Mole

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How does Pac-Man get from one place to another?

He walka walka walkas.

Hi! I'm new!

Howdy, partner! 🤠

Word association Game!

Toes (ditto)

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🤨

@rush99999, the chicken who?

𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒖𝒎 - 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈

_{a short writing prompt inspired by maki kashimada}

[+]

<sub>Unmoved

Boxes. They were all empty, once with cans.

She wanted to remove them, but her arm wouldn’t move. It stayed limp by her side.

It wouldn’t be easy removing them. They’d been in there so long. He had put them in there, and now he was gone. He’s been gone a while. Just like the cans.

He had drunk them all. One by one.

She always asked him to remove the cans from the boxes and then place them in the fridge. But, he never listened. No, he did. A few times. But, not the last time.

And now, the boxes would cling to the fridge shelves when she inevitably tried to pull them free.

Her eyes closed momentarily. She could see dirty socks on the kitchen counter. Food crumbs sprinkled all over the counter. The sink littered with midnight snack dishes.

No matter how well she cleaned the kitchen, by the time she woke up in the morning, it was dirty, again. The cycle was endless and broken.

Was she mad for wanting a clean kitchen?

At what point in their marriage had this become the only thing that mattered?

In the beginning, she wanted them to sleep in the same bed. But, he stayed up all night; slept on the couch or in the tub.

She wanted to have meals as a family, but instead, she ate alone. He was always working or sleeping or maybe doing nothing at all.

It all disintegrated into wanting a clean house.

Just like her mother had, when she was still young. Her earliest memories were of watching her mother clean the house. A vacuum in one hand, her baby brother in another.

She was standing on a stepping stool, helping her mother with the dishes, when the soap and water made her hands too slippery. A dish fell from her grasp and broke inside the sink.

Was that why their marriage broke?

She just wanted things to be clean, tidy, orderly.

And, he was all chaos.

When did she start enjoying sleeping alone? When did she start fearing him joining her at the table?

The refrigerator hummed at her. The door had been left open for too long. Her hand shook, unable to close it.

He had surprised her with the fridge. It was hi-tech at the time with a digital screen. They never used it. It was just there. Just like their marriage. Except, it no longer hummed.

It was quiet and broken.

But maybe, if she kept the boxes, he would come back. Maybe, if she closed her eyes, one more time, she would see his dirty socks on the kitchen counter. Maybe, if she didn’t close the fridge, he’d ask her to get him another bottle.

Just maybe, if she didn’t move, they’d have each other again.

But, he’d already left.

He’d taken the kids and left her the house, where she would never have to clean up after them again.</sub>

Post a random fact about yourself.

I sold my arm and leg for a Sanrio White Cat Ballerina Design Series Hello Kitty plushie. She came in today. The scalpers may have won, but oh she is so adorable!

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@rush99999, who’s there?

Ban the User Above You

Banned for not having a better reason to ban someone.

𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒖𝒎 - 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈

_{a short story | ————
maternal displacement & family roles}

[+]

Objects in Mirror are Closer Than They Appear

Part i.

“Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

The rearview mirror repeated this over and over during every car ride. The black letters never failed to remind her. If she ever dared to forget, all she had to do was glance out the window. Even just for a moment.
He was giving a lecture about left-handed people again.

“They’re more creative than right-handed people,” he droned on.
He had to make sure their daughter felt secure about being left-handed.

She wanted to roll her eyes. Creativity had never seemed very useful to her. But it would be, to their daughter—the way he praised her. She knew it was because their daughter wasn’t creative in a way that made her the wrong shape.

You know, The shape that never broke the mold, but still got the prize. The kind that didn’t push, didn’t resist, didn’t ask to be seen. Just quietly slipped into the peg, clean and round and right. The kind teachers loved. The kind that aced standardized tests without making a fuss. The kind that wouldn’t get picked on. Not even for writing with her left hand

She wanted to be grateful. Her daughter stood a chance at happiness in the world. She should be happy for her, right?
Instead, there was the silent pain of knowing the two of them would never connect. The same way her husband and she never connected.

Love was blind.

How had he missed it when they were dating?
No, no—why had he encouraged it? And then, suddenly, after marriage:

“When I proposed to you, no one else would’ve worn that outfit. It was just… so weird.”

“Nobody thinks like you do. It’s just… weird. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s not how the real world works. No one will see it that way. They’ll judge you. They’ll judge me.”

“Everything you like is obscure and niche. It makes it harder for me. I have to try extra hard to be normal, to fit in.”

She cupped her right hand over her left.
Thank God she hadn’t been born left-handed. Her husband might have murdered her for her creativity.

Her shoulders dropped.

So badly, she wanted to say that right-handed people could be creative too. But she bit her tongue. She bit her teeth into it. Not now. The last time she tried to say something like that, he stormed out of the house—for hurting their daughter’s ego.

Part ii.

It was Sunday morning. All three of them were about to get into the car when she noticed their daughter was wearing a pajama shirt over a skirt.

“I think that’s a pajama shirt. Can you please change it?” she gently asked.

“That’s a really cute top, Sweetheart. The pattern is very pretty,” her husband interjected. “I think what she means to say is, ‘That looks like a pajama shirt, and some might think so.’ You should put on a little nicer of a top.”

“Oh… okay,” their daughter replied. “I didn’t know it was a pajama top.”
She felt badly for saying it. Maybe her daughter wanted to make a statement.
But, culturally speaking, she couldn’t help but think wearing sleepwear out and about—especially to be seen at church—might come across as dirty. Lazy. Ungroomed. Improper.

“That was mean, what you did,” her husband began once they were in the car. “You hurt her feelings. You wear weirder things. And no one would have known she was wearing a pajama top. It didn’t look like one.”

Was she squashing their daughter’s creativity?

No, no, their daughter was in middle school, and besides—Shakespeare broke the rules because he knew the rules. Their daughter couldn’t tell the difference between a pajama shirt and a normal shirt yet.
But to her husband, saying so was too harsh. Too controlling. Too motherly.
Maybe she had been too harsh.

Part iii.

Finally, they had the day to themselves.

Both got into the car. Cheekily, before the engine turned over, she pulled up a picture on her phone. “I bought a new swimsuit,” she said, showing him the screen.

He glanced down and frowned. “Oh God, it’s frilly… and it has sleeves. It’s going to attract so much attention,” he sighed. “Of course you’d buy that.”

He started backing the car out of the driveway.

It was a one-piece. It covered her shoulders—unlike the swimsuit she bought the previous year, which was a halter. He hadn’t liked that one either. It had shown too much of her back and shoulders. That, too, had been a bad example for their daughter.

She swallowed and put the phone down.

If their daughter had shown him the same swimsuit, would he have praised her creativity? Of course he would have. Softness looks better on some people. Maybe she would’ve worn it proudly, not even thinking about what it might say. Maybe she would’ve been allowed to like it — just because she liked it.

Or maybe that was just it.

They were all shaped differently than her. They saw the world from a place she couldn’t understand.

Even being right-handed hadn’t helped her fit into the peg. And every time the cookie cutter came down, it would hurt as it cut into the parts of her that didn’t fit.

She used to think marriage would be the place where it all came together. The place where someone would look at her and stay. Where loving comfort would finally be an agreement. She held that hope all through childhood. She refused to let that hope unravel. And now, she was holding a jumble of tangles and torn dreams.

She sighed and looked out the car window.

“The objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”

Yes. Yes they were.

They always were.

But not for her. Not in this car.

Shortjokes.com

What is Super Mario’s favorite type of fabric?

Denim denim denim.