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Bad, Be Like, and Dad: In Case of "B" Break Glass My daughter is currently pulling a D- in math. This is her phone. galexion: handmetheshovel: thatguyinthecornerino: randomavengersquotes: lolnerdsposts: robanilla: justsomeonereloadable: thesecretkeith: blanketfortprincette: tastefullyoffensive: (photo by fistfullofcookies) Why do parents always assume their kid is lazy when they get bad grades? Like maybe help your kids by talking to them, not punishing them. This is how I failed math and didn’t even know I had number dyslexia for years. When my sister was in high school she struggled a LOT with math. Like I know a lot of people find it really difficult (myself included), but I mean she was really really bad at it. She has always been a very smart, creative and sensitive person, but math made no sense to her, to the point where passing seemed impossible. I will always remember that twice a week, around the kitchen table, my sister would sit down with my dad for hours, and they would try to work out her math homework. I should mention that my dad is an artist, and art teacher. Truth be told I think he struggled with math just as much if not more then she did. But twice a week you could hear them downstairs, going back and forth, trying to figure it out together. Some nights would be smooth and easy, some nights I could hear them arguing from one floor up about factors or equations, not in anger but in mutual frustration. I remember the day that she passed. My sister couldn’t wait until my dad’s school day ended, so she called him at work. She gleefully announced to him “I got a D-!”. We could hear him through the phone as he exclaimed “She got a D!” excitedly to his class. Still through the phone we heard his students clapping, laughing and whooping in congratulations. Seldom has a grade in our household been so celebrated. Just thought a shitty picture like this should be accompanied by a story about a person’s parents who actually gave a shit about helping their kid instead of mocking and punishing them. Read the story Read the story Read the story reblogging for the story. READ IT. THE STORY If it weren’t for my dad I would not be able to read and write. I was born1971 and people really didn’t know or care that some people struggle not because they are lazy but they just fuckin’ can’t do what comes easy to most. My dad did what that father did. Dad was working 12/14/16 hour days. And still… he sat down and read up on shit, talked to my teacher - and then he saved me. Reading has made me. I am a reader. The one thing people know about me is: she reads. Be like dad. Don’t be a tit. R E A DT h eS T O R Y
Bad, Be Like, and Dad: In Case of "B"
 Break Glass
 My daughter is currently pulling a D- in math. This is her phone.
galexion:

handmetheshovel:
thatguyinthecornerino:

randomavengersquotes:

lolnerdsposts:

robanilla:


justsomeonereloadable:

thesecretkeith:

blanketfortprincette:

tastefullyoffensive:

(photo by fistfullofcookies)

Why do parents always assume their kid is lazy when they get bad grades? Like maybe help your kids by talking to them, not punishing them. This is how I failed math and didn’t even know I had number dyslexia for years.

When my sister was in high school she struggled a LOT with math. Like I know a lot of people find it really difficult (myself included), but I mean she was really really bad at it. She has always been a very smart, creative and sensitive person, but math made no sense to her, to the point where passing seemed impossible.
I will always remember that twice a week, around the kitchen table, my sister would sit down with my dad for hours, and they would try to work out her math homework. I should mention that my dad is an artist, and art teacher. Truth be told I think he struggled with math just as much if not more then she did. But twice a week you could hear them downstairs, going back and forth, trying to figure it out together. Some nights would be smooth and easy, some nights I could hear them arguing from one floor up about factors or equations, not in anger but in mutual frustration.
I remember the day that she passed. My sister couldn’t wait until my dad’s school day ended, so she called him at work. She gleefully announced to him “I got a D-!”. We could hear him through the phone as he exclaimed “She got a D!” excitedly to his class. Still through the phone we heard his students clapping, laughing and whooping in congratulations. Seldom has a grade in our household been so celebrated.
Just thought a shitty picture like this should be accompanied by a story about a person’s parents who actually gave a shit about helping their kid instead of mocking and punishing them.


Read the story


Read the story


Read the story 


reblogging for the story. READ IT.


THE STORY


If it weren’t for my dad I would not be able to read and write. I was born1971 and people really didn’t know or care that some people struggle not because they are lazy but they just fuckin’ can’t do what comes easy to most.
My dad did what that father did. 
Dad was working 12/14/16 hour days.
And still… he sat down and read up on shit, talked to my teacher - and then he saved me. Reading has made me. I am a reader. The one thing people know about me is: she reads.  
Be like dad.
Don’t be a tit.


R E A DT h eS T O R Y

galexion: handmetheshovel: thatguyinthecornerino: randomavengersquotes: lolnerdsposts: robanilla: justsomeonereloadable: thesecretkei...

Beautiful, Birthday, and Crazy: thejoanglebook: gerrycoco: Joan Appreciation Day song  Here is my humble contribution to Joan Appreciation Day.  @thejoanglebook this one’s for you ***Personal note*** I struggle to see projects through in life, for many different reasons that aren’t worth going into at the moment. All I can say is that I’m inspired every day by people like Joan who put their heart and soul into what they do. Joan you are a comedy genius, a musical mastermind and all around crazy talented human being.You are the reason I pushed myself to make this video. This past weekend I learned that Joan Appreciation Day was on September 3rd and so wished to contribute something but didn’t know what. At one point I had a spark of inspiration and actually decided to follow it and do something with it for once. If anyone could appreciate a good pun it’s definitely you. And you more than deserve all the praise that we can give. So I took my courage and attempted to put it to good use, and I’m rather proud of the result.So thank you for not only inspiring me, but also for being a catalyst to put myself out there and giving something new a try. Hello @gerrycoco and hello everyone else. Sorry, I’ve been pretty quiet today/yesterday, but you should understand that I’m the type of person whose reaction to a performance of happy birthday dedicated to me is an internal: “do I deserve this? Don’t make eye contact. This will be over soon.” I can be pretty emotionally unavailable, and I feel like I should be absolutely floored by the incredible honor of having so many people celebrate me, but instead of feeling thankful, I feel like I owe something back. I’m like “oh God, they’re all being so kind. How do I show my appreciation for them?” Especially because on some level, I feel like reblogging all of your wonderful works of art could be vanity. I’m terrified of vanity. I don’t want to lose touch, and start to think more of myself then I deserve to. I want to keep growing, and I want to put others first. If I accept this gesture, does that mean I agree that I deserve it, or that I’m done growing? I don’t think I’m a genius at all (and I’d rather you not rebut that, because I’m really not trying to fish for compliments here).That said, the one thing I’m the most happy about having accomplished, is having worked on, written for, contributed to, or created projects that have inspired other artists. Some of you may know that I’m very pro-fan fiction. If I don’t accomplish anything else, I love that someone could’ve felt motivated to make something beautiful after seeing me attempt to make something beautiful myself. It really does warm my heart. That’s why I’m reblogging this, because I love that you felt the neccessary courage to put yourself out there, @gerrycoco… I’m really, really glad that you did. It’s a lovely song. And believe me, I really struggle to see things through myself– that’s why I only collaborate with people, because sometimes I think that that might be the only way that I can finish anything.I think I’m going to continue reblogging art for the occasion (a little belated, I know). Even if I don’t think I’m emotionally ready to believe I’m at all worthy of being celebrated, I do think that all of you wonderful artists are.🧡 Joan
Beautiful, Birthday, and Crazy: thejoanglebook:

gerrycoco:

Joan Appreciation Day song  Here is my humble contribution to Joan Appreciation Day.  @thejoanglebook this one’s for you ***Personal note*** I struggle to see projects through in life, for many
different reasons that aren’t worth going into at the moment. All I can say is
that I’m inspired every day by people like Joan who put their heart and soul
into what they do. Joan you are a comedy genius, a musical mastermind and all
around crazy talented human being.You are the reason I pushed myself to make this video. This
past weekend I learned that Joan Appreciation Day was on September 3rd and so
wished to contribute something but didn’t know what. At one point I had a spark
of inspiration and actually decided to follow it and do something with it for
once. If anyone could appreciate a good pun it’s definitely you. And you more
than deserve all the praise that we can give. So I took my courage and
attempted to put it to good use, and I’m rather proud of the result.So thank you for not only inspiring me, but also for being a
catalyst to put myself out there and giving something new a try.

Hello @gerrycoco and hello everyone else. Sorry, I’ve been pretty quiet today/yesterday, but you should understand that I’m the type of person whose reaction to a performance of happy birthday dedicated to me is an internal: “do I deserve this? Don’t make eye contact. This will be over soon.” I can be pretty emotionally unavailable, and I feel like I should be absolutely floored by the incredible honor of having so many people celebrate me, but instead of feeling thankful, I feel like I owe something back. I’m like “oh God, they’re all being so kind. How do I show my appreciation for them?” Especially because on some level, I feel like reblogging all of your wonderful works of art could be vanity. I’m terrified of vanity. I don’t want to lose touch, and start to think more of myself then I deserve to. I want to keep growing, and I want to put others first. If I accept this gesture, does that mean I agree that I deserve it, or that I’m done growing? I don’t think I’m a genius at all (and I’d rather you not rebut that, because I’m really not trying to fish for compliments here).That said, the one thing I’m the most happy about having accomplished, is having worked on, written for, contributed to, or created projects that have inspired other artists. Some of you may know that I’m very pro-fan fiction. If I don’t accomplish anything else, I love that someone could’ve felt motivated to make something beautiful after seeing me attempt to make something beautiful myself. It really does warm my heart. That’s why I’m reblogging this, because I love that you felt the neccessary courage to put yourself out there, @gerrycoco… I’m really, really glad that you did. It’s a lovely song. And believe me, I really struggle to see things through myself– that’s why I only collaborate with people, because sometimes I think that that might be the only way that I can finish anything.I think I’m going to continue reblogging art for the occasion (a little belated, I know). Even if I don’t think I’m emotionally ready to believe I’m at all worthy of being celebrated, I do think that all of you wonderful artists are.🧡 Joan

thejoanglebook: gerrycoco: Joan Appreciation Day song  Here is my humble contribution to Joan Appreciation Day.  @thejoanglebook this one’...

Being Alone, Crying, and Dude: thejorie: xilast-zurvifferman: thejorie: jackbecq: thejorie: 19leahjade96: thejorie: madamekagamine: thejorie: gccgrimm: thejorie: gucciballs: thejorie: peble: thejorie: My three girlfriends.And yes, they smoke weed. do they smoke weed? Yes, actually. you mean she isnt just smoking a cigarette? but a weed cigarette? It’s called a bunt…. Not weed cigarette… And yes, it is a weed bunt. They all smoke weed bunts before we kiss. (They are my girlfriends,) They don’t look like they smoke weed. Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.I’m so angry you are so lucky my three weed smorking girlfriends are rubbing my shoulders to calm me down I’m so mad. Your “weed smoking girlfriend” has a Hello Kitty tattoo on her belly. The one in the middle. I printed out a photo of your avatar and taped it to my punching bag that I punch and I mutter your URL with every strong punch I punch you twerp…. Don’t ever Talk about Blaiz or the wicked Tat(tattoo) I drew on her ever again I Don’t wanna see you standing outside my home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again ok leave us alone this is the FINAL FUCKING WARNING  Well that escalated quickly…… What, was that? Hmm? Come again. *Blaiz grabs my shoulder* Come on Jory, they aren’t worth it, please. * I jerk my shoulder shaking her hand off* NO! NOOOOO!!! *starts to just pummel you with my big fucking fists. With each blow I let out a furious yell. The blows come quicker and harder and the yells get louder. I’m yelling so loud and now I’m crying. BREAKING POINT. The week was hard and I can’t take anymore. I’m opening sobbing at this point while you blood gurgle. All three of my girlfriends struggle to pull me off and they finally succeed and lead me away from the goo pile that is now your body* haha oh my god who even is this dude? someone needs some anger management classes. love how he keeps reminding us that “I HAVE THREE GIRLFRIENDS”, “THEY ALL KISS ME”, and “THEY SMOKE WEED HURRP DURR”. and let’s not forget the “Blaiz” and her “wicked tat”, or that he doesn’t “wanna see you standing outside [his] home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again”, and that this is “the FINAL FUCKING WARNING”. “the goo pile that is now your body” i’m dying over here, jesus please, Jory, come challenge me to a bout of internet witticsisms; i promise, it’ll be fun. *shoots you dead* Heh, idiot…*leaves with my three weed smorking girlfriends to go hold hands and kiss.* this dude playin omg  Come again? *The bar falls silent. No one dares to make a sound, as you have just said a very poor choice of words at a very dangerous time. I remain slumped over the bar, not looking back to you. One hand limply holding an almost empty bottle, the other hand cradling my head. I repeat the question, this time louder.* Come again?! *You can hear me slur the words, the sentence sounds like a real struggle for me to get out. I’m clearly intoxicated. A bead of sweat rolls down your face as you realize you might have just fucked up in a very major way. Everyone else in the bar is pretending to not notice what is going on. The bartender idly washes a mug with a cloth. His eyes are closed and he’s muttering something to himself. A handful of people hurriedly leave. One person looks back at you, a look of sorrow on their face. They almost say something, but shake their head and cast their eyes down to the floor, and leave. But not you. You stand, petrified. A quick look at me reveals I’m still  at the bar. You look to the exit, there’s still time. But there’s not, there’s not, there’s not. Your fate was sealed the moment you opened your mouth.* Mother fuck.. what did you say?! *I slowly rise from my stool and being to lumber over to you.  I look a mess. My hair is unkempt, I haven’t shaved in what looks like months, there are dark heavy bags under my eyes, my shirt is stained and has holes in it, and I’m missing a shoe. But the main thing you notice is the gun tucked into my jeans, and my massive muscle arms that look like they were made for punching. You know that song about the boots that were made for walking? Yeah, it’s like that only instead of boots it’s my muscles and instead of walking it’s punching. As I drunkenly sway over to you, you think of your family… Will they mourn you, or will they try and forget this blotch of stupidity, that their child insulted the Jory publicly, ever happened to their family? Your thoughts are cut short as I now stand face to face with you. I grab your face and pull you even closer.* Playin?! There was nothing playing… no playing you fuck. No playing… it was real.. the realest thing I’ve ever know.. felt… Love. I loved them… Blaiz…. Chas-Chas… Funk… I loved all three of em… but they…*My face is wet with tears and I’m blinking constantly in vain to hold them back.* They left me… left… *Almost instantly the sadness leaves my face and is replaced with pure anger.* Playin? Playin?! *My hand leaves your face and starts to head to what you think is the gun. You close your eyes and see God looking at you, shrugging. ‘Pft, you brought this upon yourself dude.’ He says as he waves his hands at you dismissively. But instead of the gun, my hands grab yours. Your eyes jolt open and the anger is gone from my face. There is only sadness.* Left me… * I fall to the floor and sob.*Wow, grow up. *You say before you leave the bar but are hit almost immediately from a car and are killed upon impact.*
Being Alone, Crying, and Dude: thejorie:

xilast-zurvifferman:

thejorie:

jackbecq:

thejorie:

19leahjade96:

thejorie:

madamekagamine:

thejorie:

gccgrimm:

thejorie:

gucciballs:

thejorie:

peble:

thejorie:

My three girlfriends.And yes, they smoke weed.

do they smoke weed?

Yes, actually.

you mean she isnt just smoking a cigarette? but a weed cigarette? 

It’s called a bunt…. Not weed cigarette… And yes, it is a weed bunt. They all smoke weed bunts before we kiss. (They are my girlfriends,)

They don’t look like they smoke weed.

Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.Fuck You.I’m so angry you are so lucky my three weed smorking girlfriends are rubbing my shoulders to calm me down I’m so mad.

Your “weed smoking girlfriend” has a Hello Kitty tattoo on her belly. The one in the middle.

I printed out a photo of your avatar and taped it to my punching bag that I punch and I mutter your URL with every strong punch I punch you twerp…. Don’t ever Talk about Blaiz or the wicked Tat(tattoo) I drew on her ever again I Don’t wanna see you standing outside my home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again ok leave us alone this is the FINAL FUCKING WARNING 

Well that escalated quickly……

What, was that? Hmm? Come again. *Blaiz grabs my shoulder* Come on Jory, they aren’t worth it, please. * I jerk my shoulder shaking her hand off* NO! NOOOOO!!! *starts to just pummel you with my big fucking fists. With each blow I let out a furious yell. The blows come quicker and harder and the yells get louder. I’m yelling so loud and now I’m crying. BREAKING POINT. The week was hard and I can’t take anymore. I’m opening sobbing at this point while you blood gurgle. All three of my girlfriends struggle to pull me off and they finally succeed and lead me away from the goo pile that is now your body*

haha oh my god

who even is this dude? someone needs some anger management classes.

love how he keeps reminding us that “I HAVE THREE GIRLFRIENDS”, “THEY ALL KISS ME”, and “THEY SMOKE WEED HURRP DURR”.

and let’s not forget the “Blaiz” and her “wicked tat”, or that he doesn’t “wanna see you standing outside [his] home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again”, and that this is “the FINAL FUCKING WARNING”.

“the goo pile that is now your body”

i’m dying over here, jesus

please, Jory, come challenge me to a bout of internet witticsisms; i promise, it’ll be fun.

*shoots you dead* Heh, idiot…*leaves with my three weed smorking girlfriends to go hold hands and kiss.*

this dude playin omg 

Come again? *The bar falls silent. No one dares to make a sound, as you have just said a very poor choice of words at a very dangerous time. I remain slumped over the bar, not looking back to you. One hand limply holding an almost empty bottle, the other hand cradling my head. I repeat the question, this time louder.* Come again?! *You can hear me slur the words, the sentence sounds like a real struggle for me to get out. I’m clearly intoxicated. A bead of sweat rolls down your face as you realize you might have just fucked up in a very major way. Everyone else in the bar is pretending to not notice what is going on. The bartender idly washes a mug with a cloth. His eyes are closed and he’s muttering something to himself. A handful of people hurriedly leave. One person looks back at you, a look of sorrow on their face. They almost say something, but shake their head and cast their eyes down to the floor, and leave. But not you. You stand, petrified. A quick look at me reveals I’m still  at the bar. You look to the exit, there’s still time. But there’s not, there’s not, there’s not. Your fate was sealed the moment you opened your mouth.* Mother fuck.. what did you say?! *I slowly rise from my stool and being to lumber over to you.  I look a mess. My hair is unkempt, I haven’t shaved in what looks like months, there are dark heavy bags under my eyes, my shirt is stained and has holes in it, and I’m missing a shoe. But the main thing you notice is the gun tucked into my jeans, and my massive muscle arms that look like they were made for punching. You know that song about the boots that were made for walking? Yeah, it’s like that only instead of boots it’s my muscles and instead of walking it’s punching. As I drunkenly sway over to you, you think of your family… Will they mourn you, or will they try and forget this blotch of stupidity, that their child insulted the Jory publicly, ever happened to their family? Your thoughts are cut short as I now stand face to face with you. I grab your face and pull you even closer.* Playin?! There was nothing playing… no playing you fuck. No playing… it was real.. the realest thing I’ve ever know.. felt… Love. I loved them… Blaiz…. Chas-Chas… Funk… I loved all three of em… but they…*My face is wet with tears and I’m blinking constantly in vain to hold them back.* They left me… left… *Almost instantly the sadness leaves my face and is replaced with pure anger.* Playin? Playin?! *My hand leaves your face and starts to head to what you think is the gun. You close your eyes and see God looking at you, shrugging. ‘Pft, you brought this upon yourself dude.’ He says as he waves his hands at you dismissively. But instead of the gun, my hands grab yours. Your eyes jolt open and the anger is gone from my face. There is only sadness.* Left me… * I fall to the floor and sob.*Wow, grow up. *You say before you leave the bar but are hit almost immediately from a car and are killed upon impact.*

thejorie: xilast-zurvifferman: thejorie: jackbecq: thejorie: 19leahjade96: thejorie: madamekagamine: thejorie: gccgrimm: thejorie:...

Struggle, Target, and Tumblr: Aimingc lightningrei: every day i struggle to find an art style im satisfied with
Struggle, Target, and Tumblr: Aimingc
lightningrei:

every day i struggle to find an art style im satisfied with

lightningrei: every day i struggle to find an art style im satisfied with