Yesterday at work these two 12yo boys came through my line and i’m instantly like. oh Boy. Because solo children at a grocery store are always forces of chaos, good or bad
But thankfully these ones were totally pleasant, and when i asked if they wanted a receipt one of them pulled out a random fuckin receipt from his bag and asked “Do YOU???” and y’all, i lost my shit… What a power move. When will i ever be this funny
Kate and I just said, simultaneously, in the same volume and tone, “woof”
Kate has a letter board that she’s apparently been using for vine references and she and Emma are currently displaying “kinkshaming is my kink”
me, getting ready for my senior year of college: I can’t zip my backpack up all the way until the last moment because my stuffed animals are in there and I feel bad because they can’t breathe
Oh my God I’m not sure of the accuracy of this scale but I made one anyways.
1: Jane Austen. Theoretically Romantic, mostly a clever satirist more interested in the novel as the perfect vehicle for social commentary than in poetry for capturing emotion. Very little chance of swooning and/or dramatic death. A very safe spot on the Romanticism scale.
2: Dorothy Wordsworth: Actually a Romantic, though not excessively so! Enjoy your long walks in the country. Keep those diaries. Your brother can mine them for publishable material until people consider them finally worthy of academic interest a century or two later.
3: Wordsworth. May result in later becoming annoyingly conservative but mostly harmless. Go ahead and wander lonely as a cloud. Gaze upon that ruined abbey.
4: Charlotte Turner Smith. Recover that English sonnet and transform it into a medium that mostly expresses sorrow! Help establish Gothic conventions! Have what Wordsworth called a true feeling for rural England! Die in penury and be forgotten by the middle of the nineteenth century!
5: Blake. ?? Who even knows man. Talk to angels. Create your own goddamn religion. Confuse all of your contemporaries.
6: Mary Shelly. Go ahead and run off with that unhappily married poet who took you on dates to your mother’s grave, but this may result in carrying your husband’s calcified heart around in a fragment of his last manuscript the rest of your life. But also, arguably inventing sci-fi as a genre… so that’s some consolation.
7: John Keats: listen to that nightingale but be forewarned: you will die of TB in Rome and everyone will mock you for dying of bad criticism instead of, you know, infectious disease.
8: Coleridge. May result in never finishing a poem and a severe opium addiction.
9: Percy Shelly. May result in being expelled from Oxford and in premonitions of your own death by drowning.
10: Full Byron. Never go full Byron.
14.75: Thomas Chatterton. someone makes a callout post? drink acid. be such a pretty corpse that a painting of your trashed apartment and floppy carcass ends up in the Tate. no one remembers your poetry, but everyone remembers how extra you were. basically this is what happens when you go full byron and nobody stops you.
as much as I love the kid, hanschen’s taste in art is objectively bad
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