a practical guide to becoming a true pun master
- accept that no pun is actually Good, but that the true nature of a good pun is to be so terrible that it becomes good.
- say every pun that occurs to you. i’m so serious about this, sometimes the most well received puns will be ones you considered not saying.
- ALWAYS laugh at your own puns, even if nobody else is. (especially if nobody else is.)
- know that you are hilarious. puns are a limitless resource and you have taken it as your duty to bring this gift to humanity. you are a hero.
YES YES YES
(Source: kiluas, via natalietranlikesmariahcarey)
7:51 am • 1 October 2014 • 112,727 notes
“But I don’t need to love any man like I love the smooth old-fashioned weight of quarters, the lightness of slipping them into the jukebox slot.”
— Number-One Earthly Reason, Lindsay Gates-Markel
3:43 pm • 30 September 2014 • 2 notes
Something about coming home after a shift from your second job, the air better suited for shorts than sweaters, waiting for a to-go container of chicken and broccoli. I got a tip tonight that’s more than I think I make in a day at the office. I want someone to come over. I want them to choose me. I want to buy us a drink.
8:58 pm • 27 September 2014 • 2 notes
“I lie in a bed with dark brown curtains covering the windows but the sun is still lighting up your pale skin and I think, ‘Wow, I feel like I am a fire next to you.’ I am the last to fall asleep and the first to wake up when we are with each other. I use this time to study the colors in your beard. I use this time to tell myself, ‘Don’t forget this, don’t forget this.’ I feel mad. I think, ‘I am a warm body existing next to you.’”
— "Remember To," Sarah Jean Alexander
2:23 pm • 26 September 2014 • 14 notes
I am comforted that my drunk tweets are quite loving, though I’m not sure who this was directed to (the Internet I guess) and I thought I had fallen asleep at 11:30, oh well. Last night was really fun.
2:01 pm • 26 September 2014 • 3 notes
“Jeremy and I are twins but not the creepy kind. And we have red hair but, and you are just going to have to trust me on this, not the upsetting kind.”
— I enjoyed this short story by Jill Summers and not just because we share a first name.
9:38 pm • 16 September 2014 • 2 notes
Consider the word bologna. That’s it. That’s all I’m going to ask of you right now.
3:07 pm • 15 September 2014 • 3 notes
Some guy was looking at my room for the first time. I like showing off the stuff that litters my hodgepodge furniture and my walls; it is the easiest way to tell people what I am about. The subway sign my grandfather stole from an electrical job so many years ago that my dad had up in the garage before I took it for myself, my sister’s drawing of an octopus on cardboard with the word “why” scrawled all over it, an eraser of The Thinker from the Rodin museum in Paris, photo booth pictures in varied shades of monochrome.
My antidepressant pills are on the bookshelf and I always debate whether or not to draw attention to them, because they are no big deal in my life: taking them is just something I do every day, like brushing teeth or taking a shower. They were a Thing for a while, first when I was afraid to take them and accept myself as really, diagnostically depressed and in need of help, then later as one shrink then another tried various dosages of generics in varying names. Now I’ve been on the same ones for probably a year or just under it, reaching something that feels closer to myself, I think. I no longer fear going outside, nor want to cry because then I’d remember how much I used to love things as simple as going for walks.
"Oh, those are my antidepressants. Do you think I’m dark and mysterious now?" I said that once and instantly regretted it, trying to be cool in a way that probably wouldn’t be seen as cool by anyone but the thirteen-year-old emo iteration of myself. (I think I was going for that character in Lorrie Moore’s "How to Be the Other Woman," where she says "I’m tough." and shows the guy her bicep, to prove she can handle whatever is going to happen, to prove she can survive him not choosing her.) Somewhere I thought that I could position myself as in need of saving, something I had heard was supposed to be attractive, with the very things that were helping me save myself. The guy shrugged and said something like uh, I don’t know and reached for another Heineken.
I am feeling good now, and sometimes I am afraid that without the depression I am missing a piece of myself, that I have become less, that my urge to write and be understood has grown smaller the closer I get to contentedness. It’s a lie, I know, or at best a useless worry.
11:24 am • 11 September 2014 • 3 notes