don't tell anyone about tumblrtasks(.)com but i made $400 this week on it lol
Anonymous
IF THAT’S TRUE THEN I MUST TELL EVERYONE.
(Source: saporta)
are you planning to go see 'the beatles: the lost concert' film?
Anonymous
I didn’t know there was such a thing. So probably no.
(Source: retroreactive03)
(Source: optimus-primer)
(Source: thingsithinkarebeautiful)
Places where it is acceptable to ask me for things at work — - My desk - My office
Places where it is not acceptable to ask me for things at work — - The commissary - The employee gym - The urinal (and really, anywhere in the bathroom)
Come on, people…
Great. They each succeeded in two separate fields — I can’t even get a leg up in one.
THANKS TUMBLR
I’m trying to get a prescription filled right now. First, I was trying to fill Prescription A, which no pharmacy in town carried. They wouldn’t order it, and before that wouldn’t tell me over the phone if they carried it or not, which caused me to drive around to 6 pharmacies until I found the one that carried it. Due to Supply and Demand, they could charge $AnUnholyFuckton for my pills, which I couldn’t afford.
So, I crawled back to my doctor and begged for Prescription B, which hopefully should be easier and cheaper (if less effective). It turns out, nobody carries that one either, because “not enough people take it.” No demand? No supply.
I’m living in a conservative utopia and it fucking sucks.
this was one of my favorite moments from last nights show.
Easily the highlight of the show. There were a good couple of laughs (proof that Billy Crystal doesn’t really have to try) but Emma’s fearless mugging for the camera proved that I don’t have to be ashamed for renting Easy A.
I typically don’t participate in Casual Friday. Though I one day dream to become that rare household name of television writer/creators, the new Joss Whedon or Seth Macfarlane*, the fact remains that I currently have an office job. Right now, I have the most pathetic and desperate of office jobs — receptionist.
To those rare few who have never worked in an office, the concept of a “casual friday” may be somewhat mystifying. Let me explain. For unknown reasons, on Monday through Thursday office worker dress up in costumes typically called “business casual.” The only difference between “business casual” and “business” is that the men don’t wear ties or jackets. These clothes are constricting and uncomfortable; menswear is guaranteed not to fit unless the man spends at least $1000 on the entire outfit.
The Corporate Overlords saw this problem and, in an attempt to seem like generous, benevolent rulers, decreed that every Friday should be known as “casual friday.” On the last day before the weekend, office drones are allowed to shed their “business casual” and wear jeans and polo t-shirts. Because pissy defiance is the only thing that comforts me on cold, lonely nights, I tend to wear slacks and a button-down shirt. Sometimes I throw on a tie just to fuck with people.
Why? Because cooperating with the concept of casual friday would mean becoming one of them. I would give in to a life trapped behind a desk, consumed by arbitrary guidelines and the hideous oxymoron of corporate culture. It’s trivial and puerile, but office jobs tend to rob you of your identity. Casual friday seems like the first step towards a slippery slope — before long, I’m bringing food for the potlock and forwarding pictures of cats to my coworkers. I’m 24 — I freely admit that I don’t know who I am yet — but I at least know what I don’t want to be.
* Yeah, I said it. I like Family Guy. Fuck off.
I think I’m a goldfish.
You see, goldfish can’t stop eating. If they see food, they will eat until their stomachs explode. Whereas they do it instinctively, I’ve been trained since birth to do it. I can’t look at food on a plate and not shove everything I see into my mouth. Because…
That’s right, I had one of those dads. From a young age, my siblings and I were served portions that were enormous for an adult, mind-boggling for a child, and we weren’t allowed to leave the table until our plates were cleared. We did everything in our power to stop eating, but there’s no reasoning with my dad. We told him, “I am going to throw up if I keep eating,” and he’d just shrug and say “All right, let’s see if that happens.”
He thought he was being a good parent. Well, this is assuming that my dad has thoughts — I call his style “arbitrary parenting.” We didn’t have household rules so much as whatever-he-was-feeling-at-the-time. But my paternal grandparents grew up during the Great Depression, where clearing your plate was the difference between eating three beans instead of two. Not a difficult task.
My father’s proud reluctance to think and adapt brings me to my overall point — America’s eating habits haven’t caught up to it’s abundance of food. The habits of previous generations have been passed down to us, but there’s no reason to finish our plates. As illustrated above, third world children would probably be pretty pissed if they knew we were gorging ourselves just because we can.
Me: OH MY GOD!
Me: Cinnamon Life is on sale!
Ravenclaws-wit: No way!!!
Ravenclaws-wit: Idk if I’ve ever had that cereal.
Me: You’d know. You’d know because every day would taste like cinnamon and starlight, and you’d never be sad again.
Ravenclaws-wit: Maybe you should make their commercials.
How about it, Quaker Oats?
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