my jewelry stuff takes up so much less room, comparatively, than my cross-stitch and yarn and fabric, but, god. with cross-stitch i’m just spending hours and days working these teeny-tiny little stitches and then when i’m done it’s like “well, i never want to see this again but i guess i have it forever now” (i give them as gifts but i just make tiny magnets most of the time because i don’t want my loved ones overwhelmed with cross-stitch canvases all over the place). like? does anyone who likes the cross-stitch aesthetic not just cross-stitch themselves? i don’t even know who my target market would be. people can make a living selling cross-stitch patterns but they have to be so good (or, on the other end of the spectrum, so bad because they just run art they don’t own through a cross-stitch converter and sell patterns en masse and make money off people who want to make fandom things and don’t care about the ethics of the pattern they’re buying). i don’t know if anyone out there is making good money selling finished cross-stitches but bless them if they can pull it off.
my mom used to make quilts but getting people to pay what a quilt is worth is such a fucking struggle when they can just buy a mass-produced quilt-like thing from walmart for $30. AND YARN. GETTING ANYONE TO PAY FOR HAND-KNIT ITEMS. CHRIST.
whenever i see anyone talk about how great it would be if people made things in real life instead of crafting virtual items in video games i just want to shake them like BITCH HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO SELL A SCARF. HAVE YOU EVER. BECAUSE I GUARANTEE YOU THE VIRTUAL PAWN SHOP IS GONNA BUY THIS VIRTUAL SCARF. NO ONE’S GONNA TRY TO HAGGLE ME DOWN ON THESE PIXELS, I ASSURE YOU. MY HOUSE IS DROWNING IN WOODEN HOOPS AND FLOSS AND FABRIC AND THESE ARE PROBLEMS I WOULD NOT HAVE IF I PLAYED MINECRAFT.
tubby ran out of wet food and i couldn’t get to the pet store before lunch so i had to improvise and made her a scrambled egg
she is intensely dubious about this non-salmon food item
despite how much she loves eggs when i’m eating them, she had no interest in eggs that had been prepared especially for her. fortunately we were able to escape our driveway and get her preferred salmon and gravy, and while we were out i bought a frame for the @viv-draws print i bought her
her standards have finally been met
a couple of people have expressed concern about tubby breaking her dishes, so i just want to note that sometimes when the cups are misaligned in their tray they wobble a little and make a tiny clinking sound. when this happens instead of eating directly out of her dish, tubby will use her paw to bring the food to her mouth in order to prevent any unseemly noises.
My method of getting kids not to swear at camp was just to appeal to their sense of fairness.
Child: “Fuck!”
Me: “Hey! I’m not allowed to swear in front of you guys. It’s not fair if you swear in front of me, is it?”
Child: “I guess not… sorry…”
Sometimes I’d work with teenagers and facilitate activities like giant swing or zipline, which involve full-body harnesses that get Wildly Uncomfortable in the crotch areas. The younger kids didn’t mind it, but those burdened by more of the wonderful gifts of puberty had some things to complain about.
And complain they would! I think 15 year old boys are contractually obligated to shout “THIS HURTS MY BALLS!” at the top of their lungs every time they’re in a harness. To combat this, I’d warn them about the pain ahead of time and tell them that if they need to come down, I’ll help them down immediately. “However, I don’t get paid enough to listen to teenagers scream about their genitals for an hour. If you have to scream, we’re gonna call them ‘your honor’, okay?”
Teenagers screaming “OH NO! MY HONOR!” while swinging through the canopy? Hilarious.
M’baku: I want to be king
T’challa: Is that a challenge?
M’baku, pulling out an engagement ring: No it’s a proposal
T’challa: oh thank god
Platonic intimacy is seeing your friend’s car in the grocery store parking lot and parking so close to him that he can’t open his door and has the crawl through the passenger’s side.
Platonic intimacy is hot gluing four copies of Resident Evil – Code: Veronica to the ceiling of his hallway closet and seeing how long it takes him to notice that there’s four copies of Resident Evil – Code: Veronica hot glued to the ceiling of his hallway closet.
Platonic intimacy is watching the graceful curve of his body as he stretches in bed, fixating on the strip of skin where his shirt’s pulled up juuuust enough that you can sneeze on his exposed stomach and then run away while he’s distracted and bewildered by how super gross and unnecessary that was.
Platonic intimacy is sending him an e-mail that says, “The Harbinger of Boy Sauce is Upon You,” instead of just, like, texting him and letting him know you’re on your way to help him do his shots.
Platonic intimacy is calling him in the middle of the night and waking him up because you heard a weird noise outside that you’re about to investigate, and you need moral support and also someone to call an ambulance if you end up having to knife fight a racoon.
No, it’s platonic. If it’s romantic, you gotta’ have a rose between your teeth and one titty out.
Did you end up having a knife fight with a raccoon?
theclumsiestninja 