I use male pronouns: he, him, his. this is a random dumping ground for stuff I like. Just me and my fandoms.
watching a tutorial video full screen and thinking the cursor in the video is yours
all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.
Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher.
Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts.
We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day.
Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it)
That is, until Ms. Mormino came along.
Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!”
Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance.
The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl.
At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up.
We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though.
Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy.
"I have a shoe."
Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit.
A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him."
Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away.
A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside.
"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone.
Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris.
Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind.
Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.
"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing.
”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino.
”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded.
"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled.
Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter.
"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.
Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.
Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino.
And pissed right in his pants.
The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb.
We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided.
Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed:
”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!”
A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.
"That’s what she said."
Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.
FUCKING READ IT IT’S WORTH IT
In a secluded area of Mount Hiei, shrouded in mist, the Japanese Institute for Magical Practices spirals gracefully into the sky. The school is a series of elegant pagodas built to impossible heights with a multitude of connecting bridges crisscrossing like a bird’s nest. On the ground is an elaborate garden with a sprinkling of ponds. A kaleidoscope of fish zigzag through the water, sometimes even taking to the air like birds due to rather peculiar abilities gained over time through overexposure to magic. Students often take immense pleasure in enchanting a cherry blossom downpour to trail people who have wronged them; the charm usually remains intact for well over a week unless a teacher takes pity upon the student and dispels the spell. While they have mastered wandless magic through the use of talismans, pockets of the Japanese wizarding community have slowly begun to adopt the use of wands following its rise in popularity all over the world, although wandless magic still takes precedence, and wands are more often tucked behind their ears or used to hold up their hair than to practice magic.
Today’s Gender of the day is: Honey Milk Tea
what is this and how do i achieve it
Hey! So, Coming Out Day is coming up soon (Oct. 11) and I just want to post a very stern reminder to NOT out anyone without their explicit permission.
Do NOT out anyone.
artemisnihil I miss the harkness bit but also the queer community is better here and says less dumb shit abt gender so it balances.
that makes sense. I guess you got lucky with that. I went to a NU Pride meeting and it was pretty interesting. we were talking about bisexuality/pansexuality. it was all good until I shared my frustration that every relationship im in is automatically labelled as “queer.” Like trans people can only date bi people, because who else would want em, right? I said something along the lines of “If I date a straight girl that doesn’t make her less straight.” And someone replied, with the best intentions, something like “but it means that she is open to not-straight stuff y’know? bicurious maybe?” And im just like no????? i boy. she girl. that is a straight relationship if we say it is??? but everyone else was just nodding along like “yes yes this fictitious straight girl who likes you must like girls because you are part girl” and that’s when I knew that I wasn’t in a safe space
And suddenly I really wished that you were there to have my back
I really miss you
But guys, think about super close platonic relationships
- Platonic reassuring shoulder/arm/hand grabbing
- Platonic tight, meaningful hugs
- Platonic late-night deep conversations that end in at least one person holding back tears or sobbing
- Platonic sleeping in the same bed
- Platonic forehead touches
- Platonic staring into each other’s eyes like the other person is the world
- Platonic CUDDLES
SUPER CLOSE PLATONIC RELATIONSHIPS
i cannot believe that we were robbed of this book scene
This is no joke. These are direct lines from the book.
See what you’re missing if you don’t read the book