“Just don’t worship anything.”

Such was the unsolicited advice I received from a grinning night guard at the American Museum of Natural History last Friday night. I was standing in the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians hours past the institution’s normal 5:45 p.m. closing time, gazing up at a Kwakwaka’wakw mask squeezed between a sprawling display of totem poles. The lights were dim and I didn’t see him coming.

“No, for real,” the guard added as he trotted back into the darkness, leaving me once again unmonitored in one of New York City’s most cavernous attractions.

His counsel was questionable, for sure, but not off-brand. That night, I was one of approximately 200 adults who voluntarily crammed themselves onto very small and uncomfortable cots beneath the museum’s suspended Giant Blue Whale. VIP lanyards around our necks, we were making nerdy tweenage dreams come true by spending an actual night at the museum.

The AMNH has been sporadically hosting sleepovers since 2006, the year the first Ben Stiller-fronted film “Night at the Museum” debuted, introducing audiences to sophisticated characters like Rexy the animated T. Rex skeleton and a series of otherwise lifeless artifacts that rouse after dark. Unsurprisingly, the sleepovers are more often targeted toward children, but every once in a while, there’s an adult version that, according to Michael Walker, manager of media relations at the museum, almost always sells out.

The cinematic schtick was one even the security guards agreed to act out that night, to the utter delight of the grown-ups who paid a whopping $350 per ticket to be there. (Disclosure: I had a comped press ticket to cover the event.) Just to get the FAQ out of the way: Did we have free reign of the museum? Yes. (The public halls, at least.) Was there alcohol at the sleepover? Yes. Did we physically sleep? Yes. Did anything move as if empowered by an ancient Egyptian tablet? No.

To best illuminate what happens during one of these adult sleepovers, here’s a rough retelling of my itinerary. Behold, a night at the American Museum of Natural History:

7 p.m.

I checked into the sleepover a bit late (doors opened at 6:30 p.m.) due to dramatically massive amounts of rain deterring subway travel. After heading in through the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial entrance in the back of the museum like I owned the place, I was greeted by Walker, who walked me to the check-in table to retrieve my itinerary, maps and the very official lanyard badge I’d wear all night.

After making sure I was aware of the T-shirts and activity books that came free with a ticket, Walker escorted me to the impressive Milstein Hall of Ocean Life, where the Giant Blue Whale hovered above hundreds of very closely positioned cots. He suggested I pick out a sleeping spot sooner rather than later. Since the cots on the edges were all taken by then, I settled for one sandwiched in the back, slowly acknowledging the fact that I would literally be sleeping next to strangers, hospital ward-style.

Really, at this point, I was just amazed by how industrious people were, with their inflatable pillows, certified sleeping bags and slippers. I asked Walker if any of these incredibly prepared individuals were returning slumber party guests, but he was unsure. 

7:15 p.m.

With over a half hour until dinner, I headed straight for the well-stocked champagne station on the Milstein balcony. Access to most of the museum’s first, second, third and fourth galleries began the moment we got our hands on our badges. In fact, those who wanted to stray from the makeshift bar already could request a plastic cup to take their booze to go. By the whale, a few musicians called the 12th Night Trio played a selection of jazz covers of Britney Spears and Red Hot Chili Peppers. The evening became gradually more surreal as time wore on.

7:30 p.m.

Orientation was relatively painless. Brad Harris, the museum’s senior director of visitor services, went over the itinerary and a basic set of rules. (No outside food, no smoking, lights out at 2 a.m.) When I asked Harris if there were any off-menu attractions he’d suggest I check out, he preferred to stick to the schedule ― the 122-foot Titanosaur was a must-see. I’d need a flashlight, Walker added. I felt like I was at camp and I did not hate it.

8:15 p.m.

After spending some quality time in the Hall of North American Mammals (where champagne-tipsy people were already snapping selfies with bears, mountain goats, big cats, etc.), Walker summoned me for dinner. We ventured to the second floor and stood in line for a pretty substantial buffet: chicken and fish, rice, asparagus, salad, rolls, mini puff pastries, after-dinner coffee. There was a final bar with to-go cups, of which many, many people took advantage. Some fraternizing occurred, and I learned this was the first adult sleepover for most. People were pretty eager to start exploring. Some actually ran out of the dining area once they’d indulged in their last opportunity for booze.

Note: If you are wondering, at this point, whether or not people were consuming mind-altering substances beyond alcohol, my best professional guess would be: Yes, definitely. 

9 p.m.

I bid Walker goodnight and my self-made tour began. I opted to first visit the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians, where I was mostly alone save for that secret security guard, until the 9:15 showing of “Humpback Whales” in 3D at the Lefrak Omnimax Theater. Then I watched 40 minutes worth of Ewan McGregor-narrated whale hagiography. The sheer gravity of this night at the museum was starting to be felt.

9:45 p.m.

Here’s when the bulk of my exploration began. I rounded out the first floor: Hall of Human Origins, Hall of Meteorites, Hall of Gems and Minerals. Guided by the sweet sounds of climate change advocacy playing on a few gallery screens, I went on to spend about half an hour staring at rocks while simultaneously contemplating the horrors of overpopulation. Nearly everyone I passed rightly made a whispery joke about jewelry heists.

If I’ve yet to fully illustrate this, most of the museum’s lights were dimmed to pleasantly shady levels throughout the night, so I did indeed use my cellphone’s flashlight to navigate. Next: T. Rex, Stegosaurus, Triceratops, the massive Titanosaur on special exhibition. Were rogue grown-ups trying to touch the massive bones? Yes. Were there guards around to police the shenanigans? Yes, but they were surprisingly kind and lenient. 

Onto the mummies. To locate the fourth floor gallery that housed them, one needed only listen for the hushed sounds of a diverse 21-and-older crowd having the collective time of their life. If anything was going to rise from their sarcophagi, 20th Century Fox-style, they were going to do it there. Spoiler alert: They didn’t. At around this point, I noticed two standout sleepover attendees ― an emotional support dog who had more than a few accidents throughout the night and a 20-something in Superman pajamas with a full cape.

11:20 p.m.

Knowing that there was a live animal demonstration at 11:30 p.m. that no adult in their right mind would miss, I took the opportunity to stop by the so-called Lunar Lounge where we were advised to go if we were in need of snacks, beverages, outlets for charging our phones, or just a place to chat. It was pretty packed. The cookies and hot chocolate were OK. 

I also stopped by my cot, where people were already napping. (A visibly drunk woman was sprawled partially on my blanket, and when I went to snatch it from her, she resisted.) I soon learned that snorers were being corralled in separate areas away from the primary smattering of beds. Pro tip: Claim your disease and you’ll get an isolated spot on the Milstein balcony. Worth the shame, people.

11:30 p.m.

Up until this point, everyone had been behaving, for the most part. Faced with the prospect of live animals, though, the adults began to unravel. After a staffer took too long introducing the live animal show in Kaufmann Theater, a man in the audience began speaking over him, claiming that the staffer was hindering his ability to get to the proceeding space show. “Give me live animals or give me death,” was the general sentiment. After the agonizing revolt, an older gentleman finally took the stage with a parade of small creatures ― an owl, an eagle, an alligator.

Highlight: When he noted that the frantically flapping eagle had imprinted on him, which explained the loving sounds heard emanating from the bird’s box anytime our guide spoke aloud for the rest of the demonstration. He also scared us into believing that New Jerseyans are really irresponsible when it comes to gator-as-pet ownership. Quit it, New Jersey.

12:15 a.m.

I need only say a few things about the “Dark Universe” space show that took place in the Rose Center for Earth and Space ― the pièce de résistance of the night, if you will. When the gorgeous expanse of our known universe took over the rounded screen, and Neil deGrasse Tyson’s bellowing voice filled the Hayden Planetarium, alerting the audience to recent advancements in space exploration, there were audible gasps. Someone actually ran out of the theater, but I think her reasoning had more to do with alcohol than being overwhelmed by the sublime.

1 a.m.

The excitement levels were dwindling. Many of the special exhibitions had closed at this point, so I lingered in some nearby first floor halls: Biodiversity and North American Forests, and back to the mammals. Several groups were rushing, nearly sprinting, to see bits of the museum before our curfew. I overheard a group of people from Pennsylvania remarking on how similar this night was to elementary school field trips, except this was better because they had access to alcohol and drugs. Fair enough.

2 a.m.

Second stop by the Lunar Lounge. Some old public domain films were playing on a projection screen. I caught the 1902 silent movie “A Trip to the Moon.” People were already beginning to fall asleep on the floor as they charged their phones. “I was a kid tonight,” a man said to his female companion.

2:30 a.m.

I strolled back to the big whale, impressed with my newfound navigation skills. Feeling pretty tired from walking what I imagined were miles through the museum, I decided to give sleep a try. I laid on my back and stared up at the belly of a beast, attempting to be as zen as possible, because when else was I going to be able to meditate underneath a giant sea creature? I was passed out by 3 a.m. I did not brush my teeth.

7 a.m.

Eyes open, it didn’t take long to realize the magic had faded. (This, despite the fact that somewhat loud whale sounds played me into consciousness.) Breakfast was not in the upstairs dining hall, but in the downstairs children’s cafeteria, consisting of a few pieces of fruit, yogurt and muffins. The galleries weren’t open to us like they were the night before. I wanted to leave quickly, in order to maintain the sanctity of my sleepover and not taint it with the disappointing break of day. I rushed out the same way I came in.

The next AMNH sleepover, should you be curious, happens on June 30.

— This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

“Just don’t worship anything.”

Such was the unsolicited advice I received from a grinning night guard at the American Museum of Natural History last Friday night. I was standing in the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians hours past the institution’s normal 5:45 p.m. closing time, gazing up at a Kwakwaka’wakw mask squeezed between a sprawling display of totem poles. The lights were dim and I didn’t see him coming.

“No, for real,” the guard added as he trotted back into the darkness, leaving me once again unmonitored in one of New York City’s most cavernous attractions.

His counsel was questionable, for sure, but not off-brand. That night, I was one of approximately 200 adults who voluntarily crammed themselves onto very small and uncomfortable cots beneath the museum’s suspended Giant Blue Whale. VIP lanyards around our necks, we were making nerdy tweenage dreams come true by spending an actual night at the museum.

The AMNH has been sporadically hosting sleepovers since 2006, the year the first Ben Stiller-fronted film “Night at the Museum” debuted, introducing audiences to sophisticated characters like Rexy the animated T. Rex skeleton and a series of otherwise lifeless artifacts that rouse after dark. Unsurprisingly, the sleepovers are more often targeted toward children, but every once in a while, there’s an adult version that, according to Michael Walker, manager of media relations at the museum, almost always sells out.

The cinematic schtick was one even the security guards agreed to act out that night, to the utter delight of the grown-ups who paid a whopping $350 per ticket to be there. (Disclosure: I had a comped press ticket to cover the event.) Just to get the FAQ out of the way: Did we have free reign of the museum? Yes. (The public halls, at least.) Was there alcohol at the sleepover? Yes. Did we physically sleep? Yes. Did anything move as if empowered by an ancient Egyptian tablet? No.

To best illuminate what happens during one of these adult sleepovers, here’s a rough retelling of my itinerary. Behold, a night at the American Museum of Natural History:

7 p.m.

I checked into the sleepover a bit late (doors opened at 6:30 p.m.) due to dramatically massive amounts of rain deterring subway travel. After heading in through the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial entrance in the back of the museum like I owned the place, I was greeted by Walker, who walked me to the check-in table to retrieve my itinerary, maps and the very official lanyard badge I’d wear all night.

After making sure I was aware of the T-shirts and activity books that came free with a ticket, Walker escorted me to the impressive Milstein Hall of Ocean Life, where the Giant Blue Whale hovered above hundreds of very closely positioned cots. He suggested I pick out a sleeping spot sooner rather than later. Since the cots on the edges were all taken by then, I settled for one sandwiched in the back, slowly acknowledging the fact that I would literally be sleeping next to strangers, hospital ward-style.

Really, at this point, I was just amazed by how industrious people were, with their inflatable pillows, certified sleeping bags and slippers. I asked Walker if any of these incredibly prepared individuals were returning slumber party guests, but he was unsure. 

7:15 p.m.

With over a half hour until dinner, I headed straight for the well-stocked champagne station on the Milstein balcony. Access to most of the museum’s first, second, third and fourth galleries began the moment we got our hands on our badges. In fact, those who wanted to stray from the makeshift bar already could request a plastic cup to take their booze to go. By the whale, a few musicians called the 12th Night Trio played a selection of jazz covers of Britney Spears and Red Hot Chili Peppers. The evening became gradually more surreal as time wore on.

7:30 p.m.

Orientation was relatively painless. Brad Harris, the museum’s senior director of visitor services, went over the itinerary and a basic set of rules. (No outside food, no smoking, lights out at 2 a.m.) When I asked Harris if there were any off-menu attractions he’d suggest I check out, he preferred to stick to the schedule ― the 122-foot Titanosaur was a must-see. I’d need a flashlight, Walker added. I felt like I was at camp and I did not hate it.

8:15 p.m.

After spending some quality time in the Hall of North American Mammals (where champagne-tipsy people were already snapping selfies with bears, mountain goats, big cats, etc.), Walker summoned me for dinner. We ventured to the second floor and stood in line for a pretty substantial buffet: chicken and fish, rice, asparagus, salad, rolls, mini puff pastries, after-dinner coffee. There was a final bar with to-go cups, of which many, many people took advantage. Some fraternizing occurred, and I learned this was the first adult sleepover for most. People were pretty eager to start exploring. Some actually ran out of the dining area once they’d indulged in their last opportunity for booze.

Note: If you are wondering, at this point, whether or not people were consuming mind-altering substances beyond alcohol, my best professional guess would be: Yes, definitely. 

9 p.m.

I bid Walker goodnight and my self-made tour began. I opted to first visit the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians, where I was mostly alone save for that secret security guard, until the 9:15 showing of “Humpback Whales” in 3D at the Lefrak Omnimax Theater. Then I watched 40 minutes worth of Ewan McGregor-narrated whale hagiography. The sheer gravity of this night at the museum was starting to be felt.

9:45 p.m.

Here’s when the bulk of my exploration began. I rounded out the first floor: Hall of Human Origins, Hall of Meteorites, Hall of Gems and Minerals. Guided by the sweet sounds of climate change advocacy playing on a few gallery screens, I went on to spend about half an hour staring at rocks while simultaneously contemplating the horrors of overpopulation. Nearly everyone I passed rightly made a whispery joke about jewelry heists.

If I’ve yet to fully illustrate this, most of the museum’s lights were dimmed to pleasantly shady levels throughout the night, so I did indeed use my cellphone’s flashlight to navigate. Next: T. Rex, Stegosaurus, Triceratops, the massive Titanosaur on special exhibition. Were rogue grown-ups trying to touch the massive bones? Yes. Were there guards around to police the shenanigans? Yes, but they were surprisingly kind and lenient. 

Onto the mummies. To locate the fourth floor gallery that housed them, one needed only listen for the hushed sounds of a diverse 21-and-older crowd having the collective time of their life. If anything was going to rise from their sarcophagi, 20th Century Fox-style, they were going to do it there. Spoiler alert: They didn’t. At around this point, I noticed two standout sleepover attendees ― an emotional support dog who had more than a few accidents throughout the night and a 20-something in Superman pajamas with a full cape.

11:20 p.m.

Knowing that there was a live animal demonstration at 11:30 p.m. that no adult in their right mind would miss, I took the opportunity to stop by the so-called Lunar Lounge where we were advised to go if we were in need of snacks, beverages, outlets for charging our phones, or just a place to chat. It was pretty packed. The cookies and hot chocolate were OK. 

I also stopped by my cot, where people were already napping. (A visibly drunk woman was sprawled partially on my blanket, and when I went to snatch it from her, she resisted.) I soon learned that snorers were being corralled in separate areas away from the primary smattering of beds. Pro tip: Claim your disease and you’ll get an isolated spot on the Milstein balcony. Worth the shame, people.

11:30 p.m.

Up until this point, everyone had been behaving, for the most part. Faced with the prospect of live animals, though, the adults began to unravel. After a staffer took too long introducing the live animal show in Kaufmann Theater, a man in the audience began speaking over him, claiming that the staffer was hindering his ability to get to the proceeding space show. “Give me live animals or give me death,” was the general sentiment. After the agonizing revolt, an older gentleman finally took the stage with a parade of small creatures ― an owl, an eagle, an alligator.

Highlight: When he noted that the frantically flapping eagle had imprinted on him, which explained the loving sounds heard emanating from the bird’s box anytime our guide spoke aloud for the rest of the demonstration. He also scared us into believing that New Jerseyans are really irresponsible when it comes to gator-as-pet ownership. Quit it, New Jersey.

12:15 a.m.

I need only say a few things about the “Dark Universe” space show that took place in the Rose Center for Earth and Space ― the pièce de résistance of the night, if you will. When the gorgeous expanse of our known universe took over the rounded screen, and Neil deGrasse Tyson’s bellowing voice filled the Hayden Planetarium, alerting the audience to recent advancements in space exploration, there were audible gasps. Someone actually ran out of the theater, but I think her reasoning had more to do with alcohol than being overwhelmed by the sublime.

1 a.m.

The excitement levels were dwindling. Many of the special exhibitions had closed at this point, so I lingered in some nearby first floor halls: Biodiversity and North American Forests, and back to the mammals. Several groups were rushing, nearly sprinting, to see bits of the museum before our curfew. I overheard a group of people from Pennsylvania remarking on how similar this night was to elementary school field trips, except this was better because they had access to alcohol and drugs. Fair enough.

2 a.m.

Second stop by the Lunar Lounge. Some old public domain films were playing on a projection screen. I caught the 1902 silent movie “A Trip to the Moon.” People were already beginning to fall asleep on the floor as they charged their phones. “I was a kid tonight,” a man said to his female companion.

2:30 a.m.

I strolled back to the big whale, impressed with my newfound navigation skills. Feeling pretty tired from walking what I imagined were miles through the museum, I decided to give sleep a try. I laid on my back and stared up at the belly of a beast, attempting to be as zen as possible, because when else was I going to be able to meditate underneath a giant sea creature? I was passed out by 3 a.m. I did not brush my teeth.

7 a.m.

Eyes open, it didn’t take long to realize the magic had faded. (This, despite the fact that somewhat loud whale sounds played me into consciousness.) Breakfast was not in the upstairs dining hall, but in the downstairs children’s cafeteria, consisting of a few pieces of fruit, yogurt and muffins. The galleries weren’t open to us like they were the night before. I wanted to leave quickly, in order to maintain the sanctity of my sleepover and not taint it with the disappointing break of day. I rushed out the same way I came in.

The next AMNH sleepover, should you be curious, happens on June 30.

— This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

Latinx graduates are giving us a major case of the feels for a second year in a row. 

As the class of 2017 celebrates the end of a chapter, dozens of Latino students have used Instagram to give a shoutout to their hard work, heritage, parents and persistence via some incredibly crafty and inspiring graduation caps. 

The #LatinxGradCaps hashtag was started last year by Latina Rebels founder Prisca Dorcas Mojica Rodriguez as a way to celebrate what it means “to be young, brown and woke.”

“THIS is our future,” she told HuffPost last May. “They are the ones who will pave the way.” 

Now it seems the 30-year-old Nicaraguan’s idea could become an annual tradition. Check out 30 spectacular Latinx grad caps from the class of 2017:

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Mother’s Day is a joyous occasion to honor moms and all that they do for their families.

But for many women, it can be an incredibly difficult day. If you’ve struggled to conceive, experienced a miscarriage or lost a child, Mother’s Day can serve as a painful reminder of that heartache.

Here are 15 cards that find the words to say to someone who may be struggling on Mother’s Day.

— This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

Pepe the Frog, a fictional amphibian both beloved and abhorred by Americans of varying political persuasions, has died. Drawn into creation in 2005, he passed away tragically at the hands of his creator, artist Matt Furie, on Saturday.

Birthed in Microsoft Paint, and printed at a local Kinko’s shortly after, he has been described by those who knew him personally as chill, peaceful and often stoned. Yet by his time of death, the “Boy’s Club” zine star was virtually unrecognizable. He’d, unfortunately, become a darling symbol of the alt-right. 

Pepe had a happy upbringing. He spent his early 20s ― in frog years, that is ― doing what he loved: chugging pop, snarfing pizza and getting high with his roommates Andy, Brett and Landwolf. Furie gave him a simple life full of simple pleasures, like surfing the web for sick videos and eating so much you barf it all back up. For a few years, at least.

Things got complicated, however, in a seemingly fleeting moment that would prove to be fatal. One day, Pepe’s roommate caught the frog in a compromising position: peeing, with his pants dropped all the way down to his ankles. His entire butt was exposed, for no reason. It was weird. When Landwolf called Pepe out for it, Pepe responded: “Feels good man.” The altercation, memorialized in zine, would forever alter the course of Pepe’s life. 

In 2008, a cartoon depicting Pepe’s smarmy “feels good man” smile popped up on the message board 4chan. There was something contagious about Pepe’s indulgent joe de vivre that made internet users share the image again and again and again. It soon went viral, gaining particular traction in, of all places, a bodybuilding forum.

That year, Pepe went from mere image to meme ― a humorous cultural touchstone, that, like a human gene, could mutate and replicate in strange ways. The more popular a meme Pepe became, the more he began to change, adopting alternate personas like Batman Pepe, Nu Pepe and Borat Pepe, which spread wildly across Reddit, Tumblr, Facebook and Instagram. Each iteration featured the frog’s classic mug, his unctuous expression warped this way and that to appear sleepy, dazed, sad and angry. 

Pepe’s internet acclaim continued to grow. Katy Perry shared a bleary-eyed and crying Pepe in 2014, along with the caption “Australian jet lag got me like.” Nicki Minaj followed suit, posting an image of Pepe showing off his juicy behind in a pair of tight, peach-colored booty shorts. 

“I’ve realized that Pepe is beyond my control,” artist Furie told New York Magazine in 2016. “He’s like a kid, he grew up and now I have to set him free to live his life. It’s all good.”

Pepe’s future was irreparably thrown off course a year before that, when, in 2015, an online community of white nationalists developed a soft spot for Pepe’s droopy eyelids and self-satisfied smirk. The dark pockets of the internet launched a campaign to adopt Pepe as their own personal symbol, using the cartoon’s absurd and somewhat adorable aesthetic to make hateful messages appear playful and benign. 

In 2015 and 2016, very different versions of Pepe began proliferating online: Pepe reading Mein Kampf, Pepe sipping from a swastika teacup, an anti-Semitic caricature of Pepe hinting at his involvement in the Sept. 11 attacks. In style, the green critter still resembled a harmless joke, a stoner cartoon meant to elicit a blazed chuckle or two. Yet Pepe’s zany cuteness now served to make palatable grossly discriminatory views. As Emily Nussbaum put it: “The joke protected the non-joke.”

The goal of Pepe’s makeover, as alt-right internet user @JaredTSwift explained to Olivia Nuzzi in 2016, was to use the unassuming frog to usher white nationalism into the mainstream. And it worked. “People have adopted our rhetoric, sometimes without even realizing it,” Swift said. “We’re setting up for a massive cultural shift.” Pretty soon, Pepe the racist and antisemitic frog far out-shined Pepe the stoner frog in visibility and recognition. Few remembered his glory days as a “Boy’s Club” bro, instead understanding Pepe to be the creation of spiteful internet trolls. 

During the 2016 presidential election, Donald Trump and Pepe forged an unlikely alliance when a Trump-esque Pepe adaptation, complete with yellow floppy hair, appeared to be policing the U.S. Mexican border and operating a gas chamber. To most of the internet, Pepe was now synonymous with hate, bigotry and Trump. Some even credit the frog with helping Trump win the election. (According to Furie, Pepe would not be the type to even vote.)

Pepe madness reached a surreal peak in September 2016, when the Anti-Defamation League declared Pepe an official hate symbol, much to Furie’s confusion and disappointment. “In my mind, frogs are one of the most peaceful creatures,” he told HuffPost. “They just chill on lily pads and eat. You never really feel threatened by frogs in nature. I think that’s why they’re so popular in fairy-tales. They’re just … chill.”

Furie did his best to alter Pepe’s fate, spearheading a social media campaign to #SavePepe. The artist also began to speak out, post-Pepe, against anti-Semitism and online hate at conferences and panels hosted by the ADL. He also collaborated with Save the Frogs! on a line of Pepe-centric goods, with all proceeds benefitting a wildlife organization devoted to protecting endangered frog species. 

The artist made a valiant effort to protect Pepe from the garbage forces of the internet. But alas, something about Pepe had changed. And on May 6, 2017, Furie made the executive decision to say goodbye to his little green friend for good. He drew Pepe into death, featuring the frog in an open casket, his buddies toasting him farewell with a bottle of whiskey, which they then proceeded to spill on his face. Furie created the single-page comic for Fantagraphics’ “World’s Greatest Comics,” sordidly marking Free Comic Book Day.

Pepe’s life was a strange one, perhaps even the first of its kind. While no artwork is immune to possible interpretations that diverge from the artist’s intention, few images have taken as long, winding and bizarre a journey as little Pepe.

Born a humble character in a cult stoner zine, the benevolent frog was forever altered by internet fame. When Pepe died, he left this world a nationally recognized symbol for white supremacy. Who controls an image? Who can verify its true meaning? A cute, mellow frog became a harbinger of fascism, in part because the whole progression was too weird and kind of funny to take seriously. Kind of like the story of Trump himself. 

Now, we believe, Pepe is in a better place. Hopefully he’s living the dream: drinking pop with one hand and helping to pee it out with the other. Fare thee well, sweet Pepe. You were too chill for this world. May you rest without fear of being appropriated by trolls for all of eternity. 

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— This feed and its contents are the property of The Huffington Post, and use is subject to our terms. It may be used for personal consumption, but may not be distributed on a website.

As family photographers, Aimee and Jenna Hobbs noticed a trend developing in recent years.

“More and more mamas either were choosing not to participate in their family pictures or were participating in the session, but when it came time to select images, they weren’t choosing any with them in the frame,” Aimee told HuffPost. “It broke our hearts to see moms effectively removing themselves from the visual narrative of their family, whether intentionally or unintentionally.”

In response to this phenomenon, the photographers created a mom-focused series called “A Mother’s Beauty,” which showcases women in a raw and vulnerable yet empowering state. 

“We wanted to capture a real mother’s beauty,” Jenna told HuffPost. “So often portrayed in media is the pressure for mothers to ‘get their pre-baby bodies back.’ We wanted to stop and celebrate women, as they were ― whether they had a baby four weeks prior to the photo sessions or 14 years prior.”

She added, “Childbirth and motherhood change us, physically and emotionally. It leaves scars and changes our shapes and mindsets. We wanted to not only capture that, but celebrate it, because it really is an amazing thing mothers are.”

Aimee and Jenna are sisters-in-law, and both have children. Aimee has a 7-year-old and 8-year-old son, as well as two adult stepchildren. Jenna has 2-year-old boy-and-girl twins, two daughters ages 7 and 4, and is currently pregnant with her fifth child. 

To find subjects for A Mother’s Beauty, the photographers put out a call for volunteers. Each summer, they photograph about 15 mothers ― some on their own and some with their children or older female relatives. They also interview the moms and share their stories when they post the photos online.

“When we’re photographing these sessions, we’ve learned that yes, the experience of being photographed from a place of love and empowerment in a way that really shows your vulnerability and strength definitely has a direct impact for the mamas who participate,” Aimee told HuffPost. “That was what we hoped to accomplish when we set out ― that we would be able to show a handful of women the beauty in their ‘imperfections’ and help them in some small way.”

Aimee added that she hopes the series touches other moms and inspires a sense of self-love in them. As for other people who see the photos, she hopes they broaden their perspective on what “beautiful” is and embrace the many shapes and sizes of women.

“The more people see something, the more normal it becomes,” she said.

Jenna echoed Aimee’s sentiments. She told HuffPost she wants the photos to make the participants feel beautiful and empowered in their own skin.

“I hope they know that motherhood has changed them for the better ― that they are enough,” she said.

“For those that see the photos, I hope that they see true beauty in these women, and see themselves,” she added. “Possibly the same shape, the same scars, the way they kiss and hold their babies. If they can see beauty in the mother in the photograph, perhaps they can see beauty in themselves, too. A mother’s beauty.”

Keep scrolling to see more of A Mother’s Beauty and follow their work at the Hobbs Photography website, Facebook page and Instagram. 

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It’s hard to decide when Kirsten Dunst officially become one of our most interesting actresses. Was it when lightning spewed from her fingertips in “Melancholia”? When she snorted coke and ripped Rebel Wilson’s wedding dress in “Bachelorette”? Maybe it was her naïve Midwestern enlightenment on “Fargo”? 

If you’re not already convinced, the new “Woodshock” trailer should do the trick. Dunst plays a grieving woman fleeing her mangled emotions and paranoia with the help of a trippy cannabinoid drug. “Woodshock” marks the directorial debut of sisters Kate and Laura Mulleavy, friends of Dunst who founded the fashion label Rodarte. 

This is one of two fascinating projects Dunst has coming this year. The first is next month’s “The Beguiled,” her latest collaboration with “Virgin Suicides” and “Marie Antoinette” director Sofia Coppola. In addition to “Woodshock” and “The Beguiled,” Dunst is working on the AMC dark-comedy series “On Becoming a God in Central Florida,” directed by “The Lobster” and “Dogtooth” mastermind Yorgos Lanthimos.

“Woodshock” opens Sept. 15. Watch the trailer above, and see A24’s poster below.

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Yes, Mr. President, he’s talking to you.

Actor Robert De Niro on Monday blasted President Donald Trump’s proposal to slash the federal arts budget.

The actor, receiving the Chaplin Award from the Film Society of Lincoln Center in New York City, told the audience that movies go through a voting process of sorts by critics and film goers before posterity decides if they are art.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because of our government’s hostility towards art,” he said, per Deadline. “The budget proposal, among its other draconian cuts to life-saving and life-enhancing programs, eliminates the National Endowment for the Arts, the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. For their own divisive political purposes, the administration suggests that the money for these all-inclusive programs goes to rich liberal elites. This is what they now call an ‘alternative fact,’ but I call it bullshit.”

De Niro wasn’t done. “I don’t make movies for ‘rich liberal elites,’ “ he said, per the Hollywood Reporter.  “I’ve got my restaurants for that. I – and all of us speaking here tonight — make them for you.”

De Niro, a frequent critic of the president, also worked in a slap at the administration’s immigration policies, Indiewire wrote. He noted that Chaplin was “an immigrant who probably wouldn’t pass today’s ‘extreme vetting.’”

“I hope we’re not keeping out the next Chaplin,” he said.

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