Man Sobbing And Fucking A Red Velvet Cake

Man Sobbing And Fucking A Red Velvet Cake
What did you have in 1999 but not 2018?
What is the most “grown-up” purchase you bought recently that you would have not been excited for as a child?
If you chose to have another child after first having a handicapped (physically or mentally) child, why?
Haircut and style suggestions needed
NSFW What porn have you searched just for the sake of curiosity?
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If you die right this moment and get stuck in the last tv show you watched, what is it?
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A steam cleaner that does floors and has attachments for other surfaces. $150 and it felt like Christmas. Kid me would spill kool aid on the floor to spite adult me
This is a pic of most of my hair behind my back. Only the short front layers are visible. I kinda like it. Like I said...I need advice!
Natural hair color Natural style It's very straight and fine. I use head and shoulders most of the time with a clarifying shampoo occasionally. Olive oil or coconut oil conditioner each wash. Shea Moisture detangler and It's a 10 leave-in conditioner. I wash, let my hair towel dry for a while, finish with blow dryer.
I have always had the same hair and been happyish with it. I like it, but I get bored. Here I am looking for a new job, married, mother...I think it may be time for a change. I never have made a leap with a different haircut (except for a perm and later a bowl cut when I was young) in fear that I will regret it and it will look terrible. Any suggestions for a style/cut will be so appreciated!
For a long time, it was shoulder length, but I have let it grow out lately. It has gotten long, down most of my back. I'd prefer not to get it very short, like pixie short. I don't think I could pull it off and my husband and I prefer it longer than that. I don't mind having to style it some, but don't want to spend major time on it each morning.
There was a thread similar to this before, and I searched "man sobbing and fucking a red velvet cake" thanks to another redditor.
There was a thread similar to this before, and I searched "man sobbing and fucking a red velvet cake" thanks to another redditor.
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As I walk into the grocery store I glance down at the stack of baskets nested next to the entrance and make the same poor decision I make every time I stop at the store to “grab just a couple things.” I don’t take a basket.
There are a couple reasons for this. First, there is some unfounded hubristic macho bullshit thinking I summon where I convince myself, “I’m a man. A man carries things with his hands. What, am I in some French fairytale, skipping through the produce section with my red cape and picnic basket? No sir, if these hands can chisel granite they certainly can carry milk and eggs 25 feet.” I can’t navigate a hammer to a nail, I couldn’t chisel a block of cheddar without a flesh wound, but grocery baskets are where I decide to draw a line in the mud to defend my masculinity.
The second rationalization is more coherent, but nevertheless just as ineffective. Opting to forgo the basket is a sort of self imposed financial safeguard. The hypothesis is as follows: There is only so much I can carry with my hands; therefore, I will end up purchasing less than I would if I had a basket to fill. I understand my own limitations and know I cannot be trusted with the capacity to carry more stuff because I don’t know my own limits because I am a child.
But all this really means is that instead of shopping like a human being, equipped with adequate transport for selected goods, I’m crawling down aisle 4 on my hands and knees, balancing 12 boxes of Cap’n Crunch on my back, shaking bags of Doritos in each hand like maracas while chasing a fugitive 2-liter bottle of Cherry Coke Zero as it rolls down the aisle.
I look up at horrified shoppers, desperately trying to explain, “The Cap’n Crunch, you see, you save 19 cents but you have to buy 12 boxes. But I thought I was just getting bread, you see, so I didn’t bother with the basket. I’m sorry, sir, could you pick up that avocado and just shove it down in my pocket there? Also, do you know what aisle the bread is in?”
I finish my basketless shopping and approach checkout. The woman at the register, currently serving a single customer, directs me to the self checkout. Fine.
I walk up to the first self-checkout station I see and heave my assortment of breakfast cereals and salty snacks onto the small aluminum platform next to the machine.
“Excuse me, sir.” I turn to see a middle aged woman in a Ralph’s uniform waving her hand at me “Sir, this machine is off. You can use one of the other three that are currently active. See,” she points to a small numbered light box above the machine, “Light’s off.”
“I’m sorry, can’t you just turn this one on?”
The woman smiles the sort of smile you employ as a professional courtesy. A smile that says, “Fuck you and thank you for shopping at Ralph’s.”
She says, “I’m sorry sir, we only have three units on right now. Feel free to use any of these three.” Her finger bounces from unit to unit to unit.
I look back down at the machine I’m at, “Is this one on break?” I return the smile of professional courtesy.
“No, it’s just we only have three units on during the day because we want to save energy and—” she continues an explanation as I start stacking things back into my arms with all the confidence and ease of a 10-year-old building a Jenga tower without the loading tray.
I finish loading my arms up and begin creeping to the next station. By now, an audience is forming disguised as a line of shoppers. As I teeter back and forth like a juggler on a unicycle, I think how I could have been a brilliant Vaudeville act. This is when the tower came crumbling down onto the floor.
I raise my newly liberated hands to the sky, “Jenga!”
“Excuse me, sir! Sir! Could you please pick your items up now, Sir.”
The professional smile has vacated her face leaving the pink hue of anger or frustration, “I’m sorry sir, you can’t leave your items here, there are other people waiting!”
Here comes the indignant macho bullshit again, “I’m sorry, lady, but I can leave this stuff here. You know why? Because I don’t fucking work here! I don’t want to ring up my own groceries, I don’t want to bag my own groceries and I certainly don’t want to be the ‘clean up on aisle 7’ guy. Get the fucking robot who isn’t ringing people up to unbolt himself, grab a broom and clean this shit up because I’m not doing it!”
I wait for uproarious applause but there is none. The shoppers are unimpressed and seeing the spill, they realize it may be a couple minutes until they get their turn at the register where their impromptu part-time job awaits.
The woman leans down, diverting her gaze, and starts cleaning up my mess. She is embarrassed but I can’t tell whom she is embarrassed for, herself or me.
She didn’t ask for this. This isn’t her fault. Her name is probably something like Sue Ellen and she probably hates working here.
Ashamed, I make my way towards the front door. Then, I grab one of the baskets nested next to the entrance and run back to where Sue Ellen is still bent over trying to pile everything into her hands.
I lean down and together we start piling things into the basket.
“You shoulda’ had this to begin with,” Sue Ellen whispers, still avoiding eye contact.
“Well, I didn’t realize you would have such a deal on Captain Crunch.” I look around the floor, “Shit…I think I forgot the bread.”
“Billy, mommy is very sick. She has some substance abuse issues and is going away to a nice place to make her all better. ”
This is the sort of euphemistically plentiful white lie I would hear from law enforcement officials as a child, seated on their knee in the yard of whatever house we were currently renting as a gurney rolls out of the house with my drunk & belligerent mother securely fastened. She lifts her hand to wave at me as they lift her into the ambulance.
“Now Billy, she’s just sick and needs to go away to get better .”
“Did you know ambulances can go as fast as they want?”
“Yes, Billy, They’ll go as fast as they need to go so they can get your mom to a hospital so she can get better .”
I thought it was unfair she was rewarded with an ambulance ride, speeding around turns, rolling through stoplights, sirens roaring.
One morning there were no more ambulances. No more cushioned talk about getting better, no more hurried sirens or flashing light. She’d have one more opportunity to neglect red lights but this time she would be leading a caravan of cars and minivans with hazard lights blinking violently out of chorus except for a few moments where the line of cars would blink in unison for one moment before falling out of sync again. If you are looking from the right perspective and have the patience to watch the flashing chaos long enough, you might be rewarded with that single brilliant moment where the individual amber bursts collect and fire in one great harmonic blaze, a collective moment of together in an otherwise isolating experience. Then, the great flashing fire is swiftly snuffed out like a collection of birthday candles and then, they resumes their self-centered, confused, blinking.
I’m not saying the undertaker was careless with my mother; I just think she looked like they may have applied foundation with a paintball gun.
I was 12-years-old when my step-father and the mortician took me into a small room at the funeral home to allow me to view my mothers “remains.” I didn’t like that word, remains . Remains, to me, felt like whatever was left over at a yard sale. Like I was being taken to a view a casket half full with a bent sand wedge, Kool Aid stained beanbag chair and a single size-13 ski boot. I was weary of euphemistic language. It was this same defanged talk that was spoon fed to me when explaining my mother’s “condition”, countless trips to rehab, and ultimately her demise.
“Your mom was sick, she really wanted to get better but this is God’s will and she’s in a better place .”
I lean over the open casket and look inside.
“Her boobs look a little…flat.” I say.
I remember mom being curvy, and that’s how I want to remember her. Chesticles in life as they shall be in death, asses to asses, bust to bust…through Christ our Lord, Amen.
I don’t remember how the mortician responded to my statement but I do remember the words he used were with the same cadence and temperament of a person who’s trying to explain to someone that they have spinach in their teeth. Very polite, hushed tones, “She’s in a better place and you may want to just make a quick trip to the bathroom because…right there, yeah, no go like this. There you go.”
I ultimately gave my approval, it’s not like sending a hamburger back at a restaurant, “I’m sorry, I asked for this corpse well-done and clearly I can still see pink in the middle…and please don’t just put it in the microwave and please don’t spit on it, thank you.”
I reached out and touched her like ringing a doorbell. No one was home. I thought that maybe I would cry. I didn’t. I had lost that connection to her when I was much younger. Not intentionally, there’s just only so much you can take before the brain decides that it’s going to be too difficult to continually invest in this person emotionally only to lose your investment a short time later. The market was turbulent so my heart made safer investments in Bugs Bunny and Ninja Turtles; they were on once a week like clockwork. Ghostbuster-index futures were a good investment.
What was hardest was not that she was gone but that I never had a chance to trust her and love her like a mother instead of a maintaining a dark tongue-in-cheek detachment that I maintain to this day. i.e., “No, Ms. Marshall, I don’t know why my mom didn’t pick me up from school and no, trust me, she’s not ‘probably stuck in traffic’ unless there is beer truck toppled over on 95. I suggest we call my grandma because something tells me mother dearest shall be ‘stuck in traffic’ for 6-12 weeks until she snorts all her Percocet and shows up in an ER in Philly drunk on rubbing alcohol.”
What was hardest was not that she was gone but that we spent so many years blinking in the same house. She would blink on the couch, drunk and alone. I would blink alone in my room with the covers pulled over my head. It wasn’t until she was gone that I wanted to glisten with her, in unison, in a temporary and beautiful chorus, if only for one glorious amber burst and then blink into darkness—together.
It’s difficult to describe depression to someone who does not suffer from depression. Human nature dictates we reference a personal experience to relate to others so the non-clinically depressed reference the loss of a loved one or a tough semester in college to relate and often, they conclude it must be external elements that fuel clinical depression. It’s hard for people to wrap their minds around the idea of their brain chemistry being the culprit. It’s been my experience that large swaths of the population think depression is some footnote in the DSM, a symptom of being tired or bored. Some people react with self-righteous indignation. “Listen, Bill, I’m not happy all the time either. But I suck it up, and go on with my day. Life is hard, man.” The clincally depressed have heard some version of this dazzling pep talk any number of times. “Oh, life is difficult? I thought that life was supposed to be all trampolines and Rice Krispie Treats. This comes as a total shock but now that I know that life’s default position is ‘fucked’ according to you, Assistant Manager at Forever 21 & Official Human Condition Expert, I’ll readjust for this new paradigm.” For me, it’s not about sad. Sad is when I realize that a new episode of Mad Men is postponed for a week. Now depression is when I truly understand that I am going to die alone and everything that I am, everything I have worked so hard to build and rebuild, to construct and demolish, everything I think is important and true, my existence — this brief fleeting spark of consciousness — will be stifled and forgotten. My bones will turn to dust and I will be washed away into the cold, infinite ether of the universe. It’ll be like I was never here. I will be nothing. Lost in the void. I will be forgotten. And also…new episodes of Mad Men won’t resume until next week. For me, depression surreptitiously manifests itself in all sorts of tricky ways. Depression is hysterically sobbing while watching West Wing reruns eating a $15 store bought red velvet cake with a serving spoon. Depression is hating myself but still compulsively wandering onto improvised stages in dive bars and failing bowling alleys and trying to make strangers laugh for 4 minutes. Depression is staring at the endless collection of deodorants at Target, trying to decide, “Am I a Pure Sport kind of guy or a Pacific Surge man” and concluding that I am going to die someday and none of this matters…and Speedstick is probably a good utility antiperspirant. It’s not about being happy, either. Happy makes me uncomfortable. It’s a turbulent emotional condition, like rage. It’s unpredictable and irrational and hard to accurately judge the intentions of the person consumed by it. It’s the same reason people are afraid of clowns. If you are exuding that much unabashed joy, then the only reasonable conclusion is that you have come untethered from reality and you’re probably a dangerous individual. Happy is, and should be, a short-term condition. Joy allows the symbolic self to flourish and temporarily mute the static hiss of a dangerous, cold, ambivalent universe. It allows us to forget about all the shit. Happy is a temporary denial of the truth. Although indispensable and necessary, it’s no way to live a life. I’ve seen what “happy” does to people over the long term. People who insist that they are happy end up having psychotic breaks and intentionally punching the nose of their minivans into the front window of a McDonald’s after the drive-thru kid accidentally shorts them a chicken nugget in their Happy Meal. I just want to be alright. I want to be 80%. I want to be a toothless smile. I want to know I am going to die in the same way I know I should revere the last piece of pizza. I want to learn to appreciate the unbelievable miracle of consciousness, however brief. I want to be okay with temporary. I don’t want to spend my life rushing to build sandcastles, hoping I won’t be forgotten. I want to be okay with being sad sometimes. I want to be okay with being happy sometimes. “Listen, Bill, I’m not happy all the time either. But I suck it up, and go on with my day. Life is hard, man.” Yeah, life is hard but I haven’t eaten a red velvet cake in months; I’m not sweatin’ chicken nuggets and there’s a new Mad Men this week. So I guess I’m alright.
“God, my glutes feel tight today,” he says as he holds a cup of coffee in one hand, placing his other hand against the wall and stretching his legs. “CrossFit is kickin’ my ass, but it’s worth it man. You should come with me sometime.”
“Yeah, I go to 24 Hour Fitness. It’s pretty cheap so—”
“I threw up yesterday,” the coffee splashes in his cup as he crosses his right arm across his body, clasping it with the left and stretching his back, “That’s how hard they work you. But the results are worth it.”
This scenario is the framework to every discussion I’ve ever had with anyone who does CrossFit, the hottest new trend in personal fitness. It’s impressive, actually. I don’t think I would have the stamina to work CrossFit into every conversation I ever had forever.
I’m sure it’s a perfectly invigorating exercise thing, but there are elements of CrossFit that smack of cultiness. For example, the aforementioned evangelizing byway of working CrossFit into every conversation. I don’t trust anyone with that much enthusiasm for pain (the same reason I find Catholicism suspect).
Also, CrossFitters have their own diet—the Paleo diet. This is characterized by only eating things that people ate during the Paleolithic Era. So essentially, it’s a caveman diet. It’s worth noting that cavemen topped out at like three feet tall and died of old age at like 17. It was a brief brutal existence rife with disease and malnourishment. Probably gives you killer abs, but I think I’ll stick to my post-industrial revolution diet and die of congestive heart failure at 67, thank you very much.
Also, the fucking juicing. Was the guy who invented juicing ju
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Man Sobbing And Fucking A Red Velvet Cake

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