Lavender blender.

I’m sharing this because it’s eaten up more than an hour of my life already. The responses are simultaneously hilarious and sad. I haven’t contributed because I couldn’t think of any children’s-age-level facts that I learned later in life, only knowledge that came to me late.

In the 8th grade, one of the kids in English class told the teacher, “Get laid.”  The whole class was stunned, except for me. I didn’t know what getting laid meant. Judging by how the interpreter signed the phrase, I figured it was another way of the kid saying the teacher was a dog who needed to be put to sleep. I asked a friend in class what it meant, and her explanation was, “You know, like, get laid!”

Now I know that sick pets don’t go to the vet to get laid. It was a choice insult: implying the teacher was sexually repressed because he found her demeanor unpleasant. That’s… reasonable?

No chance that kid grew up to be anything but a douche bag. As for me, I grew up to be moderately polite at best, confusing at most.

Continue reading “Lavender blender.”

That escalated quickly.

It was shaping up to be a slow week when it seemed that trying Icelandic yogurt (skyr) was the most exciting thing I did all week. The thrill lay within my lactose intolerance: Is this going to cause gastrointestinal distress? Will it be worth it? (It was delicious.)

Then on Friday night, I started painting the modeling clay tongue that I made earlier in the week. I’d pierced it with two barbells while the clay was still soft. To make painting easier, I removed the jewelry and placed them in one of the wells of my paint tray so that they wouldn’t roll off my adjustable desk. I forgot about this when cleaning up: I dumped the tray in the kitchen sink and washed the leftover paint down the drain, along with the barbells.

I was not high when I did this. Truthfully, I hadn’t realized what I’d done until I was high.

My Pilea Mollis serving Little Shop of Horrors realness.
Continue reading “That escalated quickly.”