bookwormactor

[bookwormactor]

[bookwormactor]

i think it’s so funny when men sit and like their pants rise up and you can see their ankles like even when they have socks on i see that and i’m like oh someone’s feeling a bit like a vivacious slut hmm ?

[bookwormactor]

I wanna be one of the KFC workers in the Pentagon. What is that like. Imagine having that level of security clearance so you can make people chicken on their lunch breaks. When Marx talked about praxis this is what he meant. Does the Pentagon KFC hit different? Imagine being 16 and getting to tell your friends that you work in the Pentagon after school. I want to boil myself in the Pentagon KFC deep fryers

[bookwormactor]

[bookwormactor]

[bookwormactor]

I was on a bus once when this guy tapped my knee and pointed out that we were the only two people not looking at their phones and then asked what I was thinking about. 

sometimes when I’m having a bad day I relive the moment I saw the his manic pixi dream girl hopes draining from his eyes and fill up with confusion and boredom as I explained to him I was thinking about which Rupaul’s Drag Race challenges Frank n Furter would preform best in and locked him into the conversation until it was my stop

[bookwormactor]

if you refuse to get the vaccine the government should sneak into your room after you go to sleep and take out the little chip in your neck that makes the supermarket doors open when you go near them

[bookwormactor]

it hurts to watch other people live your dreams

[bookwormactor]

when two musicians sing into the same microphone and lean in very close to each other… like omg are you guys gonna kiss now to relieve the homoerotic tension?😳

[bookwormactor]

[bookwormactor]

you know when somebody says this that they mean either a short amount of time, a long amount of time, or maybe just neither

[bookwormactor]

You know how canaries were historically brought into coal mines, because if the mine was full of carbon monoxide the canary would die first and the miners would be able to escape before they died too?

I just found the greatest thing.

This is a canary resuscitator.

When the miners notice the canary getting sick with carbon monoxide poisoning, they can close that circular hatch so no more gas gets into the canary cage, and open the valve on that oxygen tank to keep the canary breathing. In other words, they made a spacesuit for birds.

By immediately giving the canary access to clean air, the miners can save it from the poison. The bird lives. To be clear, this is not for economic purposes, this was specifically created because the miners felt bad and wanted to save the bird.

Isn’t that just the perfect demonstration of what humans are like? We started sacrificing small creatures to save ourselves, and then felt bad and spent our valuable resources on saving the critters too. Because yeah the canary was the only way to test for CO, but it’s a living creature too, dammit!

[bookwormactor]

When this thing runs, a cartoon sound effect plays

[bookwormactor]

occasional posts from users

[bookwormactor]

[bookwormactor]

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.

[bookwormactor]

i am, as the poets say, losing my grip on sanity