my aunt was telling me about a cousin who married into the mob, prompting me to ask incredulously, “we’re in with the mob??” only for her to say that the mob guy divorced the cousin, leading to the less exciting and more terrifying possibility that we’re out with the mob
two more things about this:
there were apparently a lot of guns at the wedding
now I have something good to use next time I am forced to play two truths and a lie. your family marrying into the mob sure beats having lived in three states
in my sociology of childhood class today we each had a sheet with a list of characteristics on it (had piano lessons as a child, were an only child, were in foster care, had a day job before you were 16, went on family vacations, etc) and we had to find someone for each item, but unfortunately “family married into the mob” was not listed. it also turns out it’s pretty hard to bring up in everyday conversation, despite the fact that I am dying to tell people. “how are you?” – “pretty good, also my family married into the mob, how are you?”
having fangs may not be a ‘‘‘necessary’’’ or ‘‘‘wise’’’ addition to my physiology but it would be very, very sexy and therefore i think i deserve them regardless,
Just walked into JiffyLube for an oil change. There’s nothing remarkable about this, but I am dressed like… uh. Well. Slicked-back hair, Weyland-Yutani crop top over a black turtleneck leotard, black cargo pants from my old security job, and a black trench coat for the rain.
In peacetime, the ruler grows their hair long. In war, they cut it short.
A ruler with long hair is held in great esteem, for defending the peace.
The traditional declaration of war is for the ruler to send their cut-off hair to the enemy ruler. The statement carries greater weight the longer the hair: to receive long hair says that you have angered one who is slow to anger, that you have incurred a wrath not easily woken.
Violent war-mongering leader frantically and aggressively tries to shave just a LITTLE hair off the top of their head into an envelope.
A faraway king receives a heavy wooden crate filled with a coil of the longest hair he has ever seen.
A despised ruler finds hundreds of pounds of cut-off ponytails at her castle entrance, each one belonging to her own people.
A young emperor refuses to cut their hair and insists on trying to make peace with invaders. The enemy leader steps forward, draws their blade, and cuts the emperor’s hair themselves.
Hellen cuts her hair off and throws it in Cathy’s face at her son’s soccer scrimmage.
So I like hot stuff. I’m not like, a dick about it. I don’t brag because there are people out there that can handle waaaay hotter foods than me. It’s not a competition.
So I’m at Tijuana Flats, a “mexican” food restaurant chain famous for their hot sauce bar. All in all, what they put out on the bar isn’t the spiciest stuff in the world, but you’ll find some delicious gems in there.
I immediately look at whatever is marked black as hottest for the day (they change them) and immediately go to pump some into the little paper containers provided when…
“Whooaaa, sweetheart you don’t want to do that,”
I turned around and there’s this skinny guy in jeans and a logo polo. There’s another dude wearing the same shirt, so they must have come here from some sad IT job. I’m a little taken aback at this dude’s presumption that I am ignorant to what I’m doing, but I blow it off.
”Nah, man, it’s got the black label, I haven’t tried this one yet.”
”Are you sure? It’s really spicy.”
”I’m pretty sure dude.”
”I don’t think you should, because it was a bit much for me.”
At this point I’m feeling patronized. I stare at him.
“It’s fine. Really.”
“Oooookay,” He says in this exasperated, don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you kind of voice. I get my hot sauce and sit down. Food arrives, I taste it with a chip first to test. It’s super sweet, actually. I dump the whole thing on my taco. I don’t know if he’s watching.
I go up to the counter and ask the manager to ring me up a bottle of the sauce to take home. It was pretty delicious! Manager says he’ll bring it to my table.
They bring it, I pay, and the server asks if I’m into hot sauces – of course I say yes. Hot Sauce Police is now watching. She brings me an assortment of sauces they do not serve at the bar because of liability reasons. One of them was rated at 1.5 million Scoville units. I bought all of them, signing the credit card slip as he watches.
I finished my meal.
Then I looked right at him and licked the fucking paper container when I was done.
It’s the two year anniversary of the incident.
“I KNOW WHAT I’M ABOUT, SON”
– This woman, not letting others tell her what her own Hot Sauce Limits are
my dad was saying how he thinks that at every birthday after 18 more and more things should become legal. so by the time you’re like 60 you finally get your meth and arson liscence
if you make it to 100 instead of getting a card or whatever it is from the queen you get to commit treason
I was sitting at my desk just a few minutes ago, drawing, and a really loud crack of thunder went off–no power surges or anything, just thunder–and my roomba fled from its dock and started spinning in circles
I currently now have an active roomba sitting quietly on my lap
Humans will pack bond with anything.
I had a teenage girl come into my tea shop with her mother the other night. She purposely grabbed a teamaker in the most crunched-up looking box on the shelf (got banged around in shipment) and carried it protectively over to the counter. “If something’s in a damaged box I have to get it because I’m afraid no one else will love it,” she laughed nervously.
Not only will humans pack bond with anything, the empathy level of adolescent girls in particular likely has puppy-saving, world hunger-solving, war-ending powers.
I once saw a really bumpy lime at the grocery store, just a real ugly fruit. Later that night my boyfriend & I were driving home from rehearsal at like 11:30pm & passed the grocery store & I stared crying & he said “is it that lime? Do you want to go back and get it?” And I nodded and pulled the car around and bought the lime.
Procrastination Station 