My Name Is Not Egg - Tumblr Posts - Page 3
Welcome to the Year of The Egg
Riddle me this. Why has pumpkins spice things, specifically coffee, become an unequivocally femmine thing?? I’m not particularly upset about thing, I’m just confused.
Back in the ye olde world, you didn’t just get to have cinnamon or nugmeg or cloves or ginger or allspice. No. You had to fight for them. And pumkins. They’re from North Amnerca. So youcouldn’t even have pumpkin spice until after 1492 or whenever. Because the Europeans had the spice but nit the pumpkin.
And to get the spice, they had to sail to eastern Asia and probably die. Do you even understand how many people died for spices? You can have nutmeg whenever you want, but Jonnathan Williamson in 1368 had to leave his wife, kids, and pronalny lover togo sail to Indonisea with no garenteed chance of survival to maybe get nutmeg ad maybe get stabbed. He didnt know.
There were teams of men going to varipous plaes around the world in search for the spice and the pumpkin, but we havent even toched the coffee asspect. Because that was anpther thing they had to get. COFFEE WAS NOT INTRODUCED RO EUROPE UNTIL 1526. There was no chance of a pumpkij spice until AFTER 1525. And if you wanted a lil’ whipped cream on the pumpkin spice, you ha to wait until it came to your country and the earliest was Italy in 1549. And they ye olde Italians probably had to die to figure that out to.
Anyways, pumkin spice is a very boy consuable and they disowned it. So yeah. I don’t really know why I wrote this, but it felt importanr.
Today, Sergei told me that she just realized that it’s called “stuffing,” because it is used to stuff a turkey. She is nearly old enough to legally consume alcohol. This was after she tried to cut a pie whilst holding the blade of the knife.
I do not appreciate the utter sass I receive from inanimate objects. Sir, you are a table. LEAVE ME THE SWEET AND SOUR FUCK ALONE.
I lay here, in my bed, and I think about a very traumatic moment in my life that I think about a few times a month.
Sergei had recently graduated and she had a boyfriend. Shocking, I know, but we’re not at the scary part yet.
Said boyfriend would often leave Sergei gifts in her room. Her room is in the basement. The basement has a shared living room next to the Sergei room. I was in the living room. I am drawing something stupid for a friend and I hear what sounds like my mother walking down the basement stairs. I prepare myself to say something stupid and I make eye contact with a lanky, eighteen-year-old man child and he has the AUDACITY to say, “Boo,” and NORHING else. I was speechless.
I do not like the fact that that man child walks like my mother. Luckily, Sergei is no longer with him and it only happened once.
My phone recently updated and it’s giving me the time using a twenty-four hour clock. I am not too used to reading the time like that. So like the go-getter I am, I have been struggling to do basic addition and subtraction rather than just changing it back.
Today, while drinking my coffee, I casually remarked that the ratio of Tiger King ornaments to actually religious ornaments on our tree is equal. My mother found this wildly amusing.
I also noted that the cross that is tearing at the seams (literally) hangs where the cats can reach and the Jesus fish (I don’t know what it’s actually called) is in the back, also in cat reach while Joe Exotic and Carol Baskin hang proudly at the to and in the center.
My mother seems to believe that the top is the safest part of the tree. She has seen many a tree fall and the top is the first to go. I explained that the middle sides were the safest and why, but to no avail.
Any way, if the tree were to fall, Joe and Carol would be the first to go and Jesus would survive.
(No one in my house is Christian or has been Christian in less than twenty years, so I don’t even know why we do Christmas.)
In the sixth grade, I had a very religious teacher which was ironic because he was teaching evolution and ancient history and he kept making it seem like WE were the ones that homo habilis was offending.
When we got to Egypt, he told us we were watching a movie and we were all excited because we were eleven. The movie was The Prince of Egypt. And he kept pointing out a bunch of stuff that he didn’t agree with and said it was wrong, but we didn’t care. My eleven-year-old ass was having the time of my life with the Disney-esque animation and fabulous songs.
I just realized YESTERDAY that it was just a wee bit strange that we were watching the most religious DreamWorks movie ever in the same class that was teaching evolution a few months before.
I forgot how excited little kids get for parade candy. Like dude, you’re hyped? I am also hyped, I’m in a fucking parade. And I get to choose how much candy YOU get.
I was thinking back to when my Sergei and I shared a room. It sucked for so many reasons, but none more so than the lighting at night.
She’d have the T.V. on, with multiple strips of LED lights, seven lamps on, and strobing globe lights while my insomniatic self was already fighting for my life to sleep. And she’d fall asleep with all of it on, so I’d be up at two AM and not be able to sleep or turn the entire pseudo sun off.
Now that the room is my temple for myself, I cover the windows and I use one of two fun light strips at a time to light the entire room. I don’t like the light.
I have become too powerful. I go throw guns and swords around for two and a half hours and then I drive. They should not be just letting me do this.
There is this guy I like next to who wears these dirty, ugly, slightly broken, yellow Crocs every. Fucking. Day. That’s not the issue. The issue is that bro’s feet are hardly in the shoe. He’s really walkin’ around, stepping on the sides. If you’re gonna wear the shoes, actually WEAR the shoes.
Croc Boy wasn’t wearing the Crocs today?? My life is a lie.
I love being questioned by the police at seven AM on a Monday when I’m just trying to get to my algebra class.
Here’s your annual reminder to wear your new, Christmas clothing so Yule Cat doesn’t get you. <3
I hate how people have the audacity to disrespect anyone in show choir/color guard/theater/an improv group. Like, sweaty… I don’t meant to be the bearer of bad news but they’re literally going to wait until you get into a horrible accident and yank on your exposed nerves. They are going to comfort your grandchildren when you succumb to your age. They are going to personally walk you down to hell to make sure the devil gets his lil’ disappointment back unscathed. You are not special. The performers will always come out on top.
I have given up on trying to read the twenty-four hour clock. I do not know what time it is most of the time. Time is a construct anyway. I’m living the way the good lord, Ross Federman, intended. Timelessly.
My brother just threw a fit over the fact that I was going to cheat in a board game. He said I would “ruin his chances,” or winning. We are on the same team. He seems to think I’m going to intentionally make us lose.
I have, once again, found myself thinking about how my music teacher in elementary school was a creep and some of the evidence that was used to get him fired were a bunch of pictures of elementary-school-aged me in class. Nothing crazy. Just stalkery pictures of me on Kelly Seger’s crusty iPad.
And he’d dump his kid on me if he ever needed to bring her in with him. (We were the same age and she didn’t go to my school.)
He also bragged about how he knocked a kid’s tooth out by flicking his favorite xylophone mallet into her face.
He made us have a six-month-long David Bowie unit that wasn’t in the curriculum after he died. And don’t get me wrong, I have always loved David Bowie, but Kelly Seger took his death REALLY hard.
Bro now reaches out to past students and tries to get them to record songs in his private studio.
This dude was a literal cartoon villain. He WAS Mr. Crocker.