When you want to put down your braid, use a wide toothed comb to hold the loops. Also, mark the top of your braid at the beginning and you'll be able to reconnect a braid and continue on from where you were.
For whipcord, you can use one of the bamboo back scratchers as a distaff to hold up your cording so you can sit and watch TV while you work.
Phil
Allen stepped out of the portal and into a world defined by the competing scents of fear and flowers. Malcolm followed, his four feet padding quietly along the sidewalk. They’d cast into the twilit moments between the setting sun and rising moon when magic was at its strongest, and when the gathering gloom could enfold them like kin, shadowing them until they were ready and the street was clear.
The street cleared and Allen released the spell with a gentle wave of his hand. Man and cat slipped into existence like the world solidifying itself after a deep slumber, fuzz gradually clearing from their images until they were as real as anyone else. Malcolm pulled his sleek black tail from the portal and it winked out, severing a connection it had taken them years to build.
Allen Ocampo breathed deeply of the flowers, pushing against the urge to succumb to the fear. Aster’s fear. He bent down and slipped the leash onto Malcolm’s collar. A leash he’d bought for the collar she’d had, for her cat, her familiar. They stared up at the softly lit, inviting sign that read AntiquiTea, modeled on her own exquisite calligraphy, and Malcolm whispered, “By Bastet, are we finally here?”
“Yes,” Allen said, his voice still hoarse from the strain of their transit. “Yes, I believe we are.”
An hour before closing, the AntiquiTea held its usual collection of night owls and caffeine addicts, out to enjoy a warm summer night along the bend of the slow moving, crystal clear river. Allen and Malcolm had heard all the stories. Even after everything, Aster had spoken of her college years working at the AntiquiTea with a sort of nostalgic pride that only became forlorn towards the shadows of her junior year, the only time of her life where mystery could be said to have truly set in. If he weren’t the man he was, Allen Ocampo might never have learned a thing about those years. Aster’s mask had been exquisitely practiced by the time they’d met, and it went far more than just makeup deep, though that was always exquisite.
It was not exquisite that night, before that night she’d never had anything to hide. Aster stood behind the protective shield of the cash register on the cusp of many lessons still yet to be learned. The spicy scent of the exotic tea in her hand was overwhelmed by the sharp tang of too-hot fear leaking out through the professional curtain of her smile. Malcolm twitched his nose, not speaking like he could, but mewling catlike in a way that Allen was barely able to tra
... keep reading on reddit ➡Go post NSFW jokes somewhere else. If I can't tell my kids this joke, then it is not a DAD JOKE.
If you feel it's appropriate to share NSFW jokes with your kids, that's on you. But a real, true dad joke should work for anyone's kid.
Mods... If you exist... Please, stop this madness. Rule #6 should simply not allow NSFW or (wtf) NSFL tags. Also, remember that MINORS browse this subreddit too? Why put that in rule #6, then allow NSFW???
Please consider changing rule #6. I love this sub, but the recent influx of NSFW tagged posts that get all the upvotes, just seem wrong when there are good solid DAD jokes being overlooked because of them.
Thank you,
A Dad.
Well, toucan play at that game.
Martin Freeman, and Andy Serkis.
They also play roles in Lord of the Rings.
I guess that makes them the Tolkien white guys.
She said apple-lutely
'Eye-do'
This is my first post pls don't kill me lol.
The people in the comment section is why I love this subreddit!!
Cred once again my sis wants credit lol
I heard parents named their children lance a lot.
First post please don't kill me
Edit: i went to sleep and now my inbox is dead, thank you kind strangers for the awards!
I smell her before I see her, subtle hints of lavender and fresh cut flowers pulling my gaze up from the struggling pace of the story I’m writing. I lose myself in periwinkle blue shot through with a mote of vibrant emerald green. An awkward second passes before I realize that the striking eyes I’m staring into are attached to a young woman, and that she’s said something I’ve managed to miss.
Her uncertain smile parts, asking “I’m sorry, do you mind?” for what must have been the second time.
“Not at all,” I say, barely keeping the shock out of my voice, though I can do nothing about the way my hand shakes atop my manuscript.
She looks nothing like I wrote her, which is to say she’s exactly as I imagined. The woman I’ve written about in stops and starts spread across years carefully balances a small, flowery notebook atop an iced latte as she sits down. A stray lock of dark hair falls artlessly from a quick, messy bun, framing her soft featured face. I get a sense of comforting blueness, a sky blue sundress that seems to invite the breeze, the darker blue spine of her notebook. The periwinkle blue of her impossible, unmistakable eyes. Eyes that had watched over me as I agonized over the vagaries of plot and sub plot, discarding outline after outline in the process.
Eyes that had seemed so completely her and yet so impossibly cliched that when it came time to describe them I’d simply written “blue,” and powered on through the rest of the chapter.
I glance around the River Birch Cafe, trying to catalog the empty seats. There aren’t many, but she’d still had options at other occupied tables, and as long as I’d been coming here to struggle through my work nobody had ever sat down across from me.
It takes her a few moments to settle in. She fidgets uncomfortably, arranging the flowered notebook just so while she sips her latte. She flips it open to a blank first page and then makes a face, tapping her fingers in frustration until her eyes alight on the cup to my left with the single oddly ornate, birch tree engraved pen sticking out of it.
We sit there for a few minutes, writing and sipping, each of us trapped in the little worlds of our pages; except mine intersects hers at every point. I’d recognize her anywhere, whether it be in the poorly charted depths of my manuscript, or in confused dreams close to dawn, or here, in the warm light filtering in through the cafe’s long row of windows. The pen moves across my page on its own, scene falling away as I s
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second hand stores!
it's Hans free now..
Old Neeeeiiiiighvy
10+10 is twenty and 11+11 is twenty too
A buck-an-ear!
I Thank ye kind Matey for the booty! I be truly overwhelmed! Thank you!
Holy cow! Thank you everyone for the upvotes and awards! I wasn’t expecting this!
He should have a good vowel movement. His next diaper change could spell disaster though.
Making it all the way home and realizing that they forgot one of the containers:
Riceless
I smell her before I see her, subtle hints of lavender and fresh cut flowers pulling my gaze up from the struggling pace of the story I’m writing. I lose myself in periwinkle blue shot through with a mote of vibrant emerald green. An awkward second passes before I realize that the striking eyes I’m staring into are attached to a young woman, and that she’s said something I’ve managed to miss.
Her uncertain smile parts, asking “I’m sorry, do you mind?” for what must have been the second time.
“Not at all,” I say, barely keeping the shock out of my voice, though I can do nothing about the way my hand shakes atop my manuscript.
She looks nothing like I wrote her, which is to say she’s exactly as I imagined. The woman I’ve written about in stops and starts spread across years carefully balances a small, flowery notebook atop an iced latte as she sits down. A stray lock of dark hair falls artlessly from a quick, messy bun, framing her soft featured face. I get a sense of comforting blueness, a sky blue sundress that seems to invite the breeze, the darker blue spine of her notebook. The periwinkle blue of her impossible, unmistakable eyes. Eyes that had watched over me as I agonized over the vagaries of plot and sub plot, discarding outline after outline in the process.
Eyes that had seemed so completely her and yet so impossibly cliched that when it came time to describe them I’d simply written “blue,” and powered on through the rest of the chapter.
I glance around the River Birch Cafe, trying to catalog the empty seats. There aren’t many, but she’d still had options at other occupied tables, and as long as I’d been coming here to struggle through my work nobody had ever sat down across from me.
It takes her a few moments to settle in. She fidgets uncomfortably, arranging the flowered notebook just so while she sips her latte. She flips it open to a blank first page and then makes a face, tapping her fingers in frustration until her eyes alight on the cup to my left with the single oddly ornate, birch tree engraved pen sticking out of it.
We sit there for a few minutes, writing and sipping, each of us trapped in the little worlds of our pages; except mine intersects hers at every point. I’d recognize her anywhere, whether it be in the poorly charted depths of my manuscript, or in confused dreams close to dawn, or here, in the warm light filtering in through the cafe’s long row of windows. The pen moves across my page on its own, scene falling away as I s
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