Mackerel Degeneration
Unless everybody gets them.
Honestly her mom and I always did 75 at night but this is her own life and her own thermostat so I am proud of her no matter how she chooses to set it!
Edit: I used to think this world / community is very polarized. Now I realize they are not - they are really sort of gradually distributed between uncomfortably cold and uncomfortably hot....
He made a pun in the shower, we giggled, and I noted how he's gone from hating puns to making his own. I called him my "young Padawan" and he responded, "You mean, Pun-awan?" It was seemless. I lost my shit. Just wanted to share with you guys :)
Ent-trophy.
She gradually became more talkative, so now we just call her Anne
The moth drops down into the nearest chair and says “What’s the problem?”
Moth says “I don’t even know where to start. First of all, my boss is a vicious tyrant who gets off on the petty torments he puts me through day in and day out, and I’m too spineless to stand up to him, so I just take it and I’ve gradually come to hate myself for it. Also, every morning I wake up to the same prune-face old crone to whom I pledged my vows so many years ago. I used to love her, but that love has become like some sun-festering beached whale trying to die. We lost our daughter last year to one of the bitterest, coldest winters we’ve ever had to face in this region. Isn’t it funny, doc, how all the prayer circles and charity drives in the world amount to pretty much nothing in the face of that cold, impartial face of winter, that bleak, pounding, harsh fist of a callous environment, carrying on with its machinations without regard to our lives, loves, hopes and dreams? Isn’t that hysterical, Doc? Oh and then there’s my son. Doc, I don’t love him anymore. I don’t know what it is but I look in his eyes and I see that same harried look of gutless cowardice that I see when I stare at my own face in the mirror. If I wasn’t such a coward, Doc, I know I’d be able to scrape together enough pride to grab that cocked and loaded shotgun I keep by the bedside table, and just run amok and put an end to this grim facade once and for all. I start with the wife, then the boy of course before putting the barrell in my own mouth. Believe you me, Doc, I’d be doing the world a favor. I have nothing to look forward to but a continuation of this spiraling black hole that is my life, this existential cesspool that is the perpetuation of my lingering skid-mark on society. I despise people yet I crave their approval. I’m judgemental yet I care about nothing. I’m bitter, hateful and afraid. I’m alive yet I feel like the walking dead. This is it, Doc: I am a living, breathing, disease.”
The doctor stares at him for a while then finally says “Jeez, Moth, you definitely have some problems. But I’m a podiatrist. You need a psychiatrist. Why’d you come in here?”
The moth says,”Your light was on.”
An emperor decided his population was rising too fast and decided to decrease the numbest. Bunches of generous birth and death control methods did he come up with, but the most dastardly scheme was the Neat Edict. His subjects, however, bitterly called it The Press Test.
The emperor, you see, founded a law that anyone found wearing rumpled clothing, after being fined, would find a rock, then use his or her (or their) own forehead(s) as an iron...to press and press to reduce the crinkles in the clothes to half, then half of that, then half of that... As the victims wept, the soldiers jeered at the poor souls and mocked them: "Press! Press! They were halving a bawl.
To the despot's calculated glee, no one could pass The Press Test. As sure as waking up with a sniffle, everyone starts off with a crumple in the blouse and more get added as the day goes by. So there was no shortage of victims squirted into The Press Test arena.
First it was 12 creases legislated, then 5. It soon became Three and then One, before ending in none. By slowly reducing the number of creases permitted in clothing, the whole population was soon caught up in the Emperor's net. It was most unfair, but no matter how hard they pressed for freedom from The Press, the population steadily dwindled.
The approximately equally wicked emperor of the next fiefdom, taking sadistic note, invited his neighbour over to congratulate him. "How did you achieve that?", Vile asked Evil over a poisoned lunch.
Clutching at the tablecloth as he went down writhing, he nevertheless had a last grasp answer:
"By gradual decrees"
Trevor loved tractors. And I mean, really loved tractors. Forget any obsessions or high-level interests you may have, chances are they pale in the face of Trevor’s love for tractors.
Every day Trevor would get up, in his tractor-themed bedroom in his tractor-themed house, with its tractor-themed wallpaper and tractor-themed carpets, and he would make his bed with its tractor-themed duvet and tractor-themed sheets. He would go downstairs in his tractor-themed pajamas into his tractor-themed kitchen, with its tractor-themed tiles and cupboards, and he would eat his breakfast while perusing the latest tractor-themed magazine or annual.
Trevors’s degree in Agricultural Engineering hung on his living room wall, along with a copy of his thesis, which centred around (you guessed it) tractors. The living room was decorated with all sorts of tractor-related trinkets, including die-cast models, paintings and drawings.
The hedges in Trevor’s front garden were trimmed in the shape of tractors. His lawn was vividly decorated with tractor-driving garden gnomes, and his garden furniture was constructed from various parts from vintage tractor designs.
Trevor just had one thing missing from his otherwise tractor-centric life; he had never actually owned, nor driven, a real tractor.
Not for his lack of trying, of course. Trevor had been to many tractor shows over the years, and visited many farms with friends of his, but none of the tractors he had seen had ever been quite right. Trevor was so knowledgeable about tractors that every single one he had come across had possessed some hidden trait that he wasn’t keen on. His first experience of driving a real tractor had to be perfect.
One day, Trevor was flicking through one of his favourite publications, Powertrain Quarterly, when there was a knock at the door. Trevor answered, and it was his friend and fellow tractor enthusiast, Jeff.
Trevor welcomed Jeff in, and over tea and crumpets served on tractor-themed crockery, they discussed the merits of aluminium drawbars and front-end loaders. Eventually Trevor pressed Jeff to explain the reason for his visit.
“Well” said Jeff, “As I’m sure you know the convention comes to town later”.
The convention. Trevor had been thinking of little else the past three weeks. The neighbouring town annually threw a convention for farmers, particularly farmyard machinery. There would be combine harvesters, lawnmowers, and of course, tractors.
“Yes of course” replied Trevor
... keep reading on reddit ➡I hadn't put my own picture up on my dating profile, just a picture of my pickup. But that's okay, because she'd just put a picture of her dog. I sent her a message, something almost-clever like "your dog can ride in my pickup any time," and she responded.
We clicked pretty quickly, and started chatting regularly. Every day, sometimes throughout the day. Slowly we learned more about each other. Her dog's name was Daisy. My truck's name was Dodge Ram (I apologized for my lack of creativity). She was a CPA. I was a beekeeper.
And at this, she stumbled. "If we ever meet in real-life, I want you to know that I could never date a beekeeper." But we were still far away from that point, so it was moot.
But time went on, and we gradually became closer to that point. More personal information. What firm she worked for. Where my farm was. Names of relatives. Names of high schools. All the things that just come up in conversation eventually if you talk to someone long enough.
But, oddly, after all this time, neither of us had thought to send any pictures. Until one day I got a message from her: "I never thought I'd say this, but I really do want to meet you in person. I think we have a rare connection, and I don't want to squander it. I want to send you my picture, and I want you to send me yours, but I'm telling you, I can never date a beekeeper."
I couldn't imagine a life without my bees. But I also couldn't imagine a life without her. Tentatively, reluctantly, I clicked on the image attached to her message.
Then I saw her face. Now I'm a bee leaver.
laying in my with my girlfriend, phone alarm goes off, hit snooze, we wake up gradually anyways, start milling about the room, snooze goes off
GF: Who's calling?
pick up phone, put it to my ear
Me: Hello, alarm? Yes, this is James. WHY DO YOU ALWAYS CALL ME EVERY MORNING?!?!?
