I love this a lot
What exactly is a convenience store fish sandwich? Never seen such a thing. Like tuna fish salad sandwich?
cat food between chunks of stale bread…extra mayo
It’s like a convenience store hamburger, but a breaded fish sandwich. They make the whole place smell terrible when you heat them. Very rude.
That is not something that is commonplace anywhere I’ve lived. But I would definitely eat them if they were, since they seem basically like a fish hot dog.
I would have a hard time trusting someone or dating someone that would opt for a convenience store sandwich over something on the roller grill. You can sandwich at home, but I highly doubt you have a roller grill at home. How can you pass up a taquito that has been rolled for miles?
My husband told me when we started dating that he would hard hesitate seeing someone who just drank a plain glass of milk between meals for no reason, like, standing at the counter. I quit drinking milk for like a year and half.
My girlfriend gleefully drinks a glass of chocolate milk with the zeal of a deaf kid hearing for the first time every morning. It grosses me out. If I could go back in time I would lie and tell her I had an airborne lactose allergy.
I fucking love chocolate milk.
Meade was threatened to be banned for less!
I will not drink milk like a beverage. Never have, didn’t grow up doing that because we only had powdered milk available when I would have developed that habit.
But I will guzzle chocolate milk.
What an adorable garbage panda.
Ginger garbage panda.
When I was in grad school we often had long days of seminars and workshops. Because I was in non-fiction, these workshops at times functioned as a bit of therapy for the writer as they spilled out inky traumas large and small on the kind-hearted souls who were duty-bound to provide sympathy and criticism in unequal doses, because, we’re here to help you write, not to help you save some money at the therapist, but sure okay whatever.
Hence the obligatory boxes of tissues sitting the middle of the table that those emotionally oblivious fart eaters over in genre and science fiction liked to make fun of us for.
These two-and-a-half-hour critiques were draining, so people would bring snacks to stave off distracting bouts of hunger. Or buy them at the sad machine down the hall, because you had to pay attention, pay attention.
One of my fellow students was Catherine, who wrote about nature and had a pet project covering the disappearing salmon runs in Maine. That’s the danger with non-fiction as a genre—it can be about April-November lesbian love or trees, rocks and fish. In a workshop the only guarantee is that you won’t get a pleasing balance of all that, no matter what the goal of the author.
Catherine was small, and if she were more athletic she might be called wiry. But she had the elegance, energy and bearing of a proud mouse rather than gristly peloton fascist, so she was alright by me.
During a break on one of these wearying days I went to the snack machine. The only thing that wasn’t candy or chocolate were Nature’s Promise mini granola bars. $2.75 for about three ounces of dried oat shards swept from a factory floor and crushed into something that looks like a piece of hardwood flooring for a dollhouse.
These little flat sandy brown unnaturally crunchy granola planks can be downed in two small bites. They come two to a pack, I suppose, in case you want to share with a similarly peckish chum, as if that is possible for anyone beyond the age of four, since as small as these are your jaw isn’t even warmed up when the first one is gone. You’ve done little more than piss off your tongue if stop after one.
I showed them to Catherine, with a ‘that’s all they had’ smirk, a ‘get a load of this sadness’ grin. She, on the other hand, nodded and said enthusiastically,
“I like those, They’re great if you don’t want to commit to a whole granola bar.”
I’m not commitment-phobic, but the notion that a single serving snack food requires any form of dedication to see it gone is foreign to me.
For good measure she produced a package from her bag, with one already missing. Touché, tiny woman.
This is perfect!
I literally LOL’d at all of the 20-something girl comments. I feel like we’ve all seen our share of those. Brilliant
I can count the number of times that I’ve been intentionally passive aggressive on one hand. Here are the two times.
When I was in high school I worked as a hostess in the Chinese restaurant. The work conditions were way below average. I had this one co-worker who would never ever change a shift with you for any reason whatsoever, but she also would go around you to have your shifts stolen from you if she needed the extra cash. She did this over and over to me, having the owner decide I was heading out two hours early and that she was closing that night. This was an issue because I did not learn to drive until I was 20, so my poor mom had to rearrange her plans for the evening whenever she did this so she could taxi me around. So after like the fifth time she pulled this stunt and had refused to change yet another shift with me for something important like a birthday, I went around to all the corners and poured sweet and sour sauce onto the tile floors there knowing full well she would have to use the 40 pound mop to clean it up and it would be like gross red cement when she did. The closer has to mop, have fun, Jodi.
The second time was many years later, I was pregnant with my daughter and living in this quadranted out victorian house. We got new neighbors in the back end of the house and their favorite thing to do was to leave the porch light on all night long. This was an issue because my two small dogs would then lose their shit at every shadow they saw in the driveway; they would not go to sleep because there was a floor to ceiling picture window where the outside was lit up all hours. I asked my then-husband to please just turn the lights off at 10pm, but true to form, he was more worried about offending the strangers next door than his very pregnant wife getting uninterrupted sleep. So one day I came home from work and parked in the driveway. It was 4pm in the summer and I could see the light was still on from the night before. I went into the kitchen, got a broom and a chair, climbed the chair and ever so lightly tapped the lightbulb with my broom handle so the filament broke inside. It would look like it had just burned out and it was 9 feet above the porch so no one would be in a hurry to change the bulb. I was so proud of myself and I took a picture of it, which, of course, I still have.
One day in 2017 I saw this Ven Diagram along with this comment down below about how the center is probably juggalos. I feel like you all know me well enough now to believe me when I tell you that I had no idea what a juggalo was. I was like what the fuck is a juggalo? And we were off to the races, watching documentaries, reading academic studies, viewing dubious YouTube videos made by Juggalos, and then it occurred to me… I had known SO MANY juggalos and had had no idea what the fuck I was looking at… the kid I went to high school with who is holding a scythe in his profile pic? Juggalo. The asshole next to me in the call center with the hatchet man tattooed on his neck? Juggalo. Everyone in the city of Bemidji, MN? Absolutely juggalos, a veritable Mecca of Juggalos. Whoop whoop, spray with Faygo, how the hell did it take me until 2017 to figure this out? Thanks Instagram.