New Drinking Game: Every Time You Have To Close And Then Start Back Up A Program While Fixing It, Take

The MC

Normal is their second name.

Taemin attacking unsuspecting civilians like

This is will forever be my favourite photo of Taemin

Why must it be so

That while in water repose

Thou spectral presence.

Welp. Here’s a win.

I recently came out to my mother's side of the family who are majority conservative christians and it went much better than I expected. Like, they were weirdly supportive. I only got one comment insinuating that I might possibly be going to hell but it came from my aunt and she's dying soon anyway so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Anyway, I'm telling them how shocked I am and that I honestly thought that they'd have more of a problem with it when my grandma is like "Well you know we've been through this before with your uncle Nicky" and I'm like "what" and so it turns out that my uncle Nick was born a Natalie, came out as a boy at 19, and my great grandma proceeded to pay for his top surgery and hormone therapy. In 1974. And I just had to process for a bit because my entire life no one has referred to him as anything other than he/him and his chosen name. I ask why no one ever thought to mention this and they're just like "tbh we forgot. It's been so long that he's been a man" This man is married. He has a wife and three kids. I ask my relatives how they went about having kids, whether through adoption or sperm donor or what and none of them know. Apparently he just told everyone that they were gonna be parents and then one day showed up at my grandma's house with a baby. No questions were asked. Just. He and his wife had a baby now and that was that. Three times. Weeks later when I finally talk to my aunt Sarah (Nick's wife) all she tells me is that neither of them have ever been pregnant and, I quote, "sometimes you just come into children". She phrased it like people use the phrase "come into money". Like children are something that just happens to you. I ask my relatives if any of them had a problem with Nick being trans at the time, saying I'd understand if they had negative feelings about it, as it was the 1970s after all. They were like "nope" and i was just like "you didn't think anything of it?" And my grandfather was like "these things happen" while the other adults nodded sagely. So I guess the moral here is that if my conservative christian relatives could accept my uncle as trans in the 1970s then there really isn't any excuse for anyone. And also my family needs to ask more questions because I'm fairly sure my aunt and uncle stole their kids.

I'm laughing my ass off at that last sentence- But I'm so glad your coming out went well! That's one heck of a way to find out you have LGBT relatives.

This is a message from past Cheshire.

GO TF TO SLEEEP.

That is all.

Happy Pride Month dudes!!!!!!

I went to the first three theater showings of RWBY because I was obsessed, and during one of them Adam is on the screen and someone shouts, “Nobody likes you!” Then everyone cheered.

I think about it a lot.

My boo sent a pic today.

A different summary: there is no longer a grandstand there.

For the last decade or so, I’ve been routinely attending a ride-on lawnmower race. I’ve always wanted to participate, but the high cost of used mowers is better spent on more practical vehicles, like literally anything else. Sometimes, though, the universe sends you a message. And in my case, that message came in the form of an awkward leg of a huge trade-in scam.

Picture, if you will, the humble redneck. They await the approach of big, fast domestic mowers. John Deeres, Cub Cadets, even weird modified Chinese stuff they looted from Aliexpress. There is jubilance, but that soon comes to an awkward hush. An unfamiliar engine note approaches.

My International 1480 combine harvester, all ten tons of it, is barrelling down the highway at a clip somewhere between “tepid” and “jaunty.” Even though I have shown up for a race, I am sandbagging a little bit, making sure that the bets get settled against my vehicle before I show them the might of a fully operational monster such as mine.

Technically, there is no violation. I had looked at the rulebook from every angle in the previous year: it has the correct number of wheels, the proper agricultural intent, and with precise work on the tiller, it can even (poorly) mow a suburban lawn. Is it modified? Oh yes, yes indeed, but I see the nitrous bottles poking out from the rows of Kubotas at the starting line.

And when I leave the starting line, it is a thing of beauty. At least for a few milliseconds. It seems that the wizards at International Harvester simply did not comprehend of a situation in which the frame of their combine would be launched into the air by means of one thousand eight hundred foot-pounds of supercharger-bolstered torque. I had erroneously believed that the loose soil of the rural community would let the wheels dip in, but now I am facing directly into the sky, having twelve o’ clocked hard on my wheelie, shooting flames from my exhaust and whirling vertical blades of death towards the grandstand.

It’s not about whether you win or lose. Sometimes it’s about how many pages you add to the rulebook.