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as someone with a bachelor’s degree in english, i am inexpressibly tired of people telling me to get highly specific jobs that often require highly specific degrees. “just go write for a magazine!” you need a journalism degree for that. “just teach!” you need a teaching certificate, and also fuck you. “just go work at a tutoring place!” tutoring children with learning disabilities, which make up the majority of the clientele at those places, requires not only a teaching certificate but a specialized master’s degree. “just go work at a library!” you need a master’s degree in library science to be a librarian. it is actually a highly skilled and extremely competitive field. you don’t just “go work at a library,” you train for years in the vain hope that you will get one of handful of available jobs. “just go work at a library.” the nerve. the unmitigated gall. “just go work at a library.” ugh.
serious question, what can you do with a bachelor’s in english?
take you in a fistfight, that’s for damn sure
Okay but why the “and also fuck you” about teaching? I’m having a hard time coming up with an interpretation for that other than “how dare you, teaching is only for idiots who can’t do anything else”
hi! since we’re on the subject of teachers let’s remind you of an old mnemonic device. when you assume something, you make an ass out of u and me!
I didn’t assume, I asked what you meant. I tried to think of a kinder interpretation for about 5 solid minutes and I couldn’t, so I asked for clarification. A friend of mine was nice enough to message me saying she interpreted it more as “fuck you for thinking teaching is that easy,” which a) makes sense, and b) I never would have come up with on my own, hence why I asked. I was a bit defensive while asking, because as I said, the only interpretation I could personally think of was extremely rude & aggressive toward teachers like myself, but at no point did I claim that had to be your intention or insult you or attack you for it or anything else. I just asked a question. I’m sorry it came off otherwise.
i’m gonna level with you this reply is really frustrating to me because your original comment was really insulting and made me really mad but now you’re using technicalities to make me look like the aggressor so i’m even more pissed off and even more likely to lash out at you. i had a sarcastic quip queued up about how my response didn’t actually say you’d assumed anything and its easy to hide behind technicalities to make yourself look innocent, but i’m tired and before i had to deal with you i was having a good day. so i’m going to go back to having a good day.
Cool, and I’m gonna level with you that your first reply made me cry in the bathtub for like 20 minutes because I couldn’t understand why you attacked me for asking you to clarify a part of your post that sounded really shitty to me. I still have no idea what part of my question came off as insulting, I was as polite about it as I could be while admitting that my hackles were up. But I’m sorry that didn’t come through. And I genuinely don’t know what else to say here.
i really don’t buy that you’re sorry for anything. because if you were sorry you’d ditch the wounded gazelle gambit and quit ruining my day. like i’ve given you multiple chances now to prove that you’re sorry and you haven’t taken a single one of them.
Hey @thenarator, I’m gonna level with you and say that it doesn’t really seem like @alisonleeh has anything to apologize for. And judging by your responses to them and others, it very much seems like you’re a literal trash person (a person made of actual trash), and I am just overwhelmingly grateful that apparently you lack the ability or intention (either one, I don’t care!) to get a teaching certificate, because you definitely don’t seem like you could handle it.
ruunemagick-deactivated20200707 asked: miss you!
I miss you! Also, you should take the gig :-)
The cracked earth holds memories of past lives more easily than any water. Even now, each line tells its stories, and pulls him back to another time.
Minkowski united time and space; he doesn’t understand the specifics of what that means, but neither does the child who wears his face, riding past on a bicycle, too caught up in thoughts of his first crush to concern himself with non-Euclidean spacetime. In the distance, a garage long abandoned is once again filled with the clamor of good work.
Time travel tales always connect with him, and this one is no exception. “Gather ‘round, friends, and I’ll tell you of hot dogs eaten by fire-lit faces, and forgotten fears chased away. Of bellies filled with cake and laughter, and pockets that always somehow held one more quarter. A world still small enough to reach only as far as the scent of popcorn and the sound of an old engine, waiting to be brought back to life.”
Mark pulls over immediately, of course. The blood that’s dripped onto his pants has left a broken trail from his nose, and his eyes are still adjusting from the impact of the air bag.
“Are you ok?!” Susan shouts, probably louder than necessary.
“It’s not supposed to do that,” Mark replies, to a question no one asked. “I…I checked; that’s not how they work.”
“Clearly that is how they work,” Susan answers, quieter now, through gritted teeth, “and I told you this would happen if you didn’t stop drumming on the steering wheel so violently.”
That isn’t how they work, but the 7/8 shift of Tom Sawyer can be tricky. There are a few things even the gods consider magical, and they are not above defending them from fools.
Jacket steadies one hand against the fleshy part of the man’s shoulder. The fleshy part is all of it, and has been ever since Jacket kicked in the door and found the crowbar on the first floor.
Doors open too easily here, but they close the same way, and if the crowbar thrown across the room didn’t take down the second man, Jacket is certain he can find something to use to finish the job. And the next one. And the one after.
There are an infinite number of ways to skin a cat, given sufficient quantities of cats.
This one time, he fell asleep with wet hair and woke up looking like a superhero, so Alfred believes he can be forgiven for trying to force his Ozymandian dreams every night. His eyes close on visions of rescue and daring, last minute salvations for those he loves, and a secret past, at long last revealed.
He wakes up and finds the mirror. “Cowlick again,” he mutters, ticking a box in his chart, ignoring the empty squares beside “spontaneous color change” and “ability to fly.”
Again the corrective process begins: the cabinet opens, the product is removed, and Alfred begins undoing.
It happened overnight. Or maybe it didn’t; maybe he was too busy counting hours and all the items necessary for a perfect lawn to notice the light sticking around long enough to call dinnertime by sundial. When you arrive back from the north, you can’t not notice it, so short the days had been, and when it happens again, years later, you can’t not notice that you really haven’t changed at all.
This city had never existed without her before, and now he’s left wondering what it’s still doing here.
The snow is glass shredding the tops of bare feet. It can be a metaphor if you’d like but, seriously, that shit cuts deep. The ground ice less so. Staying beneath, it fights against a sole long since calloused and unmoved.
Ok, that was metaphor.
None of this does anything to explain the sandals. But he can’t give them up, the last tenuous connection to a past otherwise forgotten.
Everything can be a metaphor, if you’d like.
From the sky, some of the trees look like eyes of a smile. Maybe we’ve yet to discover life on Mars, but, down here, he always allows the excess water to drip onto his feet, toes exposed between the straps of sandals.
They don’t call him Mickey the Weight because he’s obese; they call him Mickey the weight because he has the ability to turn even the most innocuous conversation into a weighty discussion. They’d call him Mickey the Buzzkill, if Ryan hadn’t killed that guy with the buzz saw back in ‘99.
“Where do you guys want to eat?” asks Skinny Lou.
“How about at Abel’s Cafe, over on the east side? Abel makes a killer omelette.” someone suggests.
“I don’t mind eating at Abel’s as long as you guys are ok with tacitly supporting the east-side gentrification pushing thousands of people from their homes to make room for condos and coffeshops and breakfast cafes.”
Everyone sighs, rolling their eyes.
“Look, I’m not judging anyone,” Mickey the Weight continues, “I just want to make sure we know what our money is supporting. If you think your omelette is worth the social cost, then, sure, let’s go to Abel’s.”
Ok, secretly they call him Mickey the Weight because no one likes him, and he’s fat.
RJ still asks to be called Becky. Or she would, if she was permitted enough time to go out and meet people. She might be 28 or 30 or 35 years old now. If she wasn’t so particular about details the specifics wouldn’t matter, but that’s how she got this job in the first place. The dark secret that The Girl Scouts of America don’t want anyone to know is that SOMEONE has to make those cookies.
And there are a lot of cookies to make.
She still receives a patch for meeting her quotas every now and then. There was a time when she would wear them.