Category Archives: DeLorean DMC-12

Stories of our pasts

Fire burn, cauldron bubble, etc, etc.

I have two confessions to make.

One. This post contains spoilers circa 1993.

Two. I am terrible with horror movies. This isn’t normal level oh God I’m so freaked out and I might jump a little while watching scared. This is I didn’t sleep for two days after I saw The Ring and was positive that bitch was hanging out outside my window waiting for me to let my guard down scared.

Even previews for horror movies freak me out. I’ve forced myself to watch movies after seeing the preview because I needed to know that these fictional characters that I’ve encountered for 1 minute and 12 seconds survived. 

http://horrornews.net/69419/film-review-house-of-wax-2005/

PLEASE DON’T KILL LUCAS, HE HAS SO MANY ISSUES ON ONE TREE HILL ALREADY. (Photo from horrornews.net)

The best part about all of this intense fear of a genre is why I have said intense fear of a genre. And to understand that, we must travel back in time – to a simpler time, when Sarah Jessica Parker hadn’t had sex in a city yet, when Bette Middler was the wind beneath my wings, and when I had a crush on one Omri Katz.

Now, to put this into perspective, I was six when I first saw this movie. Actually, I was six when I saw most of this movie. And let’s be honest: Winifred Sanderson is pretty effing scary when you’re six years old. For whatever reason, I was watching Hocus Pocus, for the first time, by myself, at age six. My parents weren’t home. My older sister was not watching with me. And I don’t know if you know the premise of Hocus Pocus, but these crazy fucking witches come back from the dead and suck the life out of little children – which is exactly what I was at age six.

Suck. The Life. Out of Children.

So, I’m watching this terrible movie where these witches are coming after these kids to suck their life out, and completely missing great moments like the bus driver because I was too young to understand…

Photo courtesy of Buzzfeed

…and I am bat shit terrified. Like watching the movie with one eye terrified, because apparently that made it less scary, to only allow fifty percent of my vision to see the movie.

Well, I’m struggle-bussing my way through this movie, just about positive that the witches were going to lose, because it was a Disney movie, and everyone knew that Disney movies have to have a happy ending except for Bambi’s Mom because what a terrible movie.

Photo from Buzzfeed.

And then this amazing moment happened where the kids forced the witches into a giant oven and fried them to death. Take that, Bette Middler. Everything is fine! The kids are dancing in the yard because they win, and the world is safe from life sucking creatures and –

YEAH. Omri just cooked the witches and they did not die.

Well, being the brave six year old that I was, that was about as much as I could handle. The witches did not die after being cooked, and therefore were not going to die, which meant that the good guys lost, and the bad guys won, and I was sleeping in my sister’s bed that night.

Except my sister wouldn’t let me in her bed. I huddled in my parents bed until they came home, absolutely terrified that the Sanderson sisters were going to come after me since I had watched half of Hocus Pocus. When my dad moved me back to my bed, I was sure that the shadows behind my Little Tykes kitchen were Winifred, waiting for me to fall asleep. I was the next Emily Binx, and was bound to be until 1999.

Six years later, when my family upgraded to cable from bunny ears antennas, I finally saw the end of Hocus Pocus when it aired on the Disney Channel.

Hot damn, I realized. The witches lose after all.

And that, my friends, is why Laura doesn’t do horror.

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I’ve over thought my childhood addictions

Lately, I’ve been on a Gossip Girl kick. Namely because Netflix, and everybody knows what Netflix does to you.

Which means that since Gossip Girl is six seasons long, I’ve been watching this show for ages and ages. I mean, for forever.

For.

Eh.

Ver.

So, imagine me, last night, somewhere between the hours of 2 and 3 am, watching Gossip Girl over and over. I read the books in their entirety from when the first one was released in like…2001 or something, until the last one came out sometime during college. Thus, I love the books, I love the show, and I know it like the back of my hand.

Or so I thought.

(Insert ominous music here)

I’m one of those people who will watch a show over and over. I’m one of those people who reads books over and over.  I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve gone through a series despite knowing it so well. But I was watching Gossip Girl last night and this happened.

Remember Eva?

THIS CHICK. She comes into Gossip Girl and saves Chuck from a gunshot wound despite being a random chick in Poland. It’s bizarre. And I’m watching her, and for some reason, she’s bugging me more than normal. There’s the normal botheration, where I’m so angry at her for screwing up my favorite fictional characters universe. And then there’s this weird thought in the back of my head, like I know her.

It’s that terrible moment where you see someone on the street and you know you know them so you smile, but you can’t remember why you know them so you’re just this idiot smiling at this other person trying to remember things before you pass them by and are branded as the smiling idiot on the street.

So, I Google her. Because it’s entirely possible to Google an actor in 2014, even if you can’t Google the random person on the street to find out why you know them.

FREAKING FLEUR DELACOUR.

And I cannot believe that I missed this. Sure, it’s probably normal that you don’t realize one actor is in two completely different things. Sure, it’s probably fine that the dots didn’t connect because it’s just Harry Potter and it’s just Gossip Girl, and I do have a real life outside of books and movies and things.

Thankfully.

But seriously. I could not figure out how I missed this.

She's a witch, Hotchy.

That’s about when I went off the deep end of pop culture.

Fleur/Eva

 

And that was Tuesday. 

POST SCRIPT RUN ON SENTENCE. I’m sorry I haven’t blogged but it’s stuff like this that is reasons I haven’t and HAVEN’T YOU MISSED ME or ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED or something like that.

 

Flashback Monday has no alliteration and is not a catchy title at all.

I found myself thinking back to my freshman year of college, when I coined the…

laying on the floor thinking about stuff

…playlists that I still make today.

If you’ve been there, then you know – dorm rooms weren’t very big. My roommate 202 and I did ended up doing the laying down listening to music thing all the time. The songs I listened to back then are like therapy. Play me some Something Corporate and I’m right back there in my dorm room with the smell of burnt popcorn from down the hall and the sound of various friends yelling up at our window, because we were right above the door to the lobby.

In tiny little picture version, this is where I spent an excessive amount of 2005 and 2006.

In tiny little picture version, this is where I spent an excessive amount of 2005 and 2006.

So, I started making a list of those songs. The ones that pretty much summed up that year of life, because for some reason, that’s one of those really vivid years in my memory. I even went back and looked at an old journal and found out that Yes, these songs are those memories, and if you’re ever trying to time travel ala Christopher Reeves, this is what you should listen to.

I didn’t even realize how much the songs resonated in my memory until I re-read various portions of Hook Ups, Let Downs, and the other Nine Inches.

Like…

Dean started hanging out in my room a lot more. After dinner, when Nicole went off to rehearsal, he’d come over, eating my food and sneaking in beer. He and I had what I considered a real college friendship. We’d bash W . and contemplate how the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s had saved us from teenage angst.

And…

I lay down on the floor of the dorm room. I had the Yeah Yeah Yeahs playing on repeat, Karen O wailing over and over.

They don’t love you like I love you…” I whispered along, not able to move, or not wanting to.

Yeah. Karen O was pretty much my best friend in 2005.

The Time Traveling List of Songs that L.A. overplayed in 2005

  1. Jack’s Mannequin – The Mixed Tape
  2. Jack’s Mannequin – Bruised
  3. Matt Nathanson – Angel
  4. Matt Nathanson – I Saw
  5. Something Corporate – Walking By
  6. Something Corporate – Punk Rock Princess
  7. Death Cab for Cutie – Photobooth
  8. Lifehouse – You & Me
  9. Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Modern Romance/Poor Song
  10. Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Maps

Do you have any memories that are triggered by music? Any songs that just resonate a time or a place or a person for you?

VD.

I did a project on St. Valentine once for my 10th grade religion class. My teacher was a nun, and gave me an A- for seeming completely nonplussed about St. Valentine’s martyrdom.

“Are you happy about this Saint, Laura? He dies.

I wish I had a picture of this nun, complete with sound recording, to show you exactly how distressed she was by my attitude. It ever so perfectly sums up how I am towards Valentine’s day.

I wouldn’t be too surprised too, if St. Valentine was in the same boat as me on today’s culture though — chocolate and hearts and OHMIGOD, I DIED FOR MY RELIGION and all.

Here, in no particular order are my favorite Valentine’s tales of my life, thus far.

 

1. My first Valentine.

My seventh grade boyfriend and I fostered a great love, that spanned two skating parties, my first kiss, and approximately five months. That’s basically marriage, guys. Love and marriage, Catholic school style. The relationship did pass by a Valentine’s day, which meant we gave each other gifts and stuff — I actually don’t remember what I gave him – color me shocked, as usually I remember everything.

It was probably like…a rhyming poem, typed in size 12, impact font.

But he gave me chocolate and a card. It was very nice, and I remember opening it up, all excited and….

Dear Seventh Grade L.A.,

Seventh grade words of like love and stuff.

From, Seventh Grade Boyfriend

Granted, he drew hearts around the word “from.”

 

2. When records are broken instead of hearts.

During my splurge of “I don’t know why social media keeps letting me win things,” NeighborGirl and I entered a Red Wings Wing[wo]man contest. 

Goose and Maverick.

Goose and Maverick.

We submitted why we should be allowed to watch hockey on Valentine’s Day.

Men are good at disappointing. There are the men that don’t call, the men that won’t stop calling, and the men that don’t appreciate you. That’s why we want to spend our Valentine’s Day with the Red Wings, the men who have never really let us down. 98 new potentials couldn’t hurt either. This Valentine’s Day, we don’t want chocolates, roses, or even a candlelit dinner. We want cold beer, rowdy fans, and a Red Wings victory. The only red we want to see is blood on the ice.

Which we won, along with a bunch of other single people, which meant that we were watching hockey on Valentine’s Day. This was actually a wonderful Valentine’s Day.

 

3. Anonymous.

High school really did more of the same thing that middle school did. Holidays would come around and we would send candy to each other to support like…athletics and stuff. I’m not actually sure where the money we spent went. Except the bon bons. If you bought bon bons, you were definitely supporting the Latin Club and the Latin teacher’s probable drinking habit because my latin class was definitely a reason to drink.

By this point of life, I had realized that I was really socially awkward, and had no idea how I’d managed to straggle successfully through my formative years thus far. I was single probably because of all those things, and maybe because I once tried to make a utility belt out of crushed velvet and the back pockets out of a pair of jeans to carry my pens and TI-83 in.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 "punk rock" costume.

This utility belt was actually made out of my Halloween 1999 “punk rock” costume.

Weird little L.A.

Imagine my surprise then, and the surprise of my girl friends, when I received a candy-gram.

To L.A.

From: ???

Instead of a message, this person drew an arrow, pointing to the computer printed bear saying Happy Valentine’s Day. We never did find out who sent that one.

 

4. Nothing says I love you like a text message.

Because the college version of me was so romantic, I chose to send my love not by flowers or candy, but by text.

This was college L.A. You're probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine's now.

This was college L.A. You’re probably less surprised that I texted Happy Valentine’s now. Please note that I am wearing an NES wristband and have a flip phone clipped to my pocket.

In honor of the holiday, I sent this text off:

Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you!

The response:

Who’s number is this?

 

5. Finally,  I’d like to direct your attention to Valentine’s conversation with my sister, VS.

“I’m going out with some girls for Valentine’s Day.” VS tells me.

“That’s always so depressing,” I lament.

“No, it’s empowering,” VS argues.

“Oh yes,” I say. “A toast to our empty vaginas!”

VS shrugs this off. “We’ll put chocolate in them.”

 

Happy Valentine’s Day!

#ThrowbackThursday

Last night, I was reading an old journal which had somehow found it’s way out into the open. It was from 2010, around the time that Poof and Captain were getting married.

Poof in all her bridal glory

Poof in all her bridal glory

GoldDust was the Maid of Honor, and thus had to give a speech, as Maid of Honors tend to do. She was pacing around the reception hall with her note cards, practicing, and I walked up to her to see how she was doing.

L.A.: Are you okay?

GoldDust: I just need to practice.

L.A.: Do you want to say it to me? See how it feels saying it out loud?

GoldDust: No, I’ll be fine. I just need to get it over with. UGH. I hate this. It’s a wedding. It’s fun. Speeches are not fun. When I get married, no speeches!

Needless to say, she was a little worried. Of course, the moment came around, and GoldDust performed in good fashion. I don’t think she thought speeches were not fun after she successfully got through it. However, rereading this conversation, I’ve concocted the perfect speech for her wedding.

Ladies and Gentleman, a few years ago, when the third member of our trifecta was married, GoldDust turned to me, and she said, “It’s a wedding. It’s fun. Speeches are not fun. When I get married, no speeches!”

Pause for effect.

To the Bride and Groom!

I am available to give such sentimental speeches at your next event.

the quintessential halloween post.

When I was in the seventh grade, my classmate Katie hosted a Halloween party. It was for the entire class (boy/girl/gasp), and I had the genius idea to go as a punk rocker. Mind you, I was a 12 year old Catholic School girl. This meant that my idea of a punk rocker was a crushed velvet orange dress, orange colored hair spray, and the highest heels I owned (which meant I borrowed my sister’s three inch silver shoes, similar to what Judy Jetson probably rocked on a good day).  I even tried to mohawk my hair with the colored hair spray, but it’s fine Asian quality wouldn’t have it, and I ended up looking like I had stuck a fork into an electrical outlet and then set off an exploding ink pack.

Halloween 1999

Halloween 1999 probably looked something like this.

Then I showed up to the party, in all my orange glory. Half the girls were dressed like Britney Spears’, ala the Hit me Baby, one more time era. The other half was dressed up like poodle skirt girls. It was like the prepubescent female version of West Side Story. And I was dressed like an angry orange punk rocker fox.

I’ve never cared much for Halloween after that.

11 months out of the year, I’ll be excited-ish for Halloween.

I can be a butterfly.

I can be Daria.

I can be a parallelogram.

I can be a sexy parallelogram.

 

I’ve even passed the great divide of I’m going to be a lush in short-shorts for Halloween because that’s what girls do into the I’m going to be as unique and original as I possibly can be for Halloween because Halloween is a giant Pinterest campaign.

But then October comes around, and then the day off comes around, and I’ve got all these ideas that I’ve never actually gotten around to executing because I’m so dead set that Halloween will probably not be that great anyway. THIS YEAR, GUYS. THIS YEAR, I’M GOING TO GO AS A CATCH-22.

Instagrammed to Perfection. Hello, Sailor! Thanks to @hey_itsjenna for suiting me up.

Halloween Last Year, my thighs and I went as a sailor, courtesy of the House of Poof.

Case in point – last year, I borrowed a costume from Poof because I just could not decide on anything. I headed to Bottom40 with Alto, and while I, as always, had a wonderful Bottom40-y time with her, there were some random females that for whatever reason (Probably because I officially was wearing no pants) did not care for me, and essentially knocked every drink I had out of my hands. A few went onto Alto. Most went on to me. 

Happy Halloween, bitches.

So, here we are. It’s Halloween. 

This year…I’m going to be a Pikachu.

Or maybe a little pony.

Or possibly Mulan.

The Little Mermaid.

Texts with GoldDust about I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO BE EVER.

Texts with GoldDust about I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO BE EVER.

I’m being a Pika-LittlePony-Snowflake. So far.

I’ll keep you posted. Happy Halloween, kids.

Oh, yeah. This happened once.

Oh, yeah. This happened once.

I solemnly swear, etc.

I gave up Red Bull three weeks ago.

This might explain why I haven’t been blogging, because I’ve been all…

…without the deliciousness of taurine and caffeine and whatever other -ines I was regularly putting into my system to allow the amount of foot tapping and body shaking that I normally do.

But without Red Bull, I’m suddenly feeling like I have a clearer head. I sleep better. I’m not jittering all over the place, and I no longer have the desire to try and turn cartwheels down the impossibly long hallway of my office.

Wow, I realize. What a wise decision I made to cut something so terrible out of my life. Out, damned energy drink. Out.

This got me thinking. What other terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things have plagued me in my life that I should probably think about giving the boot?

Here, in no particular order, is my list of guilty pleasures that I’m in the process of kicking.

1. Starbucks.

Fuck, I love my coffee. I love it so hard. And with no Red Bull, Starbucks has been poised to make a killing on my wallet and in my heart. But then some asshole posted that my drink of choice, the grande white chocolate mocha-licious, is about 1290343098573 (add comments accordingly) calories of love handles and empty promises.

Full of delicious empty promises and cash money

Full of delicious empty promises and the college funds of all my future children and my children’s children and my children’s children’s children.

Seriously. Basic math shows that my coffee habit of $4.29 at least twice a week is almost $500 bucks out of my pocket for the year. And I am poor. I am poor and I am paying to get fat. Granted, it’s so much easier to drive to Starbucks than make a cup of coffee in the morning. But I’m trying. Starbucks, you’ve been downgraded to special occasions and pity parties.

2. Shopping on an empty spirit.

Do you read my blog? Then you know. I’ve been a very, very sad person.  I have had some very low moments in my life, and I’ve had a very, very full closet for some of them. Did I ever wear that t-shirt from Forever 21 that had the bicycle on it because it looked like me? How about that sparkly gem headband during that phase of fashion life where everything was bedazzled?

Nope.

Never.

I’ve made some terrible fashion decisions because when I get depressed, I shop. Some part of my brain told me that if I was sad, things would make me happy.

They didn’t. Neither did my empty wallet. But now when I shop, I’m able to look at my armload of stuff and think to myself. Do I need this stuff? Do I want this? Am I feeling sad? And if any of the answers are yes, I set the things down, back slowly away, and call somebody who knows me.

Friends. Good. Impulse shopping. Bad.

3. Overanalyzing.

I don’t know why I do this. I can’t think about it though, because it defeats the purpose of trying to kick the habit.

4. One Tree Hill > 8 hours of sleep.

I’m such a guilty pleasure TV show-er. I loved One Tree Hill, and Gossip Girl, and Gilmore Girls, and Veronica Mars, and OMFG, Did you know there is a Veronica Mars movie coming out!?

This would all be well and good, but Netflix. And TV on DVD. And other ways to spend hours and hours of your life just watching TV. I work a normal job schedule, then spend the rest of my time with my son, which means that the time I have to watch TV falls during post bedtime for offspring time. Which would be well and good except…

L.A.’s thought process for TV watching

Episode 1: I love this show. I’m going to watch  this episode then go to bed because I have to wake up early.

Episode 3: Oh. Em. Effing. Gee. I have to find out what happens.

Episode 9. I can’t NOT finish the season now. I just should finish it. There’s only two episodes left.

Episode 34549837: Fuck. Is that my alarm?!

5. Sticking to things.

I.e. Sorry I haven’t blogged every week like I promised.

 

…I acknowledge that the following things may not be kicking habits, but simply growing up and making mature decisions. THE HELL, guys. THE HELL.

 

Cue Fleetwood Mac’s Landslide.

So Labor Day Weekend marks the transition from summer to fall.

This summer has been a magical time for me. I have been so fortunate to be surrounded by so many amazing people. I wouldn’t trade the late nights that turned into early mornings, the laughter or randomness. But I’m ready for the winds of change. The air reeks of it.

The leaves aren’t the only thing changing colors.

It seems like myself and everyone around me is in transition.

I just moved into a new house. I’m also making plans to change a few other things in my life, not just geography.

My dear friend Hot Chocolate is moving to another state for a his job this week. I’m sad to see him leave, but I’m so proud of him and excited to see what this opportunity will bring him.

He has given me so much this summer. More than I could ever repay him, so I will not burden him with sadness of leaving. I rather celebrate the joy of something new and exciting.

Hot Chocolate and I at his going away party.

Hot Chocolate and I at his going away party. Throwing up a deuce to the past.

L.A. is also in her own set of changes. Boo started kindergarten. Someone very dear to her moved away. She has other things that are in transition also.

It’s all chaotic. We don’t know what each day will bring. It all seems to be moving so fast. Not a moment to take a deep breath and enjoy it.

Summing up our thoughts on change. I'm too happy to open my eyes and L.A. is confused. But, we have each other to get through it.

Summing it all up. I’m too happy to open my eyes, and L.A. is confused. But we have each other to get through it.

Even with all the confusion and chaos, I have a sense of calm.

I’m excited about all the change. It’s progression. I love progression.

I don’t know if there is something in the water or if I have reached euphoria, but I don’t fear change anymore. I crave it.

Good things can’t become great things without change.

I’ve been afraid of changing
‘Cause I, I’ve built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Children get older
I’m getting older too oh yes
I’m getting older too

Basically, my journals are my horcruxes, but not really.

If you haven’t read Harry Potter, you might wanna go the fuck away. One, because WHY NOT?! Two, because there’s sort of spoilers in here. Like seriously. Come back when you finish the series.

I’m such a pack rat, guys. Seriously. I save fucking everything.

I have all of the Blue and Whites from when I was in high school (that’s my high school newspaper). I have old corsages from dances. I have wristbands from particularly memorable nights out. I have ticket stubs. I have the chapstick of the guitarist from Sanctus Real from a concert I went to in high school.

I’m not kidding. And that is so fucking creepy. I’m embarrassed that I’m not kidding.

Among all the hubbub that I keep though, there is something that if you know me, I mean really, really know me, then you know I have these.

Journals. Scads and Scads and Scads of journals.

“It’s not a diary. Diaries lock. 12 year old girls keep diaries. This is a journal.”

That was my excuse to people, who thought it was strange that I was a 14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21, etc year old, carrying around a blank book to scribble in. We’ll see how you feel if I ever publish these beauties. Mostly, I just always wanted to be writing. Short stories, poetry, gossip, crush of the year/week/day/hour/minute when someone brushed me on the stairs. My 3rd period Honors English III teacher was THRILLED that I was always writing, although I think she wouldn’t have been as enthralled if she’d read some of what I’d written.

i’m trying not to think of you now

but i’m wringing out the towel

and every drop drips your name

and your face

and god

i wish the sun would dry you out

drive you out

drive me in and love me

(excerpt from a poem from 2003)

But I couldn’t stop. Years later, I look at these journals, and I’m not quite sure what to do with them. Do I want to get rid of them? No. Would you? It’s a pile of reminders of who I was, or who I was when I didn’t know who I was, or just memories of times and changes and people that I might lose otherwise.

But other than that? It’s a pile of books gathering dust under my bed.

Until.

I was reading Harry Potter, for the 210394823 time. Because it’s Harry Potter, and that’s what you do.

So, I’m reading HP, and I’m crying, and I’m trying not to drip my tears on my book, because I totally turned down a night of underage drinking in college to get the damn thing at midnight, when my friend Mohawk texts me.

20130805-111115.jpg

 

Like any 20 something folks that grew up in the mind of J.K. Rowling, we begin discussion of the book. He, of course, brings up the second best Headmaster in the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Snape. Snape. Severus Snape.

Which would be well and good until…

20130805-111121.jpg

And now we come full circle.

Journals.

Not just gathering dust under the bed. But useful when needed to one up someone in a debate on if or if not you considered Severus Snape to be a very, very bad man, or else you know…

Boom.

Boom. Courtesy of like journal…#34 or something.

I’ve never been so thrilled to have kept these books all these years.

20130805-111127.jpg

P.S. Dear J.K. Rowling,

If you happen to write another 7 books, could they maybe be about Sirius going through Hogwarts? Or James, or Remus, or Lily? I’ll settle for anyone except for Wormtail, cuz douchecanoe.

XO,

L.A.

 

Cucumber Man… the myth, the legend, the man.

In my last post, I shared a story of Cucumber Man. I promise to share how his name came to be. I’m keeping my promise.

In the summer my office has a company garden. We have a huge shipping yard with lots of space so it’s easy and everyone enjoys the free produce.

I started my job in late summer of last year. So I didn’t have help with the process of up-keeping the garden, but I did get to enjoy the fruits of everyone else’s labor.

One day, before Cucumber Man was actually Cucumber Man, he picked a fat, perfect green cucumber from the garden and brought it into the office for safe keeping.

He made one vital mistake with his safe keeping. He left the cucumber on the office’s kitchen counter.

Even I, who had only been working at the office for 2 weeks, knew not to do this.

The office’s kitchen counter is fare game. If something is on it then anyone can consume or take it without asking. Simple 101 rules of the office.

Cucumber Man left his perfect cucumber on the counter… unattended and unguarded.

When he returned to the counter… he discovered it was gone.  The horror!!!

The cucumber hunt…

Cucumber man started screaming for his cucumber.

“Who took my cucumber?”

“Where is my cucumber?”

I had not witnessed the cucumber go missing and I did not take it. Nor did I care about the cucumber.

Cucumber man questioned each person he encountered.

He had to come to his own conclusion when he found me for questioning.

“Did you take my cucumber. You look guilty.”

No, I didn’t take your cucumber, jerk face. The expression on my face reflects my complete shock that you’re freaking out over someone taking your cucumber. -This is what I wanted to say.

Instead… I denied taking it, but knowing in his heart he believed I had stolen it.

About an hour later, the cucumber resurfaced. One of the outside sales guys took it, thinking it was fair game since it was on the office’s kitchen counter.

Cucumber man came in my office and gave me a half-hearted apology.

“I’m sorry I thought you took the cucumber, but you looked guilty.”

Never take a man’s cucumber. The wrath is unbearable.

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