oh shit I just remembered why that chick messaged me.

ashleighmareexx asked: Nah not infected. Photo is probaly 5 months old. Ive recently posted a photo on my tumblr of it. It was just brusing that lasted literally 30 seconds after the day I got it. No infection, just random bruising. STILL ALIVE :3

Answer:

thanks for this insightful update but unless we’re getting some nudz, this is weird. Oh well, never one to waste your time, here’s a story. 

‘It’s not what you said it’s how you said it.’

This was the cliché response given to me by my eighth grade

 

 

 

 

 

English teacher. A, shall we say “experienced” lady of which three things were certain:

1. She would always be chewing nicotine gum, despite being stringently opposed to any other sort.
2. Her pants would always sit just below her nipples.
3. Her pants were never more than an inch from her waist.

 

The context of said remark was during one of many spelling tests, at which I usually xld, being quiet a prafishint word-Kraft®er, a reel steller spellar. While I may not remember the word, I am however, sure I had spelled it correctly. After being told I was wrong, I, being unfamiliar with the concept of learning from mistakes, took issue with the result. It was then I was informed the issue was not with my spelling, but with my pronunciation of the letter “h”. Apparently I had, and had been pronouncing it incorrectly for the previous twelve years. Embarrassingly, Miss (she liked to stress the word ‘Miss’ as in, tried to catch a husband but missed) C informed me it was not “haytch” but “aytch”, something I am still not convinced of and as far as I’m concerned if I can tell “you’re” from “your” and “there, their and they’re” apart, I can pronounce the letter “h” however the fuck I want. Although this epiphany had not dawned on me at the tender age of twelve, I mean, I had form class bitches to worry about, and at the time, wilting under the collective laughter of my new class I was mentally transported back to the third grade, getting ridiculed by Mrs. S (who got vagina juices on her supernaturally stretched yoga pants anytime someone mentioned Luke Power or the Brisbane Lions, of course this was in 2003 when we had a winning team, now it’s probably like the equivalent of a short jolt on the back seat of the bus down there) for my pronunciation of the word “three”. Ordinarily this article could translate into a haunting memoir about the horrors of speech impediments, being gay and living in France, however I’m pretty sure David Sedaris covered all these subjects in his book Me Talk Pretty One Day, here’s a story about dogs. 

 

Once upon a time there lived a wild pack of stray dogs. Whilst the pack adhered strongly to a democratic process, Alan was the clear leader, and the rest gladly listened to what he had to say. Alan was the youngest of the strays, and at first he was shunned and teased by the rest of the dogs. However, they soon respected Alan, after he headed an investigation that resulted in the former leader, Dennis, being arrested and subsequently imprisoned on puppy trafficking charges. Alan lived a peaceful life with his kennelmates, a crazy yet respected old Labrador named Roger and a hardened, yet loving corgi named Janet. Alan, Roger and Janet lived peacefully, their life resembling an inverted, canine version of Three’s Company, However, Alan had always yearned for something more, of rising out of the slums and making a name for himself. When Roger got worms, Alan decided it was time to change his life. Encouraged by Roger, who gave Alan his blessing on his death-blanket, Alan started a small but respectable biscuit hut, where hungry dogs could escape the cold and get a nutritious bowl of chicken and vegetables, scientifically proven to deliver a shiny, luscious coat all-year round. One day, stumbling in from the cold, came a young dog named Patricia. Alan was immediately smitten, and asked Patricia out for dinner behind an Italian restaurant, hoping that Hollywood hadn’t been lying to him all these years. Patricia agreed, and the two began steadily dating. Eight weeks later, they were engaged. Alan was excited, he couldn’t wait to have kids. He went back home to tell his mother of the news, she was happy for Alan, although she sensed something off about Patricia. She advised Alan to get a pre-nup, to protect his assets. Alan was furious that his mother would even suggest such a thing. He stormed off and spontaneously decided they should elope that very day. Six weeks later, the biscuit hut was gone, as was Patricia, and Alan was back to where he started. I suppose what we can learn from Alan is that you should always get a pre-nup, and don’t ever trust no bitch with your money.    

It turns into a movie like dream state on page 128

Welcome to the Cul-de-sac, this is where the street end.

thinking of getting ‘look don’t worry about it.’