I was washing my hair a little while ago and remembered a moment from preschool. A few of my classmates were playing pretend and deciding upon the characters they would be embodying.
I, of course, insisted that I would be a knight. The girls had no problem with this - they liked being picked up and carried back and forth across puddles, which was my go-to chivalrous feat of strength whenever we played pretend games like that. More importantly, it meant less competition for the coveted role of princess.
They went back and forth arguing about who should be the princess during the game, each one making a case for why she deserved the gig. Somehow they decided that the princess must be the girl with the longest hair - infallible logic. They ended up deciding that the only fair way to judge hair length was by pulling out a single strand from each of their heads and comparing the length… which piqued the interest of another classmate, a little black girl with coily curls, whose single strand of hair turned out to be at least a third longer than anyone else’s straight hairs when she triumphantly stretched it out. This confused and enraged one of the white would-be princesses, but I had read enough fantasy to know that it was exactly the kind of unexpected hero sword-in-the-stone twist that should determine the One True Princess and the rightful heir to my knightly services.
I don’t remember how the game panned out, but at some point there were several princesses and someone decided to upgrade to queen.
Hey is the build a bear employee supposed to force us to jump up and down or are we getting hazed
as a build-a-bear employee it is my honor to happily inform you that we get to make everyone do whatever the fuck we want during a heart ceremony. jump to get that heart beating. rub that heart to your knees so your furry friend always needs you. rub it to your toes so it’s totally awesome! shake it up so it’s got enough energy to hang out with you all day! close your eyes, make a wish, and give it a kiss you helpless motherfucker
today, in random thoughts that occur to me while cleaning my apartment:
Tom Riddle was raised in a London orphanage in the 1930s, probably in the east end, which means there is a nonzero chance that Lord Voldemort actually has a thick Cockney accent.
Some people: Pokemon have to have good lore and an interesting naming scheme for me to like them. They can’t just be some stupid, slapped together design! It has to be well thought out and deep.
My dumb ass: I love Whiscash because it’s a catfish with whiskers. That’s why its called Whiscash.
It also has a w on his forehead. The w stands for Whiscash :-)
my husband says that Whiscash “looks like he wants to make you pancakes” and honestly that’s just the tea
when u were a kid there were only 2 moral alignments: kids who hated the sound of joints popping/cracking and kids who purposely popped their joints to make everyone else cringe
i almost forgot the elusive third category: kids who were entirely unaffected by joint cracking noises but couldn’t crack their own joints either so they just had to sit there and take it
Of all the communities for one of my posts to circulate in, the chronic pain community was not expected but honestly that’s even funnier than this as an elder scrolls shitpost
what’s with all these stories of hundred plus year old vampires falling in love with teenagers like yes they might LOOK your age but you’ve got a few centuries of maturity on them I want vampires falling in love with 40 year old suburban housewives and business executives and preschool teachers not high school students
vampires falling in love with spry 90-year-old great-grandmothers
