No Stone

Keep digging

The Chatter Blog

I’ve been told it’s time to go out and turn over a new stone.  I like rocks and stones.  And I was pretty pleased with the way they had been laying.   I didn’t really have a desire to go out and roll over stones because someone else thought it was a good idea.  But there are a bunch of stones.  Maybe there’s something I don’t know about this turning stones over thing.   So I went outside to look for this new stone.  Walking right past and avoiding all of the old stones. It took some looking -but I found a new stone.

I turned it over.

All I found was moist dirt under it.   Dark.  Moist dirt.

But apparently this is something.  Why else would I be told to turn over a new stone?

What do you do with moist, dark, dirt?

I planted a seed.


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Honest Acceptance Speeches

Hahahaha stay classy

Half and Half

Yeah, we all know you want to thank your parents, your family, and your fans.  But really, how can you forget all the things that really make the world go round?

First and foremost, I’d like to thank:

  • Bono, for single handedly fueling sales of blue polarized sunglasses.
  • Puppies, for teaching couples that kids are really going to be a lot of work.
  • Crunchy peanut butter, for diversifying the snack game.
  • Maxi dresses, for being my entire summer wardrobe.
  • Sunglasses, for allowing me to sneakily stare at people without being noticed.
  • Snuggies, for repurposing the bathrobe by simply wearing it backwards.
  • Text messages, for allowing me to ignore phone calls because “I can’t talk right now.”
  • Tattoos, for permanently reminding me of how stupid I am.
  • Beyonce, for being “everything,” so girls all over the world “literally can’t even” to the point that they “die.”
  • Grease, for clearly indicating when I…

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A letter to that Nice Guy I ignored that one time

I like this

days like crazy paving

A comic depicting the difference between what a Nice Guy thinks is happening between him and a girl and what is actually happening. a shift in perspective can help.

Dear Nice Guy,

I’d say you probably don’t remember me, but I know you do. I know you remember me the way you remember every single girl you’ve ever latched onto like a leech who also happens to recommend books and carry shopping bags. I know you remember me because this is a small town and people talk and you wouldn’t believe some of the things people tell me you say about me, except that I guess you would because I know for sure that you said them.

I know you’ve waxed poetic at length to anyone who will listen (and a fair few people who won’t) about how I don’t know what I’m missing. And you know what? I guess you’re right. I don’t know what I’m missing. Maybe if, somewhere between the endless offers of a lift home and the free coffees…

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