of togetherness.
I'll carry that. Gladly. Because that's what you do when you love someone — you take the harder road so they don't have to."
Nobody spoke. We just wept.
He opened his arms, pulled us all in, and whispered:
"It's okay. It's been a good day. Let's go home."
That night, I finally understood what love actually is. Not the feeling you fall into — but the choice you keep making, decade after decade, through every season of life. The kind that, even at a graveside, at midnight, finds a way to bring peace.
Real love doesn't end. It just changes form.

~

04/10/2026

She was ten years old, walking to school for the very first time on her own.
A quiet suburban morning. A little girl tasting independence for the first time.
She never made it to class.
A man named Wolfgang Přiklopil pulled her into a van and drove her to a house on the outskirts of Vienna. Behind a hidden trapdoor, past a heavy steel door, he locked her in a room barely bigger than a walk-in closet.
No windows. No sunlight. Concrete walls in every direction.
That room would be Natascha Kampusch's entire world for the next 3,096 days.
She was ten years old. And she was completely alone.

On her very first night, terrified and trembling in the dark, Natascha did something that would define her survival strategy for the next eight years.
She asked her captor to tuck her in and kiss her goodnight.
Not because she felt safe. But because she understood — instinctively, at ten years old — that to survive, she had to make him see her as a human being.
"Anything to preserve the illusion of normality," she later wrote.
That one insight — that psychological strategy — would carry her through years of darkness.

Přiklopil controlled everything.
He cut the electricity off at 8 PM every night. He barked orders through an intercom. He starved her, shaved her head, forced her to clean his home. He told her that her parents never paid a ransom. That they didn't want her back. That no one was coming.
But Natascha never stopped being Natascha.
She devoured every book he brought her. She clung to routine. She refused to let hatred consume her — not out of weakness, but because she knew: "That hatred would have eaten me up and robbed me of the strength I needed."
She was choosing, every single day, to protect her own mind.

Then came the night that changed everything.
She was 12 years old. The pitch-black cell. The crushing loneliness. The terrifying feeling that she might lose her grip on reality.
And in that darkness, she did something extraordinary.
She imagined herself at 18. Older. Stronger. Free.
And her future self reached out a hand.
"Right now, you cannot escape. You are still too small. But when you turn 18, I will overpower him. I will free you. I won't leave you alone."
That promise became her lifeline.
Every time Přiklopil hurt her, she whispered it to herself.
Every time the darkness felt permanent, she held onto it.
She is coming. She is getting stronger. She will not forget me.

The years crawled by. 13. 14. 15.
At 15, she punched her captor — and proved to herself she hadn't broken.
At 17, Přiklopil began taking her outside. Skiing. Shopping. Work sites. Always with threats. Always with fear. But the outside world existed, and she had seen it.
And on her 18th birthday, something shifted deep inside her.
She looked at Přiklopil and said: "This situation must come to an end. One of us has to go."

August 23, 2006. 12:53 PM.
Natascha was in the garden, vacuuming Přiklopil's car.
His phone rang. The vacuum roared. He stepped away.
For the first time in 3,096 days — she was outside. And she was alone.
Every cell in her body screamed one word.
Run.
She dropped the vacuum and bolted — through gardens, over fences, past startled strangers who stood and stared. She knocked on a window. A 71-year-old woman named Inge opened the door.
"I am Natascha Kampusch," she gasped.
Police arrived at 1:04 PM.
After 3,096 days — Natascha Kampusch was free.
She had freed herself. Not through luck. Not through rescue.
Through a promise she made to herself at 12 years old — and spent six years becoming strong enough to keep.

That evening, Přiklopil took his own life.
When police told Natascha, she wept — not from love, but because the complicated thread that had bound her survival to his existence had snapped all at once. Trauma doesn't follow a script.
She rejected the label of Stockholm Syndrome. "I have the right to describe my own experience in my own words," she said.

Today, Natascha Kampusch is 38 years old.
She wrote 3,096 Days, which became a film. She bought Přiklopil's house — to stop it from becoming a tourist attraction, because that place, however dark, was part of who she became.
She has dedicated her life to advocacy, speaking, and healing on her own terms.
The 12-year-old girl who made a promise in the dark was right.
On the exact day she turned 18, she walked out of that prison.
Just like she promised she would.

Here's the thing that will stay with you:
No one rescued Natascha Kampusch.
In her darkest moment — a child in a concrete cell — she reached forward in time, created a version of herself who was stronger, and held onto that image for six years.
Most of us will never face what she faced.
But all of us know what it is to feel trapped — in a situation, a mindset, a season of life that feels permanent.
Natascha's story whispers the same thing her future self once whispered to her:
Hold on. A stronger version of you is already on the way.

04/10/2026

Imagine being relentlessly cyberbullied for over a year, only to find out the troll trying to destroy your life is sleeping right down the hall.

In 2021, a high schooler named Lauryn Licari started receiving a flood of vicious, harassing messages from an anonymous number. The cyberbullying was so toxic and relentless that her mother, Kendra, completely stepped up to help.

Kendra went to the school board, complained to the administration, and even teamed up with the mother of Lauryn's boyfriend to try and hunt down the culprit.

When the school couldn't figure it out, local law enforcement stepped in. When they couldn't crack the fake numbers, they had to bring in the literal FBI.

Computer experts spent months analyzing IP addresses and cracking VPNs, expecting to bust a jealous classmate. Instead, they traced the digital footprint right back to Lauryn's own living room.

The relentless troll wasn't a high school rival. It was her own mother.

Kendra had used virtual private networks, fake area codes, and teen slang to send her own daughter thousands of hateful messages, just so she could play the role of the comforting, protective hero. She ended up facing serious felony charges.

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