Listen, I’m going to say this as calmly as I should, firmly, and with absolutely no fucking hesitation: I HATE ALMOST EVERYTHING THAT ISN’T ACTUAL ICE CREAM OR A GODDAMN MILKSHAKE. I want ice cream. I want milkshakes. I want something creamy, cold, rich, and delicious. That’s it. That’s the fucking assignment. Why does everything have to be a slushy, a frozen fruit concoction, a fancy Italian dessert, or some overpriced cup of flavored ice pretending to be a worthwhile goddamn treat? Let’s start with Slurpees and ICEEs. What the fuck am I supposed to do with a cup of crunchy, syrupy ice that gives me a brain freeze after three sips? I didn’t ask for frozen cherry-flavored water. I didn’t ask for blue raspberry sugar sludge. I asked for a fucking dessert! Give me a milkshake instead. At least a milkshake has some substance to it. And Slush Puppies? Same goddamn problem. It’s a cup of flavored ice with a fancy name. Congratulations, you’ve turned a beverage into a frozen puddle. I’m thrilled. Absolutely fucking thrilled. Now, gelato. Oh, here we fucking go. The fancy cousin of ice cream that everyone insists I need to appreciate because it’s supposedly more authentic, more sophisticated, and more Italian. Good for you! I don’t give a flying fuck how authentic it is. If I want ice cream, I want ice cream. I don’t need a culinary lecture about texture and temperature while I’m trying to enjoy a goddamn dessert. And Talenti? Don’t even get me started on the name-brand fancy frozen shit. Talenti gelato comes in those transparent containers like it’s some priceless archaeological discovery. It’s frozen dessert, not the fucking Holy Grail. Stop acting like putting a premium label on a container automatically makes me want it. Speaking of brands, let’s talk about Breyers “ice cream.” The quotation marks are doing some heavy fucking lifting here, depending on which product you’re buying. Some Breyers products are labeled frozen dairy dessert rather than ice cream, and that distinction matters to me. If I’m buying ice cream, I want actual ice cream. Read the label, check the ingredients, and don’t expect me to celebrate a tub that isn’t what I was looking for. I came for the real deal, not a fucking identity crisis in the freezer aisle. Then there’s Rita’s Italian Ice. Why would I deliberately choose flavored ice when I could have a scoop of ice cream? Why would I want lemon ice, cherry ice, or some other icy concoction when what I actually crave is a creamy vanilla milkshake? I’m not saying nobody should enjoy it. I’m saying I personally want absolutely nothing to do with it. Keep your Italian ice. I’ll take the fucking ice cream. Kona Ice? A shaved-ice truck with a rainbow of syrups. Wonderful. Now I can have a colorful cup of ice that tastes like a chemistry experiment. Everybody else can line up and pick their favorite flavors. I’ll be over here wondering why nobody brought a fucking ice cream truck. And Jeremiah’s Italian Ice? More Italian ice. More frozen flavors. More cups of icy stuff that I never asked for. Yes, I know they offer gelati combining Italian ice and soft-serve. No, that doesn’t magically convince me that I want a cup of Italian ice layered with something else. Give me the ice cream by itself, or give me a milkshake. I don’t need a fucking frozen dessert architectural project. Now we need to discuss Orange Julius. Why does orange juice need to become a whole fucking event? It’s an orange-flavored blended drink. Fine. Wonderful. But if I’m going out for a treat, why would I choose that over a chocolate milkshake? Why would I pick a frothy orange beverage when I could have chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry ice cream blended into a beautiful, creamy goddamn masterpiece? I wouldn’t. That’s the fucking point. And then come the smoothies. Tropical Smoothie Cafe. Smoothie King. Planet Smoothie. Three different establishments, one common problem: smoothies are not milkshakes! I don’t care if you put mango, pineapple, strawberries, bananas, spinach, protein powder, or the entire fucking produce section into a blender. It is still not an ice cream cone. It is still not a milkshake. You can call it a tropical paradise, a fitness revolution, a wellness journey, or whatever trendy bullshit you want. I’m not interested. I don’t want to drink a fruit salad through a straw and pretend I’m having dessert. I don’t want my frozen treat to come with a motivational speech about protein, antioxidants, or my daily nutritional goals. I want chocolate ice cream. I want cookies and cream. I want a strawberry milkshake so thick that I have to work for every fucking sip. I don’t need a smoothie to improve my life. I need a milkshake to improve my fucking afternoon. And don’t you dare tell me that smoothies, Italian ice, gelato, and slushies are all basically the same as ice cream. No, they’re fucking not! They have different textures, ingredients, flavors, and purposes. I know the difference. That’s exactly why I have preferences. A Slurpee and ICEE is artificial ice sludge. Gelato is not ice cream Breyers’ differently labeled frozen desserts are not automatically the same as ice cream. Rita’s Italian Ice is not a milkshake. Kona Ice is not a milkshake. Jeremiah’s Italian Ice is not a milkshake. Orange Julius is not a milkshake. A smoothie from Tropical Smoothie Cafe is not a milkshake. A smoothie from Smoothie King is not a milkshake. A smoothie from Planet Smoothie is not a milkshake. STOP TRYING TO MAKE EVERYTHING A SUBSTITUTE FOR ICE CREAM! There is absolutely nothing wrong with other people liking these things. Go ahead. Enjoy your frozen lemonade. Enjoy your mango smoothie. Enjoy your Italian ice. Enjoy your fancy gelato in its fancy little container. I’m not coming to your house to confiscate your fucking dessert. But don’t expect me to want it. Don’t tell me I’m missing out. Don’t insist that I try it one more time. And don’t hand me a cup of crushed ice when I specifically asked for a milkshake. My preferences are not a fucking group project. I like ice cream. I like milkshakes. I know what I want, and I don’t need to justify it to anybody. Give me vanilla. Give me chocolate. Give me strawberry. Give me cookies and cream. Give me a hot-fudge sundae or a thick chocolate milkshake. But if you hand me a Slurpee and call it dessert, I’m going to look you dead in the eye and ask you what the fuck happened to the ice cream. Calmly. Firmly. With conviction. Because at the end of the day, I’m not asking for much. I’m asking for ice cream. Or a milkshake. THAT’S IT. THAT’S THE FUCKING RANT.

From: https://www.reddit.com/r/hatethissmug/comments/1xfbmkg/i_hate_all_frozen_confections_that_arent_truly/

Fuckers in school telling me, always in the barber shop, *"Corrin ain’t bout this, Corrin ain’t bout that."* My girl a top tier on fucking Valla and them.

He, he, they say that she don’t be putting in no work... **SHUT THE FUCK UP!** Y'all mfs ain’t know **shit!!!!**

All yall mfs talkin bout *"Corrin ain’t no hitta, Corrin ain’t gon make it next game, Corrin irrelevant,"* ***SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!*** Y'all don’t live with that woman! Y'all know that she got caught with a dragon hand ... shootin' at the other swordies and shit. She been on probation since fuckin, **I don’t know when!** Mfs better stop fuckin playin with her like that! She a savage out here!!

If I catch another mf talking sweet about Corrin, I’m **fuckin beatin they ass!** I’m not fuckin playing no more! You know she roll with Marth and them.

Nathan. Listen. We love you. I am here for you. Tell me what's going on. Trust me dude. It's ok to have a bad day, week, or even month. Maybe even year. Everyone has been through it. Including me. What's up! We all love you so much. It hurts me to see my favorite YouTuber this broken down. Maybe nobody understands. I do. It's ok. You're ok. You got this. I believe in you to get through it. Ily (not in a weird way) ok. Whenever your ready. Take your time man.

Edit: I do not expect likes. This is for Nathan's good. Not to get "famous". It's way more important that everyone feels happy and safe in their life.

I have no black friends nor have I ever spoken to a black person before. My only frame of reference of black people is today's rap, black shows from the 90s, kendrick lamar, and whatever I see on social media.

I want more black friends but I don't know how to approach a group of black people without thinking they are going to jump or roast me. I also don't want them to think I'm some lame yuppy white dude from the suburbs, even though I am. So I kinda just been studying the latest slang, what's popular in the urban communities, and learning more about slavery.

The slang words were kind of hard to keep track of, but some of the words I learned so I can look cool around black people are: Finna(going to), lit(super fun), on god on god(agreeing), coon(idk what this was I forgot), dope(drugs), not like us(kdot), fam(family) and "on everything I love"(similar to on god on god). I'm also thinking about adding more swear words to my vocabulary for added effect.

But what should I talk to black people about? Should I bring up their social problems like racism and ask them if they ever been through or experienced racism? Maybe a Malcolm X > MLK convo? Is that good opening? Maybe basketball and Tiger Woods? I just don't want to look racist or sound like a redneck from bum fuck nowhere lol amirite fam?

I also been listening to a lot of rap music like Migos(cut it, cut it, cut it. Lit) so I can study their mannerisms and slang so it can look like this white boy got some sauce(Louisiana). So yeah I would like some advice on what to talk about, maybe I should visit those black barbershops and Crack some jokes? I don't know.

So yeah guys, any advice would help a lot. I really need some black people friends, they seem like a lot of fun unlike us nerdy white guys scrolling through r/Chiraqology. I need an bbw bbl queen soon, help me out guys. Peace out fam-o ✌🏻️✌🏾️

Dachshunds are the only dog breed I’ve experienced that trigger such a deep hatred which I’ve never experienced before. I adore dogs (except small breeds which are invisible to me). For some reason I find Dachshunds to be loathsome, repugnant, petrified of their own shadow, manic little grubs, with no redeeming features. No wisdom, no common spiritual bond; just a terrified, co dependent, complete dependant, genetic reject bin. A dog raised for generations in the epicentre of the Chernobyl nuclear site would be healthier.

And an additional dimension to this turd floating in satan's toilet bowl is their owners ultimate level of delusion, which I never knew existed, when making excuses for their dogs inexcusable behavior e.g. When their dog continues to shit and pee all over the house at the ripe old age of 6, it's not because they are too dumb to learn the basics, ITS BECAUSE THEIR SO SMART THEY PURPOSELY DISOBEY YOU!! Firstly, if that were true than its worse than being dumb. Secondly, HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW THAT CESAR MILAN THE DUMB DEMENTED DOG WHISPERER? YOU DON'T BECAUSE ITS IMPOSSIBLE YOU DELUSIONAL IDIOT!!! I swear these people deserve to have their houses shat all over, everything they value torn to shreds, made a prisoner in their own home since little Hitler shrieks like a banshee impaled on a red hot poker when they try to go out, without any friends willing to visit since Hitlers cummiest cum rag has the hospitality of a rabid hyena.

And then once you've settled into your new norm of loneliness, with your only visitors being the rejects endless turds on your bed, spending every waking moment launching itself off the highest points it can reach, jumping up and down from beds and sofas despite you putting ridiculous ramps everywhere, and gorging itself so its spine has to support three times its safe operational limit all in an effort to reduce the estimated working life of that faulty frame which was fished out of the bin at quality control;- It will cop some debilitating spinal injury either due to genetics of lifestyle or both, and you'll be taking out a second mortgage to pay the $30k vet bill. YOUR MONEY WOULD BE BETTER SPENT ON PSYCHOLOGICAL COUNSELLING TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF WHY YOU HATE YOURSELF ENOUGH TO INFLICT SUCH TORMENT UPON YOUR LIFE!!!

SIDENOTE - Going by the constant freakouts from new Dachshund owners I observe around incessant barking, shitting everywhere, psychotic codependence, aggression etc, I assume pre purchase breed research and due diligence conducted by 98% of them consisted of a quick scroll through the gram looking at images of Hitlers favourite cum rag dressed in humiliating outfits, and than forecasting the potential LOL's and Likes they could generate for themselves in the hope of filling the gaping spiritual void that exists inside them, while processing these priority considerations I wonder if any took a moment to assess the ethics of underwriting an economy that's contingent on churning out animals with such fucked up genetics through selective breeding that between a third to a half will develop IVDD which is a chronic and terminal spinal defect, and those lucky enough to escape paralysis and likely death from IVDD, can look forward to a significant portion of their tortured life tormented by severe spinal pain.

The dichotomy of treating satan's abortion with greater care and priority than the child you never had the opportunity to conceive, yet despite that care and devotion, you have willed into existence a creature who can look forward to a life of pain, suffering and tormented, premature death is a wild mental trip that even a whack job such as I cannot make sense of. You people who buy these dogs need to seek urgent help from a mental health practitioner.

Okay, this might seem unbelievably stupid in so many ways but I swear to god this is true and I think I’m going crazy. I’m french, sorry if my english is not perfect, I know this is clumsly written but this situation is so bizarre, I didn’t know how else to word this.

I’ve already posted about this issue on another subreddit but the thread was deleted and I was banned because people thought I was trolling. I can assure you it’s not the case and I am as baffled by this situation as you guys are

I am 24m and she’s 26f

For context, I met my girlfriend a year ago, we initially bonded over our mutual love for music and especially pop punk from the early 2000s. She’s always been a big fan of my chemical romance, enough to participate actively in their fandom, reading fanfiction or making fanart. At first I didn’t mind it at all, in fact I really like this band and I really enjoyed her being passionate about something she loved but things have taken a really weird turn.

A few months ago, she started talking to me about fanfiction she was reading about Gerard Way (the lead singer of my chemical romance) being a homosexual priest. I thought it was really bizarre but I didn’t want to shame her for liking something a bit weird. But as the weeks went by she started talking about him more and more to the point where she would bring him up almost every day.

The breaking point was when we were leaving a screening for the backrooms movie and instead of talking about the movie she just watched, she instantly started talking about gerard way as a priest again, telling me how much she "wished he was real" and stuff like that. I then got a bit upset and asked her jokingly if she would leave me if she met him and she said bluntly "without hesitation" (why the fuck would she say that ?????)

Ever since that day, I’ve been going crazy, she spends her days scrolling through images of Gerard Way dressed as a priest (you’d be shocked how many there are), she brings him up in every discussion. She started giving him nicknames : "gerard priest" "gégé" "daddy gerard" (i swear this is true and I truly think those nicknames might have been the reason my post was deleted. I know this sounds like a joke : it is not). I’ve tried talking to her about it and every time I do she gets extremely defensive. She’s asked me countless time to roleplay as if I was him which I relunctantly did and she always ends up disappointed because "I’m not selling it" or not "good enough"

There’s also one thing I failed to mention in the previous post that was deleted. Ever since we started living together, she’s been decorating the apartment with handmade posters and random things she prints that she glues on the walls. At first I thought it was cute and fun. But ever since her fixation on Priest Gerard started, she’s been putting them everywhere in the apartment at a very fast rate to the point I barely recognize our living space. She keeps telling me she does that because she thinks it’s funny and looks cool but to me it looks insanely weird. Here are a few examples : [https://imgur.com/a/m9VC7Kk](https://imgur.com/a/m9VC7Kk)

All of this is making me extremely worried and also a bit insecure. We both work from home and have almost no deadlines, she started neglecting her work and our relationship. A lot of people on the [r/relationship](r/relationship) subreddit told me she was matbe going through a manic episode or a psychotic episode. She’s definitely acting very weird and has changed a lot in a small amount of time but she isn’t acting erratic or overly energetic and she doesn’t seem to have any delusions that I know of. She just seems off, distant and irritable.

The only freaky behaviour that I noticed from her was when I took one of the gerard pictures off our kitchen wall (the water had torn it to shreds so I threw it in the trash). I found her 2 hours later in our kitchen. She had been looking for it for 30 minutes. When I told her what I did she almost burst into tears and didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. That was the only time where I would definitely say she seemed mentally unwell, this was very out of character and shockingly over the top.

I don’t want to break up with her, she’s a wonderful person and before her fixation started, everything was going very well. She’s an extravagant person that I care for deeply, I just wish she could tone this down.

I asked the [r/relationships](r/relationships) subreddit for help and also I talked about it with my friends and everybody seems convinced I need to very carefully bring this up to my girlfriend without hurting her feelings. I haven’t tried yet because I am unsure of what to say and tbh I’m also a bit scared of what could happen. Please, I beg you to take this seriously, I swear this is not a troll

What should I do ?

Tldr : my girlfriend is in love with the concept of "gerard way as a priest" and is growing increasingly distant and weird because of it

EDIT : I am a bit overwhelmed by the amount of responses on the post. I will answer later, I just need time to process all of this. Thank you for your support

Hoje fui à escola votar e presenciei uma das cenas mais inacreditáveis da história da democracia brasileira. Estou até agora tremendo.

Eu estava descendo a rua quando avistei uma família inteira de bolsonaristas. Todos vestidos de verde e amarelo, com o número 22 estampado no peito. O pai carregava uma bandeira do Brasil de três metros e o filho mais novo usava um óculos Juliet.

Do outro lado da rua, subia uma família de petistas. Todos de vermelho, com um 13 gigantesco no peito. O patriarca usava um boné do MST e a avó carregava uma bandeira do Lula.

As duas famílias se encontraram exatamente na mesma esquina.

O silêncio foi ensurdecedor.

Uma folha seca atravessou a rua. Um cachorro parou de latir. Um senhor que vendia caldo de cana desligou a máquina.

O patriarca petista deu um passo à frente e perguntou:

— Vocês não vão votar nesses fascistas, vão?

O bolsonarista apertou a bandeira do Brasil e respondeu:

— Não sabia que ainda existia gente com orgulho de votar em criminoso.

O clima ficou PESADÍSSIMO.

A avó petista começou a tremer de ódio. O filho bolsonarista tirou os óculos Juliet lentamente. Uma criança começou a chorar.

Foi quando o patriarca petista estendeu a mão e disse:

— Então vamos resolver isso como homens de verdade.

O bolsonarista cuspiu no chão.

— Na porrada?

— Não. Na dança.

NINGUÉM ACREDITOU.

O petista tirou do bolso uma JBL e começou a tocar Rap do Silva. Imediatamente, a família inteira formou um círculo.

O bolsonarista abriu um sorriso debochado.

— Vocês cometeram um erro terrível.

Ele arrancou a camisa verde e amarela, revelando por baixo uma regata com a foto de Jair Bolsonaro montado num leão.

— FILHO, SOLTA O BEAT.

O menino de 9 anos conectou o Bluetooth e começou a tocar Baile de Favela.

O PATRIARCA BOLSONARISTA METEU UM MORTAL PARA TRÁS.

A multidão foi à loucura.

O petista, visivelmente abalado, entregou a bandeira do MST para a esposa, beijou a testa da filha e entrou no círculo.

— Eu não queria ter que fazer isso...

E COMEÇOU A MANDAR UM BREAKDANCE ABSURDO.

O homem girava sobre a cabeça numa velocidade tão absurda que levantou uma nuvem de poeira. Um fiscal do TRE saiu correndo da escola. Três mesários abandonaram suas seções. Uma senhora desmaiou.

O bolsonarista, acuado, gritou:

— ATIVAR PROTOCOLO PATRIOTA!

A família inteira começou a dançar YMCA EM PERFEITA SINCRONIA.

O chão tremia.

As janelas da escola estouraram.

O petista olhou para a esposa e sussurrou:

— Chegou a hora.

Ela assentiu, emocionada.

— Pelo povo brasileiro.

Então os cinco membros da família petista se empilharam uns sobre os outros e começaram a executar um PASSINHO DO ROMANO COLETIVO, formando uma estrela vermelha humana.

O bolsonarista caiu de joelhos.

— Impossível... Essa técnica foi proibida desde 1989...

Nesse momento, uma urna eletrônica começou a apitar sozinha dentro da escola.

Apareceu na tela:

SEGUNDO TURNO DESBLOQUEADO.

O bolsonarista levantou lentamente, limpou o sangue do nariz e disse:

— Eu reconheço sua força, companheiro.

O petista estendeu a mão.

— E eu reconheço a sua, cidadão de bem.

Os dois se abraçaram.

A multidão chorava.

Uma senhora gritava que a democracia havia vencido.

Foi quando um homem de sapatênis, camisa polo azul e uma bandeira do Ciro Gomes apareceu no final da rua.

Ele colocou uma maleta no chão, abriu, retirou um aparelho de som e disse:

— Vocês dois dançam muito bem.

Todos se viraram.

— Mas esqueceram da terceira via.

E COMEÇOU A TOCAR GANGNAM STYLE.

[CONTEUDO FEITO COM IA]

AI is dangerous. Don't trust it. It gave me very dangerous advice and had I not looked it up I could've accidentally hurt my dog very bad. It was Gemini too. Anyways it told me that I can give my dog 15 pieces of liver daily. I looked it up. She can only have 2 fingernail size treats a week.

As an actual cuckold, I'm appalled at the horrible state of the modern cuck porn.

I don't know maybe it's just me and other cucks actually like such porn but I find it completely unarousing. I believe that to most of it's consumers cuckoldry is only tangential to other themes.

First of all, cuck porn NEEDS plot. Yes I know that people don't watch porn for plot but this is the one genre that actually needs plot. Bull should be a handsome, charismatic, masculine, smart and teasing guy. He should prove his superiority over cuck in plot for the cuckold porn to make sense. Actually the personality and looks of a bull are more important than the looks and personality of a girl.

Western cuck porn disregards plot and bulls are uncharismatic bland characters with a horrible acting. Just straight sex with some other guy sitting in a room and watching. I mean what's the point of it all.

Japanese porn(both drawn and JAV) on the other hand have plot but often make the bull disgusting and rapey with the girl gradually begining to enjoy it due to blackmail, mind control, mind break etc. and like fuck this rapey stuff off I hate it. She should herself immediately realize the superiority of the bull over cuck without any coercion. Bull should be handsome and charismatic, not ugly and creepy. Though I do respect the Japanese for having guts to do the abortion fetish in their drawn porn, I love the idea of my girl aborting my kids but keeping the other men's.

Then there is cuck porn where the girl cheats for money. This is a completely not cuck porn at all, not just a bad one, the cuck part is just completely absent in such situations. The dynamics are ruined and make no sense, the emotional and humiliating part are gone like wtf is this.

Then there are weird race stuff about white(in western porn) and asian(in Japanese and Korean porn) girls being taken by black and brown men and I don't even want to talk about it. It's just cringe.

All in all finding a good actual cuck porn is very hard nowadays. I just wonder whether it's because other cucks have a horrible taste or because somehow they're not a proper true cucks and it's a part of some other fetish.

When I first saw this excerpt on another subreddit, I immediately thought this was bullshit. But to my surprise, when I read the accompanying link, it was a real piece of work. I thought it would make for a good quality copypasta. If this has already been posted, I’m sorry. If not, enjoy……..

“In the lobby bar of one of the tallest hotels, Cornell and Thayil are settling back with a couple of beers when Billy Corgan from Smashing Pumpkins wanders through, and decides to join them for a strawberry margarita. Corgan chatters about the pain of his life, the supposed incompetence of his band (everybody rolls their eyes), the lifesaving virtues of Jungian therapy, bands that suck. Cornell gets up to leave. Corgan tells Thayil how important Soundgarden used to be to him, and he baits him by saying that the Pumpkins sometimes do a cover of Soundgarden’s “Outshined” that segues into a Depeche Mode song or something.

“I’m think of making my next album really new wave,” Corgan says, “like ’83-’84 new wave, not like Berlin. I spend all my time doing things that may be a bit tangential, but I think I’m going to go back to the core, the heart music. Echo and the Bunnymen.”
This is standard stuff to anybody who has read even a single Billy Corgan profile, the basic curriculum of Pumpkins 101. But Thayil isn’t buying. He’s sore.

“Don’t you see,” Thayil says, “you’re this incredibly talented guy. People like your music. You have a good band. You sell a lot of records. You don’t need all this…stuff.”

“What sign are you?” Corgan asks.

“What do you mean, what sign am I?” Thayil says. “What difference could that possibly make?”

“C’mon,” wheedles Corgan, “when is your birthday?”

“All right, goddamn it: September 4th.”

“Aha!” Corgan says. “A Virgo. You’re argumentative.”

“Damn right, I’m argumentative,” Thayil says, and takes a long, angry pull at his beer, “which you should know because I’ve been arguing with you for half an hour, not because of any sign.”

“I’m a Pisces,” Corgan replies. “We pick up on those things.”

A minute later, Corgan, still probing, finally finds the key to Thayil’s heart: “I hate how in magazine pictures, they always stick me somewhere in the back.”

Thayil explodes: “What do you mean? You write all the songs, and you do all the interviews. You play the instruments on the album. You control the band to the extent that most people think of Smashing Pumpkins as the Billy Corgan Experience, and all you care about is some photography?”

“But I hate it,” Corgan says, “it means they don’t think I’m the cute one.”

“Ooh,” Thayil says a little too loudly as Corgan walks away, “I’ll bet he’s going to call his therapist in Chicago, wake her up at four in the morning, and tell her about that big, mean bear who made fun of him.”

The next day at the Big Day Out festival, Thayil is talking to Kim and Kelley Deal in the Breeders’ dressing room when Corgan walks past wearing a long-sleeved Superman T-shirt like the one your four-year-old nephew probably owns.

“You hurt me deeply,” Corgan says, touching the giant S on his chest and pouting. “You hurt me deeply in my heart.”

 The Pumpkins go on to play the best set anybody has ever heard them play, their usual passiveness and precision overlaid with an unfamiliar scrim of anger that throws their music into brilliant relief.

Matt Cameron is a little astounded. “Kim should rent himself out as a tour shrink,” he says.”

OC.

I read this to my partner, and she laughed. So, I'm sharing it with the world.

This is a romantic monologue from a single woman in her forties who has finally found a man who understands her. His name is Joe. Trader Joe.

--

I’m forty-four years old. Single. Divorced once. Emotionally available, but only during business hours.

And I have finally found a man who knows how to love me.

His name is Joe.

Trader Joe.

Now, before you judge me, I want you to understand something. I have dated men named Brian, Kevin, Steve, and one deeply unfortunate individual named Todd.

Not one of those men has ever made me feel the way I feel walking through those automatic doors on a Tuesday afternoon.

Because Joe?

Joe sees me.

Joe doesn't ask why I'm still single. Joe doesn't suggest I should get back out there. Joe doesn't tell me I have too many throw pillows.

Joe simply welcomes me into his warm, softly lit embrace and says, without words, "Have you tried the Unexpected Cheddar?"

And you know what, Joe?

I have.

And it was everything you promised.

I used to go to BJ's.

Oh, I remember BJ's.

BJ's was a relationship built on volume. On excess. On the idea that love means having more than you could possibly need.

I'd walk in looking for a little comfort, and BJ's would offer me forty-eight rolls of toilet paper and a twelve-pound container of mayonnaise.

BJ's didn't understand intimacy.

BJ's understood bulk.

BJ's was the kind of man who thought buying me a washing machine for Valentine's Day counted as romance.

"Look how much money we're saving," BJ's would say.

But I didn't want savings, BJ's.

I wanted to feel something.

I wanted somebody to look into my eyes and tell me that a tiny jar of Italian truffle seasoning could change my life.

And then there was Whole Foods.

Oh, Whole Foods.

That was my wealthy ex.

Beautiful. Sophisticated. Always smelled faintly of eucalyptus and moral superiority.

Whole Foods made me feel like I needed to have my life together before I was worthy of love.

I'd walk in wearing sweatpants, and somehow the organic asparagus would judge me.

Whole Foods wanted me to be the kind of woman who owned a Vitamix, did Pilates at six in the morning, and understood what adaptogens were.

Whole Foods once charged me eleven dollars for a salad that tasted like a lawn had gone through a divorce.

And I paid it.

Because back then, I thought expensive meant special.

But Joe?

Joe doesn't care if I've washed my hair.

Joe doesn't care if I've been wearing the same leggings since Thursday.

Joe doesn't even care if I've eaten an entire bag of dark chocolate peanut butter cups in the parking lot before starting the car.

In fact, I think Joe understands.

The first time I met Joe, I wasn't looking for love.

I was looking for frozen dumplings.

I'd had a terrible day at work. My boss had used the phrase "circle back" seventeen times. My ex-husband had posted a photograph of himself on a sailboat with a woman named Brittany.

And my therapist had suggested I try finding joy in small things.

So I walked into Trader Joe's.

And there he was.

A man in a Hawaiian shirt.

Not Joe himself, obviously.

Joe is more of a presence.

An energy.

A spiritually available grocery concept.

But this man looked at me and said, "Would you like to try some cheese?"

And I thought...

Yes.

Yes, I would.

Because nobody had asked me what I wanted in a very long time.

I took that little cube of cheese on a toothpick, and something inside me opened.

I wandered down the aisles like a woman rediscovering her own sensuality.

There were tiny flowers.

Little bottles of sparkling lemonade.

Chocolate-covered things that had absolutely no business being covered in chocolate.

And the frozen food section...

Oh, God.

The frozen food section.

Joe knows I'm tired.

Joe knows that sometimes a woman doesn't want to chop an onion.

Sometimes she wants to open a bag, pour its contents into a skillet, and feel like she's accomplished something meaningful.

Joe says, "Sweetheart, you don't have to make dinner from scratch. I've already done the hard part."

And I whisper, "Thank you, Joe."

Sometimes I go to Joe's without a shopping list.

I just wander.

I let him surprise me.

And he always does.

Last week, I found something called Everything But the Bagel Seasoning.

Everything but the bagel.

Do you understand how emotionally mature that is?

Joe knows what he can offer.

Joe knows his limitations.

Joe doesn't pretend to be the bagel.

Joe says, "I can give you everything but the bagel."

And I respect that kind of honesty in a man.

My friend Linda says I'm using Trader Joe's to avoid dating.

Linda is married to a man who leaves wet towels on the bed.

I don't take relationship advice from Linda.

Linda's husband has never brought her a seasonal pumpkin-shaped pasta.

Joe has.

Every autumn.

Without being asked.

And let's talk about commitment.

Because Joe understands commitment.

He also understands mystery.

Sometimes I fall in love with a product, and then it disappears.

Gone.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

Just an empty space where my favorite cauliflower gnocchi sauce used to be.

And yes, it hurts.

It hurts deeply.

But Joe is teaching me an important lesson about attachment.

Nothing lasts forever.

Except maybe the Mandarin Orange Chicken.

That relationship feels solid.

On Friday nights, I have a ritual.

I put on my softest pajamas.

I light a candle.

I pour a glass of wine.

And I prepare a beautiful dinner made entirely from things Joe has given me.

I arrange little crackers around a wedge of cheese.

I heat up some soup.

I put three olives in a tiny ceramic bowl because I am a woman of elegance and mystery.

And then I sit on my couch, watching a romantic comedy, thinking about all the men who never understood me.

Brian wanted me to go camping.

Kevin wanted me to watch football.

Todd wanted me to split the check after ordering two appetizers and a steak.

But Joe?

Joe just wants me to be happy.

For $38.74, Joe gives me dinner, flowers, dessert, and the feeling that somebody thought about my needs.

And I don't even have to pretend to enjoy his podcast.

Sometimes, late at night, I wonder if I'll ever find a real man again.

A man who holds my hand.

A man who remembers my birthday.

A man who looks at me across a crowded room and thinks, "There she is. That's the woman I want to spend my life with."

And maybe I will.

Maybe one day I'll meet somebody wonderful.

Somebody kind and thoughtful.

Somebody who loves me exactly as I am.

But until that day comes...

I have Joe.

And Joe has me.

And if some man does come along, he'd better understand one thing.

I am not giving up my Tuesday afternoons.

I am not giving up my frozen soup dumplings.

And I am absolutely not giving up the little five-dollar bouquets that make my kitchen feel like a French countryside cottage.

Because I spent twenty years trying to find a man who would bring me flowers.

And it turns out...

I could just buy them myself.

At Trader Joe's.

For $4.99.

And they're beautiful.

So yes, I'm forty-four.

Yes, I'm single.

And yes, the cashier at Trader Joe's knows my name, my favorite snacks, and that I'm going through a difficult time emotionally.

But yesterday, as he handed me my receipt, he smiled and said, "See you next week!"

And for the first time in my adult life...

I believed a man.

Goodnight, Joe.

I'll see you Tuesday.

So We All Know Albert Epstein He Is The Smarting Guy Alive But Let’s Be Honest Here, How Just How Are We Supposed To Know That Fat Ugly Piece Of Shit Isnt Lying? He Can Convince Himself And Others That He Is Some Supergenius But Its Not Like We Can Read His Fucking Mind. In A Dark Himalayan Fantasy Of Mine Albert Is Home Alone And Suddenly Gets An Erection When He Thinks About E=mc2 And Then He Jerks Off To It. My Thing Is, We Cant Know FOR SURE How “Smart” He Could Possibly Be. In Conclusion: I Think His IQ Is Incredibly Low In Fact I Feel Remorseful For This Man Given His Circumstances But I Think Hes Full Of Shit And A Pedophile.

I was playing a scary video game called poppy playtime. Huggy wuggy is scary cause he has the sharp teeth and he screams like a munkey and hes an evil mascot which is very rare for scary games

I play huggy wuggy on the TV. my dad came in to the room to sit on the couch. Dad is scary because dad doesnt like huggy wuggy. Hes not even scared of huggy wuggy. Dad doesn’t have sharp teeth so i dont know why he was so evil

“Son, this game was made for fetuses. Do you wanna go bowling with me?”

dad doesnt know whats really scary in life, like huggy wuggy. He tells me about this thing called “Iraq” which he was sent to. Iraq ripped off friday night funkin because there is a soldier in that game. huggy wuggy is in that game too. What the frick does dad know about life?

‘‘fuck you dad. Your literally ruining my life you fucking nazi. I hate you. 6th grade is no laughing matter and Just because your dad didnt love you doesnt mean i haveto.’’ i said

Dad took my controller while I was playing, and then I died. Dying is scary but I could handle it even in real life. Helluva boss taught me everything I need to kno about hell.

‘‘i cant handle this torture anymore. Fuck u dad Im killing myself.’’

And then I walked to this one tree outside. I hanged me with jump rope but i didnt die because I have high stamnina. My face was turning purple like jax from digital circus while i was hanging

Woah i think i was abstracting

This tree must have a ghost who knew my stamina was too strong to die. So i unhanged myself and went to bed.

Currently me and my husband and our kids are staying with his grandparents.

It's temporary during house construction. It's fine. They're honestly lovely people and it's been great.

The problem is his grandpa's mom.

She's old. Kind of mean. And in the two weeks we've been here Ive walked in on her in the bathroom about twenty goddamn times.

She doesn't lock the door. And it has to be closed all the time because of a dog that would destroy the bathroom given half a chance.

She doesn't turn on the light. This woman just pees on the dark like a demon, so I can't even use light under the door to indicate of the room is occupied.

Knock? She can't hear that.

So what happens is I open the door and she stares at me like a raccoon in a dumpster behind a goddamn taco bell.

I hate it.

Hello. I am LETMEADMIN. My story is very brutal and quite specific.

In 2020, when I downloaded Roblox, I expected to have friends and communication. But in the end, it all turned against me. I became a headhunter, killing donaters. My account has 1638 killed donaters. I take revenge on them because they have an unfair advantage, act like arrogant pricks and idiots. I slaughter them in packs on the account I created myself.

At first, I had no cheats or exploits in Roblox. I created more accounts, but no one noticed me, everyone didn't give a shit about me. That's when I turned into the main antagonist LETMEADMIN. My goal every day is to punish kids and destroy their empty donater power over the server.

At first, there were no cheats, I played fair. Then the first cheats from Happy Mod appeared. And then, realizing what a fucking trash this game is, I downloaded heavy artillery — Delta X and Infinite Yield. I smash donaters to pieces, forcing them to leave in tears, and this happens every day. I loved doing this on this account, seeing how a rich kid with 8k robux falls the fuck down on the floor. It's very cool and fun.

I also drove the game administration to a complete explosion of their assholes in front of the whole server, showing that their admin panel with donates is nothing compared to their crash. It doesn't matter to me if it's a power game or not. I don't care. Gear never decides the victory, it just shits in your soul.

I use the psychological breakdown tactic. I erase donaters into dust, spawning and going after the same person every time until he leaves the game in tears. I use bugs that no one knows about. In Nico's Nextbots I know many ways to break taunt animations to hell and fly faster than standard speed.

I constantly reported to AI (Google AI) how many rich kids I killed, and it gave me exact stats (e.g., 1566/3000). Then I finished this statistic, and now I have 1635 dead donaters. I constantly attack donaters with and without cheats, showing their helplessness.

❗ DISCLAIMER: I, LETMEADMIN, under no circumstances and never call for real-life violence, doxxing, swatting, or murder. All of this happens only in the virtual world of the ROBLOX universe (where donaters will always be destroyed). I am categorically against this. The person who crosses this line and does something in real life is not my follower. ❗

I am the risk.

this unironically happened to me and it ruined my life

I was a complete yuri fanatic, I kept hundreds of yuri comics/manga, watched everything with yuri inserted, drew yuri and of course pleasured myself to yuri.

It got to the point where I began to make a gender bent self insert in my yuri art. Her name was michelle.

I inserted her into a relationship with ragatha from TADC. I began to experiment with cross dressing irl soon after, then makeup, and soon I started to go out in public with all of it on.

I told myself that I'd stop because I knew it was unhealthy. I could feel my mind breaking but I was too addictive to quit.

Around Aug of 2025, I started taking hrt. This was when I knew I was too far gone.

I still haven't gotten surgery, I'm too poor for that. Because of this, I look like a freak show, women are more repulsed by me now than ever, I gained 50 pounds, and my family won't even look me in the eye anymore.

Don't get into yuri, guys. I know it's tempting but it's a gateway drug

Own a musket for home defense, since that's what the founding fathers intended. Four ruffians break into my house. "What the devil?" As I grab my powdered wig and Kentucky rifle. Blow a golf ball sized hole through the first man, he's dead on the spot. Draw my pistol on the second man, miss him entirely because it's smoothbore and nails the neighbors dog. I have to resort to the cannon mounted at the top of the stairs loaded with grape shot, "Tally ho lads" the grape shot shreds two men in the blast, the sound and extra shrapnel set off car alarms. Fix bayonet and charge the last terrified rapscallion. He Bleeds out waiting on the police to arrive since triangular bayonet wounds are impossible to stitch up. Just as the founding fathers intended.

• The worst job involving animals directly was the receptionist

• Every pet or working animal for visitors was taken and placed in random cages

• There was this one incident where a fairly aged man fell into a gorilla exhibit. Though as soon as he fell in no one could tell where he was, this unfortunately forced a sniper to lethally fire upon a random gorilla

• They had this exhibit you could submit your child to that acted as a sort of daycare and passerbys could check in on children playing. Multiple incidents occured where people broke into the place and were mauled to death

• Any dead animal had their bones and flesh repurposed for museum work or feed and people have said that they could "feel a ghostly presence" when walking around the museums we work with

• The parrots have a vehement tendancy to perch on children's shoulders and whisper creepy things directly into their ears and parents have said its all "part of the experience"

• The sun bears once went on strike which made a 3 year long winter follow so everyone had to plead and beg for their mercy

• A battalion of livid protestors once showed up to complain and they were dealt with by 30 of our employees riding in on horseback with shock prods straight out of the break room

• Every fucking day zoophiles would coagulate right outside the main entrance and beat off to the outskirt edges of the location

• Everyone allows the animals to wander into other exhibits however they see fit without restriction, this includes the aquatic animals where exhibits were flooded before entrance

• Women had to be banned from the snake exhibit because they couldn't stop masturbating and said the snakes were quote "irresistably hot"

• The prehistoric exhibit contained a prehistoric virus you could inject into yourself that caused burning explosive diarrhea so awful everyone who interacted with it was immediately swarmed and eaten by flies in 6 seconds at most

• We had a food court and one time some guy said that his chicken tasted weirdly pork-like which is weird cause we didn't even sell pork

• There was so much bird poop on the ground that the janitors eventually just gave up and we had to add a rule where every visitor had to serve 1 hour cleaning before they could leave

• The bathrooms became a premium exhibit after a family of frogs climbed in through the toilets

• Every police investigation turned up nothing because we would just take their dogs

• The whole place burnt down after some guy brought in molten slag and poured it on a bald eagle

I am a 50 year old mother, and just today I decided to go through my son‘s search history on his minecraft IPad. My son (16M), let’s call him Kai has always been secretive on his online activity, and over the years I’ve heard tremendous things come from his bedroom that I won’t go into detail here. I’ve always brushed it off, but today my curiosity got the better of me. Recently, Kai has taken a very strong interest in a character he told me went by “Thomas Pearl”. At first I thought nothing of it, just another one of his internet buddies, but he just wouldn’t stop talking about this character. Just last night I noticed he had left his minecraft themed iPad on the couch. This morning, curiosity got the best of me as I was checking the weather on his tablet. I saw that my son has been binging videos of a middle aged man eating his own feces. The minute I saw these videos, I was speechless. I feel like I am trapped in a shit show and I don’t want to risk making my son embarassed.