Inkognito

Confession #8: Impact Statement All good things must come to an end, and ever since I bought my corner home five years ago, I’ve always had an irrational fear that someone would crash into it one day. Tonight, someone crashed into my home and my vehicle, rendering it undrivable. From this day forward, I will no longer consider any of my fears irrational.

@Inkognito

This whole exchange immediately made me think of one of my favorite memes. 😂

Fifty Shades of Wordplay.

Welp... at least the syntax is wild.

My story, Safe Haven, sounds like exactly what you're looking for.

Funny enough, my old office manager used to say the same thing. I worked in construction admin, and she hated when the guys used pet names. I didn’t mind, honestly. I actually kind of liked it. From what I’ve seen, thinner women seem to get pet-named a lot more, and I imagine it starts to feel condescending after a while. But having spent most of my life overweight and generally ignored by men, I’ve always appreciated the rare moment of being called “sweetheart” or “hon.” I remember one superintendent in particular who had recently lost his wife to cancer and turned pretty bitter. He would call me stupid and snap at me over nothing. I just put up with it, maybe because I knew he was grieving. After he left, I’d close my office door and cry for a few minutes, then pull myself together and go on with my day. Meanwhile, he would head straight to my manager’s office and call her pet names and tell her how great she looked that day. Shrug So yeah. Context is everything, I guess.

Confession #007: Ahh, the Sweet Surprise of Stationary Impact So here I am. Sitting in a massive, mostly empty parking lot, minding my business and enjoying the peace, when this lone ranger rolls in like they’re on some personal side quest to ruin the vibe. Because out of every open spot in this freaking asphalt galaxy, they decide right next to me is the place to be. Naturally. And as if that wasn't already annoying enough to this introvert, they then proceeded to climb out and WHACK their door into mine. I'm talking a full-force THUNK that echoed with the confidence of someone who has never paid a repair bill in their life. Rambo over here literally shook my damn vehicle. And I'm just like... bruh. Seriously? What in the ever-loving Ford F-150 fuck are you doing, bruh?

I have not, but I have given someone pickle-on-pizza PTSD. It all started when I was 17 and landed my first job at a small pizza joint. I was the dishwasher/phone answerer. On my very first day, I took my very first call. The customer rattled off their order, and I swear I heard them say they wanted dill pickles on their pizza. I didn’t blink. I wrote it down with the unshakable confidence of a teenager who thought they understood how the world worked. Then I handed the ticket to the cook, who looked at it like I’d just handed him a warrant for arrest. “You sure about this?” “Yup. Dill pickles,” I said with full certainty. So he shrugged, cracked open a giant can of pickles like this was a Tuesday special, and laid them out across the pizza like a man who'd given up asking questions. Baked it, boxed it, sent it out. About twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. Same customer, of course. They were livid. My manager tried so hard not to laugh while they chewed her out. Needless to say, we remade the pizza. No pickles this time. And so, that dill disaster became my first official work memory, forever preserved like... well, a pickle.