Some of them are so chill that you can ditch most of class so long as you can handle the final.
It’s all about playing it by ear.
YOU DON’T ASK TO GO TO THE BATHROOM PLEASE SAVE YOURSELF THE EMBARRASSMENT.
It is NOT harder than high school. You’re more or less ready for it if you do ok in high school, ok?
Seriously. I got A’s in AP classes yet was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to handle college.
Surprise surprise?
AP classes are harder than college classes.
No joke.
College professors are a lot more liberal on what counts as a “right” answer.
Plus they give you points for caring.
Some classes give you points just for showing up.
There’s an atmosphere of controlled panic, and you are not the only one.
You can pretty much go up to anyone and say god life is a nightmare and finals are gonna kick my ass, and they’ll go saaaaame, regardless of how genius they’re supposed to be.
Seriously.
College student here.
High school teachers are the WORST of liars.
They’ll tell you college is a “whole nother level” but that’s such horse shit.
High school is a standardized sheep counting facility.
College is a research lab full of cats that may or may not do what you expect.
Honestly my parents have been talking to me about college for years, and I’m legitimately drowning in anxiety. This is the single most helpful, relieving, beneficial thing I have ever fucking heard, and it’s off a shady website where we go to rant about our fandoms and political views. And I am 100% okay with that.
Some Belated Valentines 2k17 Highlights from Flower Land
- The giant Russian man who stormed through the door while we were quite busy and shouted “Whoooo is helping me? I need BEST FLOWERS in the WORLD because I have BEST WIFE!!”
- The old man who picked up his roses at 8 AM and when I said “I hope she likes them!” giggled and said “These oughta keep me outta the dog house for at least a week!”
- At 3 PM: “I need a delivery of tulips to the south side today.” “We aren’t doing any more deliveries to the south side today.” “I should tell you that this is on behalf of my client {Redacted Football Player} of The Bears and he is willing to pay literally anything.”
- “Hey, boss, I have an order from FootballPlayer of The Bears and he is willing to pay literally anything.” “Don’t you mean FootballPlayer of The Bears FOR NOW?”
-“Okay tell him we’ll do it but he has to buy all our remaining tulips.”
- One guy wanted to buy a teddy bear holding a real rose so I made a teeny tiny rose bouquet for the bear to hold and it is easily the cutest thing I have ever made.
- This same guy grabbed a 55 dollar arrangement from my table and brought it to me and said “Add flowers to this until it is 200 dollars.”
- Valentine’s Day makes some men crazy.
- When the last man came in to pick up his arrangement twenty minutes after we were supposed to close everyone who was working shouted his name in unison and it was Hilarious.
- All the parents sending flowers to their single professional daughters. Almost all of them made me teary. People from all over the country have daughters who live in Chicago and are single and they all wanted to send their single Chicago daughters flowers.
- “A man is calling and he says you are his best friend?” “What?” “He has an Eastern European accent?” “OH! It’s the man who has the best wife!”
- “I would like 100 roses.” “That will be 600 dollars.” “I would like 12 roses.”
Due to the well of my friends’ “def not an axe murderer” date recommendations drying up, I have turned to that most sacred of modern relationship institutions: online dating. As a very busy person trying to get it in with other very busy people, I prize honestly and directness above all else when it comes to profile creation. I include full body shots in my photos, try to minimize the use of MySpace angles in selfies, and write at the very top of the summary/caption/profile that I am fat. Not “curvy,” not “thick,” not “lots to love”–I’m f*cking fat. I’m not ashamed of it, but I also known that weight is a dealbreaker for lots of people. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.
About a year ago I met “Evan” via Tinder. We exchanged friendly messages for a few hours one night and agreed to meet up for drinks the following evening. I waited for a full hour past the designated time, and just as I was getting up to leave, the texts started rolling in.
“I can see you sweating from here.” “How long does it take you to roll out of bed every morning?” “Is there an earthquake or are you just getting up for more pretzels?”
Really idiotic, juvenile shit. Four separate numbers, commenting on things like my clothes, which clued me in that the senders were nearby. This went on for 15 minutes before I finally saw Evan, trying to hide in at a corner table and giggling with a group of buddies. I made eye contact, saw that he saw me, and then walked out. The texts kept up until I blocked the numbers a few hours later.
I ran into Evan about 3 weeks later. We got on the same elevator, and he tried really hard at being super interested in the emergency phone instructions. I just confronted him, and he admitted it was just some “game” that him and his friends play. He knew I was fat before agreeing to meet up; they all did, because that’s what they do. Match up with fat women, then either ghost them or “troll” them at the meet-up. It was also kinda obvious he’d never seen any consequences from this bullshit, as he was sweating pretty hard and looked more humiliated than I felt. I just said whatever and walked out, expecting to never see him again.
About a month ago, some local foodie wrote a great review of the restaurant I own, and we’ve been slammed ever since. In the past, I stayed mostly in the kitchen, but I’ve been doing more and more front-of-house stuff lately, and Valentine’s Day I was working a bit of a split between the two.
I saw Evan just as he was pushing in his date’s chair. My name isn’t on the restaurant, and he didn’t see me. I checked the section up at the hostess stand and saw that one of my favorite old-timers, Nan, was going to be his waitress. I went to the bar till, took out $400, put it in her hands, and said, “This is going to be your only table for the rest of the night. You are going to make this the worst date he has ever been on.”
She spilled every single thing she brought out to the table, all over him. I was waiting for him to blow up on Nan, but he bottled it up, obviously trying to make a good impression on his date. She seemed like a perfectly lovely lady; I told Nan to make sure everything was good for her and terrible for Evan.
She poured ice water on his d*ck. She smacked the back of his head with the edge of a tray. Spilled soup on his shirt. Dropped every fork he asked for. I personally oversalted his food, used the shit liquor for his drinks, used flour instead of sugar on his dessert. To be honest, I don’t know why he didn’t just walk out. He must have really wanted to f*ck this woman.
Finally, he cracked. Demanded Nan find the manager and bring her out. I was only too happy to emerge from the kitchen with my chef’s coat and say what, I’m not ashamed to admit, I’d been planning out all night.
“I would have said hi earlier, but I didn’t want the earthquake to disturb your dinner.”
I will savor the look on Evan’s face for the rest of my life.
He was a little too flummoxed to explain, so I pulled a chair up to the table and introduced myself to his date, Amanda. Told her how I met Evan. Showed her some fun old messages. Then I told gave her a voucher for a free meal on her next visit and told Evan to get the f*ck out and never come back.
why does so much post apocalypse media have people wearing straight up bdsm/fetish gear like. do the kinksters watch the world ending and think “oh boy i can wear my bondage gear in public now”
thats actually exactly what happens
What I wanna know is why the spiky kink warriors are always the bad evil marauders. They might be into some weird shit and unafraid to show it but that doesn’t mean they want to go around killing dudes. They’re a tight-knit bunch. A lot of them are queer. They understand the importance of community.
If the government collapses and all laws come to an end, the people rampaging around killing and looting are gonna be like, frat boys and 4chan rejects. You can mistrust the bondage raiders all you like but they’re definitely the ones you’re going to run to for help when the neoliberal blood cultists and Nazi meme demons lay siege to your survivor enclave. There’s gonna be gayboy berserkers busting up slaver gangs and burning down warboy frat houses. The assless-chaps leather daddies and weird petplay people are gonna be the accidental peacekeepers of the post-apocalyptic world just because they’re the only motherfuckers who understand the importance of consent anymore.
Listen. Don’t come to me asking how to get the secret cadre of bisexual death commandoes to protect your wretched tent village if you’re scared that we might call in the kinksters for backup. I don’t give a shit if they dress up like dogs and spend all day writing poems about butt plugs. There’s assholes out there acting like Vlad the Impaler on a meth bender and you’re afraid of seeing a nipple. Fuck you. If you really want to get rid of the MRA death gangs you’re going to have to accept that a lesbian chainsaw dominatrix or two might be involved. It’s the fucking post-apocalypse my guy we gotta weigh our priorities here
Anonymous asked: Per the IRC fundraiser: I would LOVE to read a blurb about Steve Cap eviscerating David Duke (or any other white supremacist) a la Chris Evans on Twitter :) (Hi. Thanks for using your powers for good!)
This didn’t go quite in the direction I hoped when I started, but I hope you like it anyway, Anon!
Steve got a Twitter – really, Steve was assigned a Twitter – when he joined the Avengers, but he didn’t use it very often. He didn’t care for it, and forgot about it for long periods of time. People followed him, but didn’t expect much in the way of content.
Then, one day, a tweet popped up from his account.
You shouldn’t punch Nazis in the face. You will incapacitate a Nazi for longer if you punch in the side of the head or the genital area.
What followed was an eyebrow-raising, thirty-tweet essay in which Captain America laid out the basics of hand-to-hand combat and offered advice for most effective techniques. Every time he could have used the phrase “your opponent” or “the other person”, instead he used “a nazi”.
When someone pointed this out to him on twitter, he tweeted back, ‘A nazi’ is fewer characters.
It was an amazing afternoon, but the news coverage of Captain America’s brutal new twitter branding didn’t really hit a frenzied pitch until the following day, when someone tweeted, So you think I should be punched in the face for my opinions?
Are you a nazi? Steve tweeted back.
I voted for Trump.
There was a gap of about half an hour, and then Steve replied, #trump wants people I love to die; at least to be unprotected from violence. Why wouldn’t I strike someone threatening my loved ones?
At which point the President of the United States tweeted, Pathetic Captain America wants to punch the landslide who elected me. Captain: you’re fired!
And Steve tweeted, Donald Trump is scared of me. Watching a sad old man try to fire someone he doesn’t employ is hilarious.
After which it appeared the President may have lost his mind; his tweets, growing increasingly erratic, eventually threatened a nuclear strike against New York unless Steve resigned.
Bring it on, I’ll punch that too, or didn’t you hear about what happened the last time someone tried? Steve tweeted.
At which point the President’s twitter went dangerously silent.
The following day, the White House announced that the President had been admitted to the hospital with ‘cardiac issues’, and was expected to sign resignation papers at noon.
“I’m hearing that the rest of the GOP finally pushed him out. I hope you’re proud of yourself,” Tony said.
“Jarvis was the one who advised me on how best to bait him,” Steve replied, stretching smugly.
“Pence isn’t exactly a cake walk.”
“No, but he’s never going to try to nuke New York, and he’s not so irrational he’d announce the attempt on social media,” Steve said. “My job is to make sure dangerous psychopaths don’t threaten the United States. One down,” he added, grinning.
Your Spouse goes into the bathroom only to come running out 15 seconds later. Clutching you close they tell you they fell into another dimension and what felt like seconds to you was a 1,000 years to them. They now want you to follow them back because they have built a life for you there.
