God I hope he’s smart enough to suffer from this.
decided to morph myself with Ryan Gosling to prove that he’s my soul mate and our children will be beautiful
they’re pretty cute
EXCEPT FOR THE PART WHERE THE PHOTO USED HAS A BEARD SO ALL OUR BABIES HAVE A FIVE O’CLOCK SHADOW
Lady, those are going to be some badass babies.
Throughout my four years of college I have learned how to handle difficult assignments calmly and to not overreact when faced with a stressful situation
Actually, as someone studying to be an English teacher, I am going to encourage this as a part of the writing process. Embrace your freakouts, even put them on paper, but just make sure you fix them later on.
(And I won’t be able to use profanity in the classroom, darn it all.)
oh my god
my brother and I were just watching Treasure Planet and it was at the very end so I was going to turn it off and watch the Olympics, and my brother whipped the remote at me
he missed and it bounced off my mom, who was sleeping on the couch
first she was like
and then she started screaming and I guess we scared her because she started CRYING
like full on sobbing
which then changed to her noticing the movie was over and she started screaming questions like “HOW DID AMELIA HAVE KIDS WITH DR. DOPPLER, I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND”
and by then I’m sitting there like
and now I’m still laughing and she’s stormed out of the room like “you’re going to tell the entire internet about this, I’m going to be on the youtubes”
oh my GOD
I love this.
2016: social recluse Olympics
featuring the 3 meter refrigerator dash, the fanfiction speed read, fastest Domino’s order, freestyle napping, breaststroke through tears shed over your OTP
You forgot the Feelings Shot Put.
Tags from Asshole Disney. It’s funny because historical John Smith.
I’ve gotten a few asks wondering about my worst vacation experience, but I’m happy to say that I’ve never had any total disaster vacations. Though the one time I broke my only pair of glasses on the first day of summer camp would be a top contender.
But this is the story of the most embarrassing vacation experience of my life.
As you may or may not know, I’m from the Midwest, so most of my vacations have been week long stays in cabins up North with an occasional trip to Canada, so the year my family decided to go to Washington D.C. and Virginia Beach, I was STOKED.
When it was time for us to leave for home, we opted to take a day and drive through part of the mountains, because we only have river bluffs here and that’s kind of boring, right?
I love your life and the things you write.
I don’t know exactly what happened yet but we’re guessing drug raid because there were 8 police cars, marked and unmarked, and a taxi with all the doors open which I haven’t fit into the equation yet
But it looked just like the drug raid I watched from my 10th grade math class when the house across the street from my shitty high school was raided
And as far as I can tell no one was murdered
luv my job
This brings me back to seventh grade. Instead of dissecting our sheep eyeball (that woman and her dissections…), two out of our group of three looked out the window at what we were pretty sure was a drug bust.
The way I see it, there are 4 basic types of commercials.
1. The Infomercials
I fucking love infomercials. I will be the first person to admit to that. When the Magic Bullet commercial premiered, I think I watched it for 3 hours back to back. I know the characters at the fake brunch that the sassy blonde and her Australian husband are hosting better than I know some of my own family members.
I feel way too much achievement that this question was answered. Fantastic post, in my opinion.
This past spring semester, I took a fiction writing class at my college. Except for the part where I had to stop procrastinating and actually write things, I really liked it.
However, the one thing I hated about my story writing class was the “other” side of the room.
Before you’re all like “wow, Becky, way to be totally anti-social,” let me explain these people to you.
You know that one asshole in EVERY class that thinks they’re in a direct conversation with the professor at all times? They usual sit at the front, raise their hand for everything, respond to rhetorical questions, and interrupt everything to talk about random shit that seriously does not pertain to the class at all?
If you don’t have a person pictured in your head by now, I hate to say it, but it’s you.
Anyway, this class didn’t have one person like that, but HALF A CLASSROOM OF THEM. It seriously was such a polarized environment that when we did critiques in a big circle, we split up into “our” side of the room and “their” side of the room.
Which is step #1 to creating a classroom rift: make sure that you have two distinct types of people in the classroom setting.
So anyway, the main thing, other than total lack of adherence to social cues, that separated our side of the room from their side of the room was what kind of writing we wanted to do.
Basically, our professor had one rule—no genre fiction. Which I thought was reasonable, because I basically want to be John Green with a vagina when I grow up so it didn’t change my life at all.
The other side of the room freaked the fuck out. So in response, our professor gave in and let them write one fiction piece in whatever genre they wanted, which gave us stories about Nazi doctors, vampires, aliens, and, most importantly, the kangasaur.
Reading about the kangasaur was kind of like witnessing a car crash. Here I was, on a pretty predicable road of a story, when suddenly the semi truck of plot devices comes crashing into me. After it happened, I had to go back and reread and double check to make sure I fully understood what had happened. Honestly, I’m still not sure I understand.
The kangasaur, if you’re wondering, is part kangaroo, part dinosaur, and if I remember right it’s the grandson of a bird woman that lives in a castle or some shit. Which personally, I think is kind of horrifying. How the fuck does that even work?
And the author of the kangasaur story, who we’ll call H.P. Lovecraft, was the worst offender of anyone on “that” side of the room. So when her critique came and my side of the room was like “I don’t think I get it,” the Lovecraft army on the other side of the room rushed to her defense.
Which brings us to step #2 of creating a classroom rift: Offend someone.
Because college story writing classes are SERIOUS BUSINESS.
And from that moment on, our sides were sworn enemies. The Biggies to our Tupacs. The plastics to our Janis Ian. The Lindsay Lohan to our rehab facility.
Which was hilarious, because our professor hated the genre fiction. But her dislike and their unhappiness that we so blatantly disliked genre fiction led to scary as fuck class critiques.
Like the one time when one of H.P. Lovecraft’s friends shouted “well, if YOU PEOPLE can’t understand this …”
And it was just so ridiculous that the kangasaur became a symbol of our normalcy on the other side of the room.
Instead of listening to people read their weird as fuck stories, we drew kangasaurs. I’m pretty sure one of them is still on the desk in our classroom. They made it into my notes and then became my notes when I decided I didn’t want to learn anymore, and then crept into my notes in other classes. It was like really fucked up, lame mockingjay being spread around the English department for months on end.
If there is one thing I learned with my English degree, other than the fact that people will judge you for getting an English degree, it’s that even the most unlikely animals can find love in genre fiction, and their spawn can destroy the unity of a classroom in 5 seconds flat.
Something is wrong with the building I work in.
Brief history, but basically the school I work in was built in 1912, over the ruins of the original school that burned down, which was built in 1886. It’s this old, red brick building with a ton of corridors and trapdoors and doors to nowhere because of renovations and it’s just got a creepy vibe overall.
And there have been reported ghost sightings or whatever there before. In our after school care center, multiple people have seen a little boy running around down the hall, but then turning 5 feet short of the nearest doorway and walking through a brick wall. Freaky shit.
So today at about 4:30pm we had 6 kids left in preschool for the day, so my coworker and I decided to take them down to the gym, which is in the sub-basement of the school, half a level lower than our basement preschool.
Right away when we walked in, we both were like “wow, it’s cold in here,” but we were like
and let the preschoolers run around and play.
The gym we’re in also has a small, old stage, so my coworker and I were sitting on the edge of it watching the kids, right?
When all of a sudden from behind us on the stage we heard a really loud thump.
And it wasn’t a thump like an object fell over, it was a thump like a person walked into a wall or tripped on a board or something. So we kind of looked at each other, like “did you just hear that?” and when we realized it wasn’t imagined we turned around in time to SEE THE BACK LEFT STAGE CURTAIN FLUTTER.
And my coworker saw it too, so he was like “Hello? is someone on the stage?” like the fucking serial killer is going to respond. When nothing happened, he sent me up onto the stage to go investigate because he’s like 6’5” and weighs about 400 pounds so I have the speed advantage in an emergency.
So I got on the stage like
and I walked over the side curtain, pulled it back, and found nothing. NOTHING. In fact, the only thing behind any of the 4 curtains was a desk that hadn’t fallen over, there were no pieces of wood laying around, not one single thing that could explain the thump.
Also, we realized that the only door on the stage is in the front right hand side, totally opposite where we heard the noise, and no air vents or anything were on the stage to make the curtain move.
So my coworker and I are sitting there like
and watching our kids really closely, because according to my coworker, “ghosts always grab the smallest ones first.” Which you know, really lightened the mood and made me feel a lot better.
And for some dumb reason, I kept sitting on the stage, until five minutes passed and my coworker turned toward me, eyes wide, pointed, and screamed “BECKY, BEHIND YOU”
Words cannot describe how quickly I jumped off that fucking stage. I was seriously like
and half screaming and made it halfway across the gym before I realized he was just joking and nothing was there. But because I got so freaked, we started talking about if there really had been something there, which of course creeped us out more.
We tried to get LaJuan AntJuan to go on the stage and investigate for us, but he took one look at it and I swear to god just shook his head and said “dude. no.”
So after 10 more minutes of freaking ourselves out and trying, without avail, to recreate the mystery sound by throwing random things onto the stage, we decided that we were way too creeped out to stay and we were getting the hell out of the gym.
Then everything was peaches until all the kids left and we had to lock up the building.
Like I said, it’s in the basement of a school that’s been shut down, so it’s abandoned and my coworker and I were the last ones there, so we locked up together.
When you turn the lights off, you have to go to the far end of the hallway and then walk through the pitch black with only small emergency lights on until the stairs, which also have no windows, until you get up to the top steel door that lets out of the basement into the main hallway, which is also dark until you get to the main door.
The second the lights in the basement were off, we RAN up the stairs like it was a goddamn marathon.
I didn’t fill out my time card, didn’t check that all the lights were off, didn’t even make sure I had all my belongings. I was getting the FUCK out.
And now I’m in my room at home, being suspicious of every single thing that even looks like it could move and half considering bringing some salt and holy water in to work tomorrow.
Fear is natural. Fear is good. Fear keeps us alive.
But. but no. He’s holding a roll. He’s under a roll. HE’S UNDER A ROLL. UNDER. THERE IS A DIFFERENCE.
Why yes, what a perfect segue into the story of the biggest guilt trip from a cashier that I’ve ever encountered.
I will preface this by saying I have a shopping problem. I fully admit it. My one saving grace is that I’m really cheap, so I know how to shop clearance and thrift stores and find sales like no motherfucker knows.
So yesterday my mom and I had a girls day and went to Goodwills in the rich suburbs in my area because those are the ones that Target gives their excess clothing to, and I was like
because they had dresses and heels with all the tags still on for like, $5 each. Naturally I bought 4 pair of new shoes, you know, because I have eight legs.
It was beautiful.
But beyond that, one of the Goodwill stores I was at had this super cute knockoff Dolce and Gabbana bag, that was like $10, which is cheap even for a knockoff, you know? So I’m all “come to mama” and approached the check out counter like
The cashier was an older woman, probably like in her 70s, and she was really friendly at first. We were talking about the weather because that’s what the elderly care about, and she said my shoes were cute, which I think was a lie because she was scanning a pair of snakeskin heels and probably wondering what corner I was working later.
And then she saw the D&G bag.
At first she smiled and said “oh, wow, what a pretty bag” so I was like
because I could feel her watching me with her beady judgmental eyes. And then she dropped the bomb on me:
“I was going to buy this for my granddaughter after my shift, but I guess I won’t now.”
How do you even respond to that? Well, if you’re me, you try to give it back to the cashier and say that you don’t need it and that you don’t like the colors or some other boldfaced lie, to which she was like
and I was all
And then she continued scanning all my shit IN SILENCE until I half ran out of the Goodwill.
It’s only been 24 hours and now whenever I look at that purse my brain is like