“I want to be with you,
it is as simple,
and as complicated as that.”
– Charles Bukowski (via yesdarlingido)
– Charles Bukowski (via yesdarlingido)
NO FUCKING WAY. I’M DONE.
This is the most accurate thing I’ve ever seen in my ENTIRE LIFE
after reblogging this i opened up a card my great aunt gave me it has money in itIt could be a complete coincidence but I reblogged this yesterday and toda I fouund $40 at the fruit maket
I shit out thousands of dollars in pennies right now I am shitting out pennies this is happening why please help me
Hogwarts Weekly. Inside the Big Seven.
Help Our Turtle Friends!!!
NO NO NO NO
SO VERY WRONG
LISTEN ALL MY FELLOW FRIENDS: I’VE VOLUNTEERED AT THE NEW ENGLAND WILDLIFE CENTER, A PLACE WHERE PEOPLE FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD TRAVEL TO INTERN AT, FOR MORE THAN YEAR AND THIS IS SO VERY WRONG
IN CASE YA’LL DIDN’T KNOW, TURTLE ARE CONNECTED TO THEIR SHELLS, AND PICKING THEM UP LIKE IS SHOWN IN THE PICTURE CAN SEVERELY DAMAGE THEIR SPINE, ESPECIALLY IF YOU JERK THEM AROUND
SO LET ME TELL YOU A THING
IF YOU SEE A TURTLE IN THE ROAD, STOP YOUR CAR FAR ENOUGH AWAY THAT THE TURTLE CAN STILL BE SEEN THROUGH YOUR WINDSHIELD.
IF YOU’RE ON A NON-BUSY ROAD AND/OR THE TURTLE ISN’T FLIPPED ON IT’S SHELL (WHICH BY THE WAY WHAT THE FUCK TURTLE DON’T ACTUALLY FALL ON THEIR BACKS LIKE THAT PRETTY MUCH EVER ESPECIALLY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD SO I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN THAT PICTURE) GET A STICK OR JUST USE YOUR FOOT TO GENTLY NUDGE THE TURTLE’S REAR IN THE DIRECTION IT’S GOING IN. THOSE FUCKERS ARE FAST WHEN THEY WANT TO BE.
IF PICKING UP THE TURTLE IS NECESSARY, APPROACH IT FROM THE SIDE, MAKE SURE IT SEES YOU, THEN GO AROUND THE BACK. ALL TURTLES HAVE JAWS LIKE THE VIRGIN ASSHOLE OF SATAN, EVEN IF IT’S NOT A SNAPPER, AND YOU DO NOT WANT THOSE CLAMPERS ON YOUR HAND OR ARM. BELIEVE ME.
PICK THAT SHELLED CUTENESS UP LIKE A HAMBURGER, ONE HAND ON EACH SIDE OF THE SHELL HALFWAY BETWEEN FRONT AND BACK LEGS, FINGERS ON THE BOTTOM SHELL, THUMBS ON THE TOP SHELL. KEEP THE TURTLE AS HORIZONTAL AS YOU CAN AS YOU CARRY IT TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD.
DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT BRING THE TURTLE TO A “SAFE HABITAT.” DISPLACING ANY SPECIES OF WILDLIFE LOWERS THEIR CHANCE OF SURVIVAL DUE TO NOT KNOWING WHERE THE FUCK THEY ARE. MAKE SURE THE TURTLE IS SOMEWHERE AROUND TEN PACES AWAY FROM ANY KIND OF HUMAN CONTRAPTION, INCLUDING HOUSES AND SIDEWALKS, AND THEN LEAVE HIM TO HIS DEVICES. THEY’RE NOT STUPID, THEY’RE NOT GONNA TURN AROUND AND WALK RIGHT BACK WHERE THEY CAME FROM.
THINGS TO REMEMBER:
-DON’T PICK UP BY THE TAIL. IT CAN BREAK THE SPINE.
-DON’T MOVE TO ANOTHER HABITAT.
-DON’T TAKE ‘EM HOME. THAT’S ACTUALLY ILLEGAL IN MOST STATES.
-DON’T PUT YOUR HANDS ANYWHERE NEAR THE MOUTH.
-BE WARY OF THEIR FEET, THEIR CLAWS CAN BE SHARP.
-WASH YOUR HANDS AFTER, REPTILES CAN CARRY SALMONELLA AND WHILE IT’S PRETTY MUCH IMPOSSIBLE TO CONTRACT IT UNLESS YOU SUCK ON THEIR CLOACA IT’S BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY.
-DON’T MOVE THE TURTLE TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD THEY JUST CAME FROM. WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU DO THAT. THEY WANT TO GO THE WAY THEY WERE GOING, GENIUS.
-IF THE TURTLE IS ON A HIGHWAY, IT’S PROBABLY BEST TO PICK THEM UP- AS DESCRIBED ABOVE- AND PUT THEM IN A BOX FOR TRANSPORT SINCE THEY’RE SQUIRMY LITTLE BITCHES.
-SNAPPERS ARE JUST AS IMPORTANT AS OTHER TURTLES, DON’T IGNORE THEM BECAUSE THEY LOOK LIKE DEMON CHILD OF A T-REX AND BOX TURTLE. NO MATTER HOW BUSY THE ROAD IS, THOUGH, THE RULE OF THUMB IS DON’T PICK THEM UP IF THEY’RE BIGGER THAN YOUR HEAD. STOP TRAFFIC AND NUDGE THEM ALONG. PEOPLE MAY BE PISSED AT YOU, BUT AT LEAST YOU’LL KEEP YOUR FINGERS.
WIELD YOUR NEW FOUND KNOWLEDGE FREQUENTLY, MY FELLOW TURTLE SAVIORS.
it is important that you read this shining example of wildlife safety literature all the way through to fully appreciate its radiance and learn the ways of turtle protection.
Hey guys! I’ve received a lot of questions about studying for science classes in college from you, so I did some research and got these couple of basic rules. Happy studying!
– (via sunflower-mama)
I’m laughing so fucking hard rn, omg.
all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.
Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher.
Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts.
We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day.
Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it)
That is, until Ms. Mormino came along.
Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!”
Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance.
The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl.
At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up.
We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though.
Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy.
"I have a shoe."
Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit.
A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him."
Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away.
A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside.
"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone.
Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris.
Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind.
Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.
"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing.
”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino.
”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded.
"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled.
Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter.
"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.
Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.
Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino.
And pissed right in his pants.
The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb.
We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided.
Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed:
”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!”
A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.
"That’s what she said."
Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.
FUCKING READ IT IT’S WORTH IT