back when i was in second grade, my elementary school organised a school market with every class selling their crafts for charity. the contribution of my class were hand-sized ceramic frogs we made in art class. each one of us made one of them to be sold for five euros a piece (this is important later). the quality of the frog i made varies drastically based on who is telling the story, and for reasons that will become very apparent later there is no way to check, but i stand by the fact that it was average looking, if a bit wonky.
the day of the market arrived, and all frogs were bought within minutes, snatched up by enthusiastic and proud parents. all except - mine. because my mother hates spending money on unnecessary things, and she hates children’s crafts even more. so she - loudly and vehemently - refused, in her thick eastern european accent, to “spend five euros on an ugly frog”.
i will never forget seeing my ceramic frog alone on the slightly wet cardboard, surrounded by the imprints left behind by the already sold frogs. all the while other parents are getting more and more agitated, trying to get my mother to put the frog out of its misery. eventually, she budged, and spend five euros on a wonky frog. she was absolutely furious about this.
so furious, in fact, that when we came home to where my father was remodelling the kitchen, she WALLED IT IN. that’s right. she cask of amadillo’d that poor ceramic fool. put him into the open wall and slapped concrete over it faster than my poor seven year old self or my dad could protest. out of pure anger over loosing five euros. and that’s where it remains, until this day.
my mom hates when this story is brought up, which is why we bring it up all the time. she also thinks she what she did was right, because “do the other parents know where the frog is? no. only your creation is safe. because i love you.” morally, i would disagree, but on a pure factual basis, she has a point.
i made her another ceramic frog for her last brithday, which was not buried like some pharaoh, and everytime guests compliment it my brother loudly goes “oh you should see the other frog he made” and when they ask to see it, he points at the wall. this is hilarious to him and infuriating for my mother. and that’s the frog story.
people in the notes are strongly divided on whether this is tragic or hilarious. well let me tell you a secret. it is both. all the best stories are
i like how in a theatre time and space are necessarily metaphorical. i don’t like how plays always have to begin with someone walking onstage and talking. too many directors try to work around this by having someone walk onstage and brood in silence for a moment before talking. this is worse.
If you were directing a play, how would it begin?
bagpipes at the back of the auditorium so everyone turns their heads and when they’ve turned back around the play has already begun
remember, it’s imperative to turn your aesthetic preferences into moral ones. you can’t just dislike neutral colors, or glass-and-steel skyscrapers, or flat design, they have to be symbols of neoliberal capitalism in decay. it’s incredibly important that you make sure everybody knows that the only reason anyone could like the things you don’t like is that they’re an empty shell of a person.
My most free market opinion is that all regulations on food trucks and cottage food industries besides standard safety and labor stuff are unjustifiable. Big Restaurant uses the law to wipe out all small businesses that fill in the gaps in their market and they hate that immigrants sharing a truck can easily outcompete them every single time. One Taco Truck Per Corner and I am not kidding
This is me with zoning regulations & food vendors. Every single townhouse in an American city should have a babushka selling out of her front door pierogis that she makes in small batches on Wednesday mornings with three tables of seating surrounded by orthodox lawn gnomes that gets lines around the block, or a retired librarian running a weekend cafe out of his living room that serves everything swimming in cardamom with midcentury art coffee table books at every seat that anyone who collects vinyl in the area knows is the hot first date spot.
Every day you visit a block of residential homes and not a single one is selling donuts you have strayed further from God’s light.
I just wanna buy ribs from the old black man in my street that smokes weed and listens to avant garde jazz
This is literally the American Dream
Eating 2$ street tacos on a plastic table in the parking lot of a liquor store is the only thing that makes Los Angeles even vaguely hospitable to human life.
I have this picture of sasuke on my phone that chase and I call “safe for work sasuke” and it’s because it’s the tallest picture in my camera roll so whenever he sends me any nsfw stuff when I’m in public I just send sfw sasuke and he takes up the whole screen
if I were dracula I would simply let my three weed smoking girlfriends do whatever they wanted tbh. let them eat that wretched little englishman and doordash another one
it took me 3 times reading this post to realized that (wild) meant living in the wild and wasn’t just a casual remark on the longevity of these organisms
okay i looked into this and apparently this isnt even just dracula the wolfman and frankenstein’s monster like. they’re DESCENDANTS of them who are normal guys who turn into a vampire a werewolf etc. they do this to “atone” for the actions of their ancestors.
ALT
this is them normally and they apparently transform by slapping their hands together and shouting WACKO and this is called the “drak whack.” dracula is alive too. they call him Big D.