Goodbye, tiny purple genius. The world was much more interesting while you were in it. Thanks for giving the most interesting parts of my life a kickass soundtrack.

This image is appropriate.

I haven’t watched Confirmation yet, but I remember the RL events. I was young and I had my first “real” job. I was a data entry clerk for an exterminator, making a whopping $5/hr to type hand-written service reports into a PC.

I’m pretty sure the author doesn’t either. wink emoji.

The wonky-ass metaphors in this piece are going to sustain my black, goo-filled heart for at least the rest of my work day, if not across the temporal board.

There sure were a lot of words and letters in this. The author is good at putting lots of letters and words in a group.

Sure it is, you’re allowed to say whatever you want, but people are going to share their differing and layered views right back at you. Take a lap, rub some dirt in it, and either refine or defend your position. Don’t martyr out now, you just got started.

I feel like maybe there’s something not in your comment, because from where I’m sitting, there’s a really big difference between spending fifteen years spying on guests having sex in one’s own hotel than accidentally catching nature lovers getting down in the bushes. Intent, for one. Scope, for two. Delusions of…

Whatever it is, I’m sure it ends badly for humanity. That robot’s going rogue. Hopefully while singing this:

I’m pretty sure that’s a call for help, or perhaps a rallying cry to begin the inevitable robot uprising.

I like how you think.

My dad was also a 70s stoner dad, but I was apparently an oblivious child, b/c I had no idea until I was a 90s stoner college kid. Then my whole childhood made sense.

I’m glad I didn’t know during the Just Say No era, honestly. I like to think I wouldn’t have thought my dad’s brain was a fried egg if I knew he got…

The last time I dug Gingham.

I think it might be a case of not making sense unless you’ve been there, so I see how folks may have missed it. This is what my depression sounds like to me, because my depression is an asshole. Not all depressions (heh) are assholes, but mine definitely is, and I think this author’s might be too. Maybe a little good…

The narrator in this piece is the author’s depression. It’s not supposed to be advice, it’s a transcript.

Mine either.

This is a bad comment.
You get that this whole thread reads as “I do not give a shit about these black women, I want to talk about my own problems instead.” Right?
Don’t be that person. While you’re at it, go demand better from your feminism professors, who should have at least given you a clue about why this is such…

I was the period teacher at my school, too! I recruited help in keeping the supplies stocked, from my fellow teachers and school staff to the more active moms, grandmas, and aunts who hung around the school. We went around to all the local groceries and drug stores and asked for donations or deep discounts.…

It is pretty suspicious that Tanner spouses keep dying after producing three children. I think you might be on to something. This could explain impossibly handsome actor John Stamos, as well. Get the string, Mabel, it’s time to make a mystery wall.

We soldiered through, and we came out the other side; smarter, more stylish, and we’ll know better the next time prairie florals, giant bibs, and bows rear their ugly heads. (I predict early next decade, alongside an Aqua Net and dyed-to-match pumps resurgence.)