Why dating is just stupid

 Dating someone is just stupid! What is even the point? It is just so that you can show off to all the dudes that you have it, that you have it made! But what is the point of that? Do you even like the person? If so, it is just weird to date them! Who wants to date a friend? That's just weird! If you don't like the person, the whole date is meaningless! Do you even think about what the other person thinks? Do you? Do you think about what that person's friends or parents would say? It is a fearsome thing to imagine the parents and their finding that you want to date their child! You would be seen as despicable! And dating someone also serves no purpose.

🍇🍇Autobiography of Thud Launch Audio in a New Window🍎🍎🍎🍎

 🍇Autobiography of Thud 

BY OMOTARA JAMES

After Donika Kelly

You live in Elmont, New York,

in a small house with a big yard

and gate that doesn’t lock.

Have a best friend

with shiny black hair

called Clarissa, who shares everything

and might be the only person

to smile when she sees you.

You play at her house after school.

She is not as brown or round,

but that doesn’t make her more or less

beautiful than you, just likable.

You take the bus to school Mondays–Fridays,

where you almost always share a seat twice

the width of your womanly hips, unless

someone is sick and no one wants the seat

next to you, where you practice how to leave

your body. You daydream

that your mum doesn’t have to work

and sometimes you’re sure you see her

powder blue car trailing the bus, just out the window.

You don’t wear glasses, but think they look smart.

Can still look people in the eye

when you speak and are spoken to.

Unsupervised adults, busy boys and girls

have things to say about your  figure, which

is the word men are most likely to use

when addressing a growing girl. Trauma

isn’t a word you’ve heard anywhere, including

the playground or the tele. Instead, you pick

up pretty junk, like muddy flower barrettes and strange coins.

Your pockets jangle on the bus home with your private

collection. You strew your loves with abandon

across the kitchen counter. Clarissa shines them,

placing them next to the repurposed tin can

on her dresser. Neither one of you knows the word altar

or wears the fancy barrettes to school.

Your mother works overnight. Your father too.

But his Aramis follows her Opium parfum

like the sun does the moon. In the morning,

the near miss of his body seems easier.

You roam like a buffalo through his possessions.

Spritz his cologne. Finger his ties. You could be anyone.

Mom shouts the warning for the bus. Reality

returns to the tongue like dry cud. You trot

through the kitchen to graze in peace, where

you find a different, familiar island gyal.

Every six months, maybe, dad brings one in need

of work before she travels back home. They

watch you and your brother. Closely. Discern that

Trinidad is not   your home. You awake to girls

in the shape of women towering over you.

They are as mean as square-cut glass. Get up

for school. They remind you how you are American,

which you learn is a slur for fat. They leave.

They return six months later with mangos,

black rum cake and small parcels. They teach you

fatty-fatty boom-boom is the sound you make

when you walk, when you smile or enter

a room:   fatty-fatty boom-boom.

You don’t know how to fight,

but have instincts to protect your brother

against people he won’t remember.

You love him now. Your secret is

that you have usurped his real mother. You play

Candy Land and Monopoly. Your brother

loves money so much that you trade him

pink and blue bills for Halloween candy.

You are aware you like food more

than you’re supposed to. You unwrap the candy

beneath your pillow so the sound doesn’t carry.

It’s summer, finally! You’re officially a second grader.

The first day at camp, your training bra is discovered

by Jessica Rose in the locker room.

Who accuses you of weighing 100 pounds.

Who washes her hair every day,

and smells like flowers before they die.

Chicken

 

.🐵The XY sex-determination system

 🐵🐵The XY sex-determination system is a sex-determination system used to classify many mammals, including humans, some insects (Drosophila), some snakes, some fish (guppies), and some plants (Ginkgo tree). In this system, the sex of an individual is determined by a pair of sex chromosomes. Females have two of the same kind of sex chromosome (XX), and are called the homogametic sex. Males have two different kinds of sex chromosomes (XY), and are called the heterogametic sex.^[1

False! False! $#%& science! False! Treason! Treason! 9/11 causing! Person actually believes in females! Everyone knows that women don't exist! 🐤🐵The XY sex-determination system 🙏 is treason against America! 

Think about it

Beer And bacon

 

.Beer BY GEORGE ARNOLD

 .Beer

BY GEORGE ARNOLD

Here,

    With my beer

I sit,

While golden moments flit:

    Alas!

    They pass

Unheeded by:

And, as they fly,

I,

Being dry,

    Sit, idly sipping here

    My beer.

O, finer far

Than fame, or riches, are

The graceful smoke-wreaths of this free cigar!

    Why

    Should I

    Weep, wail, or sigh?

    What if luck has passed me by?

What if my hopes are dead,— 

My pleasures fled?

    Have I not still

    My fill

Of right good cheer,—

Cigars and beer?

    Go, whining youth,

    Forsooth!

Go, weep and wail,

Sigh and grow pale,

    Weave melancholy rhymes

    On the old times,

Whose joys like shadowy ghosts appear,—

But leave me to my beer!

    Gold is dross,—

    Love is loss,—

So, if I gulp my sorrows down,

Or see them drown

In foamy draughts of old nut-brown,

Then do I wear the crown,

    Without the cross!

Transginger

 

.George Orwell Sometimes in the middle autumn days

 🍔

George Orwell

Sometimes in the middle autumn days

Sometimes in the middle autumn days,
The windless days when the swallows have flown,
And the sere elms brood in the mist,
Each tree a being, rapt, alone,

I know, not as in barren thought,
But wordlessly, as the bones know,
What quenching of my brain, what numbness,
Wait in the dark grave where I go.

And I see the people thronging the street,
The death-marked people, they and I
Goalless, rootless, like leaves drifting,
Blind to the earth and to the sky;

Nothing believing, nothing loving,
Not in joy nor in pain, not heeding the stream
Of precious life that flows within us,
But fighting, toiling as in a dream.

So shall we in the rout of life
Some thought, some faith, some meaning save,
And speak it once before we go
In silence to the silent grave...

The only meme people use

 

Some countries may not like American films! 🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🌋🌋🌋🌋