On the fifth day of travel across the Atlantic Ocean, we saw the gigantic buildings of New York. America was before us. But when we had been in New York for a week and had begun, as we thought, to understand America, we were suddenly and unexpectedly told that New York isn’t America at all.
Then we went to Washington, being firmly convinced that the capital of the United States would, undoubtedly, be America. We spent a day there and by evening we had fallen in love with that purely American city. However, that very evening we were told that on no account could Washington be considered America. we were told that it is the city of government clerks, while America is something completely different.
Bewildered, we went to Hartford, a city in the state of Connecticut, where the great American writer Mark Twain spent his mature years. Much to our horror, the locals announced in unison that Hartford isn’t exactly the real America either. They couldn’t say for certain where the actual America is located. Some said that the real America is the southern states, while others maintained that it is the western ones. A few didn’t say anything at all–they just pointed their fingers vaguely into space.
and you liked me cause i was the taco bell
but you touched me and suddenly i was the combination pizza hut and taco bell
and decided the combination pizza hut and taco bell
just wasnt for you
“It’s a little shaken up, but it should be okay—thank God,” said NRA
executive vice president Wayne LaPierre, who appeared visibly distressed
while kneeling down next to the assault-style rifle and gently placing
his hand on the stock. “I’ve just been worried sick since I heard about
the incident. It looks like it was dropped pretty hard, and it’s barely
got any bullets left, but at least it’s resting safely now. I might just
sleep here tonight to keep an eye on it.” LaPierre told reporters that
he would do everything he could to help the rifle return home and get
back working again soon.
My roommate, who’s a kitchen manager, inherited a bunch of cookbooks from the owner moving and was looking through them for inspiration.
One of them was like “cookbook for a cocktail party”, circa late ‘60s or early ‘70s, and it’s shocking how many of the recipes involve near-zero technique and rely on some “exotic” ingredient - avocado, fresh (not canned) fruit, remotely tolerable wine - that’s absolutely trivial today.
In 1930, the local Hondo Lions Club erected the now somewhat famous sign reading “This is God’s Country, Don’t Drive Through It Like Hell” at the city limits with the intention of slowing down those speeding while traveling through town. Later, in the 1940s the sign was changed to “This is God’s Country, Please Don’t Drive Through It Like Hell” to satisfy those in the town who were displeased with the tone of the old sign.
self care is actually getting in fights with randoms in dark alleys
No self care is stuff like taking a bubble bath or putting on a lot of makeup if you like it or taking a nice warm nap and stuff like that basically.
self care is the burning heat when rage washes over you. self care is when you feel the bones crack under your powerful fists. self care is the fear in your enemies eyes
of the local toughs who showed up on occasion, some of them left after going through one session and getting their ass handed to them, some started coming as students (and once they got some technique down, those guys were brutal), some started sending their kids.
The one wild-haired guy, IIRC the dojo was finishing up a kids’ class and getting ready to start an adult one, and sensei had pulled his back recently and wasn’t going in too hard, so they invited him to sit in on a class a/o come back some other time and nothing came of it.
y’all think this is cute and fun looking but as a bamf that drove 3,000+ miles across the country I can tell you that its not. When you get on I90 and your GPS tells you to go straight for the next 450miles and you realize you could watch the entire Braveheart movie twice before you see anything other than cow pastures or corn fields you beg for death. I saw so much weird ass shit from towns with horses that wander like stray dogs and places where people say weird shit like “Sure dont!”. America is fucking bizzaro and a trip like this is only for the most Mad Max-iest of mother fuckers.
