welcome to my world(s)

"Let's take a word from our sponsor."

*Skip ahead a minute* "You can-"

*Skip ahead a minute* "Use code-"

*Skip ahead a minute* "300,000-"

*Skip ahead a minute* "300,000-"

*Skip ahead a minute* "T-shirts-"

*Skip ahead a minute* "Motherfuck-"

He doesn't get much useful advice and soon the guys are arguing about how long you can pursue someone before it starts getting pathetic. Holmberg is at one end of the spectrum at two weeks ("We're rich professional athletes, man, we shouldn't have to try that hard.") and Wyatt Hayes is on the other at three months ("Maybe she likes you but just doesn't want the WAG lifestyle. You need to prove to her that you see her as a person with her own goals separate from yours.")

Then someone notices that Ilya, despite his wealth of experience, hasn't chimed in yet and asks, "What do you think, Cap?"

"Two years."

The entire room goes still.

"What?"

"Two years," Ilya repeats, completely unashamed. "Is not pathetic to go for what you want. Not if you think they're worth it."

In sync, every person in the room turns to look at Shane, who's pretending to fiddle with the laces on his skates, looking pink-faced and vaguely pleased.

Finally, Holmberg turns to the rookie. "Okay, I guess two years is fine if it's Shane Hollander. Is your girl Shane Hollander?"

The poor rookie has no response to that. His girl is, indeed, not literally Shane Hollander.

"Man, gay people move different," LaPointe mutters.

When I turned 17, we ordered a cake at the grocery store for my party, as we’d done many times before. If you wanted something written on the cake you’d write it into a section of the order form. We requested, very simply, “Happy Birthday Courtney”. When we went to pick it up the day of the party, this is what we got.

The bakery employees had absolutely no explanation for this. The order form, attached to the box, very clearly did not contain any of those extra names. Whomever had done the writing was no longer in, so there was no one to ask how this had happened. The fact that the name ‘Juan’ is misspelled bewilders me to this day. (I’ve never seen ‘Miley’ without the E, either, but it’s believable that someone might spell it that way.) Did this cake slip in from an alternate universe where I’m one quarter of a set of Hispanic quadruplets? Dyslexic Hispanic quadruplets, maybe?

This cake became the focal point of my party. At least two of my friends regularly called me ‘Courtney Mily Jaun Pablo’ for years to come. My siblings and I still reference it sometimes, eleven years later. It is probably the funniest thing ever to occur at any birthday celebration of my life, and may well remain so for the rest of my days.

No One Like You

now, it took us a while to realise it meant "(there is) no one like you". at first, we all parsed it as a botched "no one like(s) you"