The national anthem for the Bruins game is killing me right now.
Just the crowd singing.
Just the crowd singing.
or blow limbs off of people raising money for great causes.
Step forward with your cause, you pathetic psychopaths. Let’s hear your best argument.
Let us all weigh your cause against an eight year old’s life.
t-shirts on Threadless?
I want to get some t-shirts, but also want to support people and shit.
The person I’m replacing leaves tomorrow and it’s a complex position. I. Am. Freaking. The. Fuck. Out.
I have shit scribbled on my crotch, there’s so much to remember.
I’m going to puke.
This is not normal.
You guys just need to wear some more flair!
THUNDER SNOW here. Thunder fucking snow. Thunder snow.
The most badass snow that there is.
She was cute. Not hot, but cute. We were in first grade, so not being hot isn’t really a knock on her. Curly brown hair, a little button nose, and having a twin set her apart from the other girls. My stomach churned when I looked at her.
I made Valentines for everyone. The little silly ones that came In a book that you tore along their perferated edges to reveal their curved shapes. I wrote my name on each one but paid special attention to Heather’s. I can’t remember if I wrote anything more on it than my name but if not. I had wanted to and the desire was within the pencil strokes of my name, at the very least. I wanted to tell her so much. Not that a first grader can tell a girl much more than her hair smells nice, or that Hot Wheels are better than any other toy car brand, but if those were the things I would have been able to convey, I deeply wanted to. To her. Only her.
I had a chocolate covered marshmallow heart to give to her. I waited for my turn to walk around the room and hand out my cards, barely noticing when others placed their varied Valentine’s on my desk (one of which was from a curly haired blonde girl named Sarah who confessed her love for me since first grade senior year. I should have noticed Sarah more back then). Finally the time came and I rushed around the room, nervous and trembling in anticipation of Heather’s smile and our future together. Stopping at her desk I handed her the generic, mass produced piece of printed paper with my name clumsily written upon it (and possibly more—these facts are lost to time). Then I held out the chocolate covered marshmallow heart for her to see she was more than a mass produced thing in my eyes. She looked me square in the eyes, folded her arms and coldly stated—loud enough for the entire class to hear— “I don’t like chocolate and I don’t like marshmallow!”
That’s when I knew that Valentine’s Day was the worst day of the year.
(I like to have a chocolate covered marshmallow heart every Valentine’s Day to celebrate never having lived my life with Heather the heartbreaker.)