Aye Lmao

someone: wow the sixpenceee blog is really scary me: tru but you know what’s scarier someone: what me: six… pence.

Fun story about the baristas doing this kind of shit. 

also if they ARE trying to be healthy you should give it to them to!! Its not your decision to police or question others food choices!!! 

I have Celiac Disease, so I’m very gluten intolerant. When I go out to eat at restaurants a lot of people just assume that I asked for my food gluten free because of the gluten free diet fad (which is usually a bullshit diet btw). 

I cannot tolerate caffeine–it makes me have chest pain and a racing pulse, and also gives me horrible body pain, so I always ask for decaf if I order coffee when I’m out, and doublecheck with the waiter/ress when they bring it. but instead of saying “is this decaf like I asked for?” I always say “oh, did I remember to order decaf?” I shouldn’t have to act like I’m the forgetful one (because I know damn well I asked for decaf) but it seems to work better than implying that they screwed up when I take the blame on myself like that. and if there’s any hesitation when they answer, I tell them, “if there’s any doubt, please get another one, or just give me water–if this is regular, it’ll mess up my heart” and lots of times when I say that, they look alarmed and go change it or get another one. 

I’ve reblogged this maaaany times before but there’s a few new stories on here so i’m doing it again.

Reblogging because it’s so important. I’m “lucky” I don’t have any food allergies or intolerence, but it makes me mad when people take them not seriously, think you are picky or just following a “white girl diet fad”.

Reblogging for all the stories here because this is sooo important! 

I’m allergic to pork. Legit allergic. I can’t count how many times I’ve had to ask it off my food only to receive it with bacon or ham or something on it.

I actually have customers who say they’ll only eat at my restaurant when I’m there, because they know I require all policy to be followed, as in “I will kick you the fuck off your shift if you skimp,” if someone says the words “I have an allergy.” I developed our allergy policies, for that matter, because what we had in place before was “I guess you shouldn’t change your gloves … . ?” On my shifts your gloves get changed, that line gets wiped down with a new cloth, paper under EVERY ITEM for the person with the allergy, bag their food separately to prevent contact. If there’s a risk of cross-contamination with an allergen, like tomatoes in the guac because stuff spills when you’re moving as fast as we do, I’ll open a new bag of food. I learned the ingredients in every item we serve so I could advise people on hidden allergens (e.g., there’s a small amount of wheat in our beef as a thickener; we fry with safflower oil). We have a grease pencil to mark special builds and I use it liberally on allergy orders. If all of this sounds like overkill, you’ve never watched a child suffer from anaphylaxis. I don’t play around.

Everyday you gotta wake up and be yourself, even if you suck, especially if you suck because no one else sucks like you suck.

The confusion and anxiety started when I was first born; my parents were both in tears, and all of the doctors offered their condolences. The next day, I was alive and well, much to the confusion of everyone involved. Maybe it was a mistake? Or I would die the next day instead. But I kept living. My parents taught me to hide it, to lie about it. I always covered the tattoo up with long sleeves or ‘bandages’ during the summer. My mother had panic attacks regularly and rarely slept. My father insisted on always knowing where I was going, and constantly checked up on me. I was never left alone. Eventually, when I was old enough to understand what the tattoo meant, and what death was, the anxiety hit me too. I was constantly worried, sometimes staring at the words late at night when I was alone in bed. It didn’t make any sense to me. It didn’t make sense to anyone. But my family and I had come to the agreement that under no circumstances was anyone to find out what the word on my arm really was. Throughout the years of my life, the anxiety would come and go - why would I die now? But moments of fear still passed through me whenever I got into a car, or a friend dared me to go on a roller coaster. Some people called me a coward. I wasn’t a coward - I was confused. I was just trying to live. A part of me knew I should be grateful, grateful for living so long for no justified reason. But I was too confused to care. That is, until one day in my philosophy class, when we started discussing famous phrases and the meanings behind them. Class was normal - a little dull, a little quiet, but interesting enough. Phrases entered and exited the discussion, and I occasionally listened to the discussion. About ten minutes before we were suppose to leave, the professor asked for one last phrase. A girl behind me raised her hand. “Yes? What’s your phrase?” “My phrase is ‘tomorrow never comes.’” Those words hit me, consumed me, making me struggle to breath. Class went on as normal as I sat there, making sense of the words. How had I never heard that phrase before? I suppose my parents protected me from it. But how? It seems like a simple phrase that could be thrown around without anyone making much out of it. But then again, I suppose there’s really not many opportunities to use it. Tomorrow never comes. Tomorrow never comes. Tomorrow never comes. What did that mean for me? I sat through the rest of my classes, thinking and barely acknowledging my lessons, eventually reaching the end of the school day. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and went to text my dad the news. The statement. But as I typed the words, the realization hit me.

File under: things that are actually a thing (but look super awesome and should be more of a thing):