I don't know how people make these descriptions so pithy. American, 34, white, bi/pan, demi, in committed ltr, and I don't have many fandoms but the ones I do I do hard.
Yesterday morning I managed to fail at brushing my teeth.
Yeah, I didn’t know that was possible either! It was amazing. I was brushing my teeth just before leaving for work, and I did the thing where you run the toothbrush over the back of your tongue to get the gross coffee aftertaste off there, and I was too enthusiastic and gagged myself. Which I do all the time, I have kind of an over-active gag reflex. But, I mean, I gag all the time, so it’s not a problem and I’m used to it.
Except this time my mouth started watering. You know. How it fills up and your whole esophagus is like No, and your stomach is like Nope. So I’m getting dressed and keep having to go back and spit in the sink because my mouth kept filling up. And I’m like dude cut it out. But no.
Sure enough, I puke. I haven’t eaten, so it’s just coffee, but ew. And I’m like well that was unpleasant, and rinse my mouth, and go back to getting dressed, and — oh, well, shit, okay, I gotta go puke again. And I’m like come the fuck on. I didn’t even— it’s a misunderstanding okay, there’s nothing— oh well shit— COME ON, I have to get in my car and drive for half an hour, I am not calling in sick (unpaid) to work because I can’t brush my fucking teeth, what the fuck.
So I stand over the sink for a while and it stops, and I’m like well, I should really brush my teeth again, but uh, no, so I use mouthwash instead, and I still make it out the door on time. Actually it threw my time-sense off so much I wound up leaving early.
My coworker said something about being a zombie so I told him the story and he laughed helplessly. “Oh my god,” he said, not unsympathetically, “how do you even.” It’s a running joke with him that I manage to injure myself frequently doing mundane things. Every time I use the box cutter he reminds me to cut toward my face in a jerking motion, because one time I managed to cut my finger while being careful and using the thing properly.
"I feel like routine things are harder for me than regular people," I said. "And I don’t understand why."
"You definitely selected Expert Mode when you started the game of life," he said.
"But I’m not an expert!" I wailed.
"No," he said, "there’s the problem."
I totally bought one of the hoodies, because let’s be real, this is the best use of the keep calm meme since the “Keep…
I have never understood the correlation people seem to draw between bisexual and polyamorous. like. you CAN be both, of course, and there’s nothing wrong with that. but one doesn’t automatically equal the other.
I’ve heard this statement almost exclusively from heterosexual men, and you know why? They are attracted to women, they want to have sex with women. Therefore, in their minds, they WILL have sex with women. When confronted with the concept of bisexuality, they cannot seem to comprehend the idea of being capable of an attraction without acting on it. It’s entitlement, I think. It’s a really disturbing, revealing sentiment. Maybe I’m wrong, but that’s always been the impression I got.
Ooh that’s a good one.
Sometimes you just need to get yourself through the day by doing dramatic readings of the totally incoherent questions you get on eBay and Amazon.
One we printed out and taped to the wall reads:
I already arrive the chamber, this perfect one, but the cable of charger, is miss. please, Is need know when would command, thanks.
Garth, that was a haiku.
The foreign-translated ones are the most poetic. The most distressing are the ones clearly written by a native English speaker but which remain utterly incomprehensible. Four of us stood scratching our heads over one such email today which contained no punctuation whatsoever and appeared to either be asking us about the life of a lithium-ion battery, or perhaps telling us a story about California, we could not be sure.
Walking back to our car after eating at a restaurant on the trendy main drag of town (Elmwood), we went past a house where a young-teenage black boy was sitting on the top step of the front porch with (probably) his little sister, with a Macbook perched on his knees glowing brightly in the dark. She was curled against his side, and both were staring raptly at the screen. As we passed, the boy said fiercely, “He is gonna be real sorry he ever messed with me,” and started typing rapidly.
I don’t think I can possibly convey his adorable fierceness and the way the younger girl was so eagerly spectating. After we rounded the corner I hissed to Z, who hadn’t really absorbed the scene, “Somebody is wrong on the Internet!”