Merf. Thinking is Hard.

Jha can has random thoughtz about tapirs, kitties, comics, pretty people, social justice, things in general.

 

red3blog:

* Men who don’t respect consent don’t have a special right to keep that private.

* Men who threaten violence against women don’t have a special right to keep that private.

* Men who disregard a woman’s sexual agency to objectify her don’t have a special right to keep that private.

* Men who abuse women don’t have a special right to keep that private.

(via lavienoire)

agirlcalledfrost said: OH OH OH PLEASE TELL US A BOARDING SCHOOL STORY PRETTY PLEASE

ofgeography:

zacharonieandcheese:

ofgeography:

so my school had this thing called “senior skip day,” except that senior skip day didn’t exist and every year the administration sent out emails in the spring that were like DON’T FUCKIN SKIP CLASS OR YOU WILL RECEIVE RESTRICTION (restriction was like, my boarding school’s equivalent of detention where instead of staying after school you had to go to bed early and help stuff envelopes advertising the summer program until your hands were BLOODIED AND CRIPPLED BY CARPAL TUNNEL) and every year the seniors were like YOLO THEY CAN’T PUNISH ALL OF US!!!!!

  • spoiler alert: yes they can? THEY ALWAYS CAN.
  • 200 years of american high school and teenagers still think that there is a cap limit on kids in detention and that you can leave after 15 minutes if the teacher doesn’t show up.

anyway, my senior year, we all got together and nattered at each other until some brave soldier (i feel like it was my friend paula but WHO KNOWS) was like “OK SENIOR SKIP DAY IS THIS THURSDAY!!!! NOBODY GO TO CLASS OR UR A SCAB.”

  • she didn’t say scab because she’s not from the 1920s and we aren’t newsies, though this story would be way more interesting if we were
  • what she said was “YOLO THEY CAN’T PUNISH ALL OF US!!!!!”
  • except not yolo because it was 2009 and drake hadn’t been invented yet except as a dear sweet boy in a wheelchair.

we also used this email system to communicate with one another that has very deeply informed the way i understand email and which probably makes it very frustrating to be my friend and receive emails that have subject lines like “URGENT” and then just 42 links to the same florida georgia line youtube video.

  • I’M NOT ASHAMED, but in that way where like i kind of AM ashamed so i’m really aggressively NOT ashamed? 

so the day of reckoning rolls around and my alarm goes off at 8 (class started at 8:05 but i liked to PLAY WITH FIRE when it came to being late; my mom actually asked the school to stop emailing her when i was a sophomore because i was late so often that their rote “Mrs. Ofgeography we are emailing you to say—” was CLOGGING UP HER INBOX and she was like “i GET IT MY CHILD IS THE MOST BORING MISCREANT OF ALL TIME.”) and i looked at my roommate elle and she looked at me and went, “you going?”

"hell no," i said. "YOLO. they can’t punish all of us."

elle, who was far prettier and far cooler than i was with the notable exception of her obsession with tswift’s “love story” and her tendency to look at the endangered species list and cry sometimes during study hall, quickly bizounced across the street to this shopping center thing where all the cool kids smoked in secret where huge trucks dropped off clothes for the Dress Barn. i think there were also tennis courts nearby. more importantly there was this chinese food delivery place and a lil restaurant that made HELLA BAGELS.

  • WHAT KIND OF BAGELS?
  • FUCKIN
  • HELLA.

off goes elle! meanwhile i’m like, “yessssss i’m gonna use senior skip day to watch 14 hours of tv shows and eat frozen peanut butter bars that i stole from the dining hall! I’M GONNA LIVE LIKE I’M 23 ALONE IN CHICAGO ON A WEEKEND WHEN MY ONLY PLAN IS TAKEOUT AND CUDDLING WITH THE FAUX-SNOW-LEOPARD BLANKET I WILL ONE DAY SURELY OWN.” 

of course, during this time the administration was continuing to send out emails that reminded us with increasing urgency that senior skip day was NOT A THING and that we were ALL GETTING RESTRICTION if we didn’t get our STUPID ASSES TO CLASS, GODDAMNIT, WE ARE NOT RUNNING A CIRCUS HERE. 

but i was like! yolo, motherfuckers!!! i already got into college, YOU CAN’T TOUCH ME.

at some point during the day elle and our friend ginna came back to the room with takeout from the chinese delivery place and we sat on our floor eating it and probably watching veronica mars or looking at the endangered species list and crying.

all of a sudden, elle said, “guys shut up, guys shut up, GUYS SHUT UP,” and ginna and i were like, “WHAT we have a LOT to SAY about FRIED FUCKING DUMPLINGS, ELLE," and elle said, "did you hear that?"

"hear what?"

that!”

'that' was the sound of one of our dorm moms, mrs. f, knocking on doors and saying things like, “IF YOU DON'T GET YOUR BUTTS TO CLASS IN 5 MINUTES YOU'RE ON CATEGORY 4 RESTRICTION FOREVER.” elle quickly scampered up our raised beds to hide in the corner, where a tiny human like elle could actually hide from view; i leapt immediately into what we called a closet but was basically a cubby with a flap that was DEFINITELY not meant for a 5'8” individual with knobby as hell knees.

our door, which was never locked because we both hated the effort of typing in the lock code, opened. mrs. f said, “mollyhall?”

i held my breath. 

  • i should add here that i seemed to be operating on like a scooby-doo level of logic where basically i thought that she was somehow NOT ALLOWED to investigate?
  • like, if she can’t see me, there is NO POSSIBLE WAY that she could prove i’m in here, right?
  • she’ll just poke her head in and be like oH GOSH NO KIDS HERE and leave!!

you can see the flaw in my logic.

mrs. f sighed. “mollyhall, i know you’re in here, i literally heard your voice ten seconds ago.”

  • there’s no WAY she guesses i’m in the closet!!!

"mollyhall, i know you’re in the closet."

  • NO YOU DON’T
  • I AM SCHRÖDINGER’S SENIOR

"mollyhall—"

there was a creak. mrs. f stopped. it wasn’t actually a “creak,” so much as this like, prolonged groan? like it’s the sound an elephant would make if it sat on a really large accordion.

i poked my head out of the closet. mrs. f looked at me. elle sat up.

i said, “where’s ginna?”

  • YOU KNOW WHERE GINNA WAS.

"um," said elle, "she’s in the—"

  • GINNA NO

ginna yes.

i really wish i could describe the sound the ceiling made when it collapsed. it sounded a lot like the way losing your breath feels. i sort of remember ginna falling in like, really slow motion, like i could see the expression on her face. i didn’t really think about how i would describe this in words. ginna’s face said:

  • oh no.
  • what have i done?
  • this was a mistake. 
  • i regret a series of decisions that i have made.
  • is there a way out of this?
  • are those oreos under mollyhall’s pillow?
  • why are there oreos under mollyhall’s pillow?
  • mollyhall, you HAVE a food cupboard, what good is a food cupboard if you don’t—
  • oh, crap.

she belly flopped onto the floor. i mean, the girl bounced. and then she just laid there. mrs. f looked at her. elle looked at her. i looked at her, still mostly in the closet. we were all going to get category 4 restriction forever.

ginna said, “hi, mrs. f. i feel like i should explain.”

So basically.

This one day in school, you were told to go to class. You didnt. And then some girl who tried to hide in the ceiling fell through.

  • wasnt that 
  • so
  • much
  • quicker?

"a man goes fishing." - hemingway

apersnicketylemon:

Hey tumblr… so you know how the block feature just doesn’t work right? Well, boy oh boy is it fucking up big time right now. (And yes, I do want this reblogged because this is fucking bullshit).

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Tennessee Williams (via theremina)

(via nezua)

:
All cruel people describe themselves as paragons of frankness.

ultralaser:

eruditechick:

japanophile25:

jakesgotbeats:

missmirandaaraee:

puukani:

The Waitressing Chronicles: Wherein Dani does not refill your soda 20 times just because she thinks it’s SO MUCH FUN.

Tonight was one of the worst kinds of nights you can have in the restaurant industry. It was a pretty busy Saturday night, the kitchen was running smoothly, my coworkers and I were coexisting peacefully, and 99% of my tables were awesome, and I really had fun serving them. (Yes, I did say ‘worst’. I’m getting to that part, hold on….).

Some of them were a little needy, but after you’ve served for a few years, you start developing a sort of spidy-sense about which guests are going to require 30 diet coke refills, 5 servings of chips and salsa and roughly 2 gallons of ranch before they even crack there menus open (seriously…I think some people have such an addiction to ranch, that if it isn’t constantly on their table, regardless of the presence of any other actual food, they start to develop anxiety. Some people need to carry around EPI pens in case of emergency….I carry around ranch dressing. You’re welcome), so I was prepared. Even my needy tables didn’t rattle me too much this evening.

Generally speaking, all of the components necessary for a pretty kick-ass shift were present and accounted for.

And then my tables started cashing out. 10%tip, 5% tip, no tip, no tip, 10%….20%, FINALLY! Oh…wait…they didn’t do their math correctly, that’s actually only a $2 tip. Wonderful.

My enthusiasm for my job and my shift plummeted rapidly and I was ready to stuff my hot towel in my apron and go home faster than the cheapskate at table 7 could say “Keep the Change” as he handed me $40 for his $38.64 tab.

Some people just genuinely don’t know any better, and I recognize that. Sometimes I’m a little off my game, and I fully own up to that as well. But tonight was not one of those nights. I was on point…and I’m good at what I do.

So let me deviate a little bit from my normal Chronicling to give something of a PSA on behalf of waitstaff everywhere.

80% of servers make under minimum wage. This is a fact. A miserable, lamentable fact. The hourly wages that our employers provide are essentially just so that the government has something to take as far as immediate taxes on our tip money, and we don’t get slammed with having to pay it all back at once in April. Our “paychecks”, therefore, are usually somewhere in the neighborhood of $30. If that. It’s a pretty crummy system, and believe me when I say that we’d probably rather be making a steady and reliable hourly wage instead of depending on tips, but unfortunately that’s not the society we live in.

So. Your tip. How much do you tip, and who gets it?

A lot of that depends on the restaurant you’re in. Look around you. Do you see hosts and hostesses? Is there a bartender? A busser? If any/all of these people are present, rest assured that your server does not get to keep all of their tips.

We “tip out” to all of the other support staff (busser, host, QA expo, bartender, etc.) at the end of every shift. The amount of money we tip out to these staff is determined, not by how much money we make, but by how much we’ve sold. For example, at Chilis, I tip out 3% of my total sales at the end of the night. (So if I sold $100 worth of food and drinks, my tip out would be $3. Last night, I had $1100 in sales, and had to leave behind $33).

What does this mean? This means, that if you don’t leave a tip, or only leave $1 or $2 (assuming your total tab wasn’t $10.) your server actually loses money on your table. We still have to pay taxes and tip out based on the amount of food YOU ordered, not to mention that you sat there, and took up one of my tables for 2 hours, which I could easily have flipped twice in that time had you not felt the need to camp out and then leave me $2 (I’M TALKING TO YOU, TABLE 36.)

It pretty much boils down to this: a 10% tip is the bare minimum. It means mediocre service, and relates a relatively neutral - bordering on negative message to your server about how they did their job.  15% indicates that you’re content and happy, and your server was proficient at taking care of you. 20% is excellent. Excellent food, excellent service, excellent everything. That’s how we read your tips.

Also, you can basically write whatever you want in the tip line. If your total bill was $45.67, and you write in a $5,000 tip, and then write “$45.67” on the total line, and sign it…..guess how much I’m authorized to charge your card for? That’s right. $45.67. So please (PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE) double check your math when you’re totaling out your bill. I lost no less than $27 in tips last night simply because people couldn’t Math correctly.  Perhaps ranch dressing in excess has an adverse affect on people’s ability to do basic arithmetic. Or perhaps it’s a complication of margarita-induced brain freezes. Either way. It sucks. Please don’t suck.

Tipping is not optional, and it is not a privilege for the server. Back in the day, it probably was, but unfortunately, that’s no longer the case. When you sit down at a restaurant there is an unspoken understanding between you and your server. It’s their responsibility to make sure you have a stellar, enjoyable and relaxing meal, and it’s your responsibility to make sure they can afford to pay their rent. And before you start in on me (because I can hear the rumbling of offended restaurant goers from here, like distant thunder…calm yourselves, beasts!) about how entitled you are to not-tip, let me tell you now, honey child, I’ve heard every retort in the book.

"Your restaurant should pay you better, that’s not my fault" - Well. Yes. I agree. But they don’t. So it sucks for both of us. But until it’s announced that tipping is no longer needed in the service industry, the burden of determining my “paycheck”falls on you Trust me, I’m not happy about it either.

"You should just be happy that I left anything at all." - If your tip was in addition to the $10/hr my restaurant was paying me, you bet your left shoe I’d be happy for any little bit you wanted to throw my way. But they don’t. And I know you know that, faithful restaurant eater. So when you walk out, leaving me $3 after having waited on your family of 6’s $130 meal, I’m going to interpret that as a direct and intentional personal insult. You may have thought you were coming out on top by not leaving the appropriate $13-$26 that your bill merited, but really now you’re just a dick. And I can promise you that every server who was working that night will know about it. Good luck getting chipper service next time you try to come to our restaurant. We remember.

"Tips are dependent upon how well you do. That’s what TIPS means. ‘To Insure Proper Service." - I almost don’t even want to respond to this one, but unfortunately it’s a very popular notion. First off, lemme just lay it out there that if you believe this, you’re a dumbass. For multiple reasons. If that acronym was in fact true, they would be called “teps” (to…ENSURE….proper service. English, for the win!) and you would give them to be at the beginning on the meal. Because that’s what “to ensure proper service” implies. How comfortable would you be if you had to tip your server at the beginning of the meal, knowing full well that you had to sit there for the next 45 - 60 minutes facing the person you just handed $2 as you ask for 3 more sides of Barbeque sauce, a 5th coke and some ranch.(Just because of reasons. Everyone needs ranch. ) You’d probably be a little uncomfortable, wouldn’t you? You’d probably shell out a lot more were that the case, wouldn’t you? How great is it for you that you get to demand special ordered food and request exactly 45 napkins one at a time from your server and then immediately slip away into the night after leaving your server $1.63. You’re such a champ, a real stand-up type of person. I hope your kids leave legos in the hallway tonight, and you step on three of them as you stumble to the bathroom at 3am.

"Why don’t you just get a real job. You’re choosing this lifestyle" - Whoa buddy, whoa. Did you really just say that to me? Let’s rewind this a little bit. I’m on my feet, running, squatting, lifting trays, clearing dishes, entertaining table after table, pretending to love being regaled by the intricacies of your oh-so-fascinating life and reassuring you that your baby IS the most adorable baby I’ve ever seen for 6-10 hours a day. Usually, unless I have time to take a bathroom break (please note that I didn’t say “need” to take a bathroom break. If. I. Have. Time.) , the first time I get to sit down after walking through those doors and clocking in is when I get back in my car to go home at the end of the night. Someone please tell me how that’s not a “real” job? Or how it’s any less “real” than your 9-5 office job? I bet that desk chair does a real number on your lower back. Your office manager should really look into providing you with the lumbar support you deserve. Please, tell me more about it as I stand at your table side balancing 30lbs of dishes on one hand that you seem to be oblivious to, as you continue to complain about your cushy job.

   You have a valid point though, in that I did choose this job. For me, personally, I know that waiting tables is only temporary. The tips I earn go towards food, gas, insurance, cell phone, car payments, my gym membership, student loans, text books and other basic life-needs (shampoo is expensive ommgggg). I’m also trying to save up so I can afford to move to New York after I finish my Master’s Degree. I’ve got a lot on my plate, but not nearly as much as some of the other wonderful people I work with. Take, for example, the 20 year old single mother of 2 who was in the section next to mine last night. I’m not sure if she finished high school or not, but her kids are her life now. She started waiting tables at 16 so that she could afford to buy diapers and formula every night before she went home. Waiting tables isn’t just her “get me through school” job. It’s her career. It’s how she feeds her kids. So go ahead, leave her no tip on your $120 check, table 23. I hope that pasta you inhaled gives you heartburn. And she’s not the only one. Every single server in any restaurant you eat in is at your mercy to provide for themselves and their family. That is the responsibility you sign up for when you walk into a dine-in restaurant. It is an unfortunate part of American culture.

Don’t like it? Go to a drive-through. That’s what they’re there for. Better yet….stay home. Cook for yourself.

If you can’t afford to tip, you can’t afford to eat out. I know that sounds harsh, but it’s completely true.

Thank you to those of you who are awesome. Awesome people and fun tables actually make this a pretty kickass job a lot of the time. Keep up the awesome. If you doubt your level of restaurant awesome, never fear! It’s totally something you can build up over time, kind of like distance running or heavy lifting. Baby steps. You’ll get there.

YES THIS THANK YOU

"If you can’t afford to tip YOU CANNOT AFFORD TO EAT OUT" …. My head hurts from nodding agreement on every one of these points. I’m smiling and tensed just from reading this. I hate waiting tables … I do not plan for it to be a career it gets me by .. That is all gah some people make me angry when they judge my job

Sorry your paycheck sucks, but tipping isn’t mandatory. It *is* optional, and it makes you sound incredibly entitled to say otherwise.

Yeah how dare she expect to be compensated for her time and effort the way it’s understood she should be by a ubiquitous social contract AS WELL AS those handy dandy tipping guides almost all restaurants print out onto the bottom of their checks.

it’s embarassing that ao many ppl think paying people for their work is optional, like, good luck playing that out to it’s logical conclusion

fyblackwomenart:

Hawkeye by Zirngibl

WHOA…. now there’s some cool steampunk!

fyblackwomenart:

Hawkeye by Zirngibl

WHOA…. now there’s some cool steampunk!

(Source: blkwomenart.com, via fantasyofcolor)

M: This week, I discovered a terrible Earth disease called ‘loneliness’.

O: Do many people on Earth suffer from this illness?

M: Oh yes, sir. And how they suffer.

(Source: willliamgraham, via maybethings)

gabbysilang:

these would go so well with my YOLO knuckle ring

gabbysilang:

these would go so well with my YOLO knuckle ring

septembriseur:

Wow, OK, I had kind of conceptualized that Joss Whedon post along the lines of “here are some random thoughts that I’m gonna store behind a cut in case a few people are interested,” not expecting so many people to reblog it. But since there was so much interest, I ended up thinking about it more. And the direction my thinking took me in was this: what is it that women find attractive in male and female characters, and to what extent does this match up with what men assume that women find attractive in these characters?

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Reblog if you have read fan fiction better than some published books

maybethings:

shazrolane:

desert-neon:

bumblegabe:

Help me prove a point

I have never reblogged anything faster.

Unfortunate for the books, but speaks loads about the quality of some fan fics

One for Sorrow…Lamp Black, Wolf Grey…The Last Werewolf…yes, this is a DEFINITE reblog.