Me tomorrow at 9 am: Sorry, I am unprepared for your class because you gave me a midterm with vague instructions due tomorrow at 5 pm. Here is the separate essay due today.

Me tomorrow at 1145 am: Sorry, I am unprepared for this committee meeting because you gave me a midterm with vague instructions due tomorrow. Here is the mini-presentation for this discussion.

Me Thursday at 9 am (and again at 4): What is statistics? Where is the coffee? Here is the syntax. Stop asking me to write code and then read theory about math.

Me Thursday at 455 pm: Here is your midterm. On the silver lining, if I fail, I get to go home.


A boy with slick shined black hair and gnats in his smile wants
to know if I can write my number in Chipotle sauce on the bun.

His friend requests exactly eighteen black olives.

A girl on a cell phone informs me that the cucumbers and tomatoes
on her sub absolutely cannot under any circumstance touch each other,
but it’s okay if they, like, nudge.

My back is a popular lunch table. My sweat is everyone’s
favorite flavor.

Sometimes, people attempt to engage in some sort of strange
casual chatting when I ask what I can get for them.
Pro tip: Yeah dude, the weather outside is frightful.
Now tell me what you want on your fucking sandwich.

I am literally paid to smile.

Understand that if you try to crudely flirt with me
in the toppings line, I will give you the meat with all the fat.

I am not your babe. I do not owe you a single thing
but this here sandwich and a complimentary napkin.

There is mayonnaise on the bridge of my glasses
and my fingers are pruning with pickle juice.

I accidentally charge one kid two thousand and sixty-three
dollars for a white macadamia cookie instead of $2.63. My hair smells
like Jalapenos. There is exactly two minutes and thirty-six seconds

before we close and my shift is over, so naturally the entire
football team decides now is prime time to order thirty sandwiches.

When I clock out and start my homework,
my textbook is stained with spicy mustard.

I will never spit in your sub for revenge. I admit:
I am thankful to be working at all. So I will smile
with all my teeth. I will swaddle your sub in paper
like a newborn. I will tell you to have a good day.

But tonight, I will wash my apron
in the blood of rude customers.

WORKING AT THE SANDWICH SHOP, by Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)

Pssst. You.

I did this radio show and the deejay asks me, ‘What if you woke up tomorrow and you were beautiful?’
What do you mean ‘what if’?
He said, ‘What if you woke up and you were blonde and you had blue eyes and you were 5’11 and you weighed 100 pounds and you were beautiful? What would you do?’
And I said, ‘Well, I probably wouldn’t get up ‘cause I’d be too weak to stand.’
And I felt very sorry for him, ‘cause if that’s the only kind if person that you think is beautiful, you must not see very much beauty in the world.
And I think everybody is beautiful. And if you don’t think that I am beautiful, you are missing out. Because I am so beautiful.

Margaret Cho: Beautiful (via justanothersinger)

I want this tattooed on the inside of everyone’s eyelids.

(via aka14kgold)

I woulda smoove cussed his ass out on air.

That’s so fucked up

(via tashabilities)

(via dandelionchild)

rudy francisco- my honest poem. 

"i like ginger ale. a lot."