it might stick

TalesFromYourServer: Today's glassware debacle.

I’m a server/bartender at a bar/restaurant. I put on my game face and went in today all full of sunshine and butterflies. Got me through today’s hectic shift change and these three girls.

I can give exact accounts of everything that happened and why I knew I wasn’t getting tipped, but I’m going to start towards the middle, when Make-me-something-sweet-but-not-too-sweet-but-strong got her mozzarella sticks.

She might have told my coworker she didn’t like the sauce or something–I’m not sure, but my coworker gave me the heads up she might send the mozz sticks back and that they needed me.

I walked right over to them thinking the girl would complain about her mozz sticks, but she was sitting there eating them as Miss Sass was telling me about that one coffee-like drink that the OTHER bartender made. But it’s cold. The way she described it made it sound like a White Russian.

“No. The other bartender made me this drink and it was like cold but coffee and it came in this glass that’s big but smaller than this and medium.”

I’m not exaggerating. That was the description I was given. She had a 12 oz. glass in front of her. We don’t have an extravagant selection of glasses at our bar. Smaller than this? Showed her a rock glass. Smaller than that? Shot glass. But no, it’s bigger. There’s a fancy-looking glass we put Mimosas in; We’ll put Daiquiris in it too or anything people request something “pretty” in. Nope. Not that.

I was really busy but this is the one thing they did that I entertained. I really wanted to know what she was talking about. I called her out on her ridiculous description and her friends laughed with me; I thought they kind of liked me at this point. I mean, I kept a smile the entire time.

I was just showing them all the glassware. She said “NO. THE ONE GLASS. LIKE IT’S BIG BUT SMALL” and the way she described the glass described our Mimosa glass that I showed her already. No, not the Mimosa glass.

I was lost. I grabbed a Martini glass. “Was it similar to this at all?”

“Yeah! Like, the bottom…like, that, but big….Medium.”

“Wait…Was it in a glass like this but more rounded up top? Was it a Margarita glass?” I continued to describe the Margarita glass, which we are currently out of. Clumsy bartenders and bar guests.


I knew exactly what bartender they were referring to. I was very busy at this point, but I just HAD to know. I showed her all of our glassware but it was in a different glass according to this girl. I even showed her the copper mugs. I’ve been there well over two years–I know all of the glassware but this extravagant drink that my coworker served them wasn’t in ANY of these glasses.

Meanwhile, Make-me-something-sweet-but-not-too-sweet-but-strong was eating her mozzarella sticks….either laughing at my stupidity or her friend’s ridiculous description. I’m not sure.

I got my coworker on the phone. I was tending bar, on the phone, trying to figure out what this drink was.

I told my coworker about the coffee drink that the girl specified. She said “I don’t know…Like a White Russian, but put it in a Mimosa glass.”

I relayed the message and I showed her the Mimosa glass. She said “No. That’s not the glass. I don’t want it.”

The nonexistent glassware was the deciding factor–Not the actual contents of the drink.

I made it a point to tell them that the other bartender will be working with me tomorrow and they can ask her about this drink in this non-existent glassware. I didn’t say it in any condescending tone–I was smiling and light-hearted the entire time.

Once there was like, less than half of the last mozzarella stick left, they told me that they didn’t like their mozz sticks. They were gross.

“Had you pointed it out to me in the beginning, I would have gladly taken it away and took it off your bill…but you ATE them. There is nothing I can do.” They shut up.

Eventually, the one girl decided to order that coffee drink from me. I put it in a Mimosa glass. She did like it, but I’m positive she didn’t really like me. She didn’t ask for management because I gave her no reason to(Would’ve sucked; I was ready to whip out my management card right then and there).

They were ridiculous the entire time and tried to waste a lot more of my time than I let them waste; I just want to know what exact glassware she was trying to describe.

By: KingOfArms

anonymous asked:

This may be an uncomfortable question. But even tho I hate CJ as a person I still like their art and follow them. Is that bad?

I mean, you like the art, go right ahead and stick with em. I personally wouldn’t want to support an artist via follows, but if their art is good imo, i might stick around?

You do you, dude.

plan a: punch it plan b: blow it up plan c: panic

You can get this on Redbubble!

Hi everyone I’ve been busy with schoolwork + things that I would prefer to post in a set once they’re all done and thus haven’t posted yet + things I’m too lazy to scan lol

here’s a genji doodle in the meantime, based on intensely personal experiences with having green hair


yandere yoosung part 3

a more “light-hearted” page this time
recently, i’ve been really torn about my shading style so i decided to experiment a bit with this page. i really liked it so i might stick with this one for now

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 4 ] [ 5 ] [ 6 ] [ 7 ] [ END ]

please do not repost without my permission!

Me: I have very high standards!
Everyone: -submits their fanart/fanfics-

I’m sorry. Not really. I just love all your fanarts.

Honestly the amount of western artists that are interested in bts and want to do collabs is a huge thing. With so many western artists being interested in bts it will make it a lot easier to break into the western market. If bighit does it right, and keep building on what they have now, they might not even have to make songs in english. 


What started with my own Blue Sapphire, turned into a Sapphire for each Diamond.

I guess the backstory for these Sister Sapphires is that they were the very first of their color and gem to ever form thus their odd appearances compared to other Sapphires, and serve each Diamond as their main future tellers.
(Pink Sapphire went to Blue Diamond after the incident.)

Pink Sapphire also likes to sit a lot as it calms her nerves.💞

Each Sapphire is 12 ft tall.

Hope you like them!!! 💙💗💛🖤

anonymous asked:

Do you have a take on Ryan's tragic backstory? (I know you said you actually have a nicer background for him but i thought you might have a dark version too!)

 Anonymous said: What are some of your head cannons for FAHC Ryan?

Ryan didn’t set out to be what he became. Few children dream of becoming devastation. It’s a trope that is thrown around in all kinds of media – redeemable bad guy, killer with a heart of gold. How quaint. Like most things, the real life version is so much darker.

There’s something bleak and awful in a world renown mercenary who still feels for every victim. Something inescapably tragic in finding satisfaction in an act so personally distasteful. Because Ryan’s never been cruel, exactly. Would never dream of torturing an animal, of hurting a child. Doesn’t even enjoy the majority of the dirty work he’s surrounded himself in. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t enjoy any of it. Doesn’t get some level of dark gratification from his own competence, from the fear he’s sown, the reputation he’s nurtured, the safety he’s crafted from blood-soaked screams and scorched white bones. There was a time when the Vagabond was truly as dispassionate as they say, but since joining the Fake AH Crew the mercenary certainly lived up to the gang’s notorious affinity for flare; Ryan always was a bit theatrical, and the only thing worse than an apathetic killer is one who can see the morbid humour in it all.

Ryan’s criminal career actually begins years before the Vagabond crashed into being. Started like so many others; young and bored, too clever for his own good and desperate for a way to prove it. He drifts into a group who wanted bigger, wanted better, wanted a life society told them was forbidden. It would be easy to say he got caught up in the wrong crowd, pulled along in their wake, but it wouldn’t be accurate. Ryan has been many things but never meek. Never a blind follower. Ryan who could never settle for simply trusting what others tell him, never believing in absolutes he hasn’t tested for himself. Not when he could find another way around, a way under, when he could take the problem apart and find a solution no one else ever expected.

So he joined, he fit in, he rose and he flourished. Ryan wasn’t a killer back then, criminal yes but not a mercenary; they were thieves mostly, would posture and swagger and inflate their own egos but they kept away from the big gangs. At least at first. Because sooner or later things are going to go south and it wasn’t pretty when they did. The group fractures, those who can flee back to their old lives, or into the relative safety of bigger crews, and those left behind have blood on their hands and a bounty on their heads.

Taking a life isn’t quite as difficult as Ryan had anticipated. Awful, of course, and not something he would do without necessity, but the time for scruples has surely passed and if death is what it takes for the last dregs of his gang to live then Ryan will paint the streets red. It’s wrong, he knows. It’s bad, immoral, everything people aren’t meant to be; it’s wrong and Ryan does it anyway. Figures morality is all well and good but won’t help at all if they’re all dead.

For a while it works, their group is small but it’s solid, together they were magnificent. Not that anyone cares about all that, not when the story everyone knows comes after. Comes, of course, with the birth of the Vagabond.

It’s no real surprise that the prominent story surrounding the origin of the most notorious mercenary in the country is as dark and unforgivable as the man himself. A tale of betrayal, of protecting his identity by wiping out all who knew him before the mask, making a name off of the death of those he once called friends. It’s chilling, horrifically fitting and almost entirely untrue; the crew dies, yes, treachery as the hands of one of their own but Ryan is not their Judas.  

The man who traded away their lives for the right price was Ryan’s best friend in all the world, close enough to call brother, someone he trusted so blindly he’d let himself be beaten half to death before he even thought about retaliating. The only crew blood on Ryan’s hands was, it turns out, the most undeniably clean-cut case of self defence, not that it matters in the long run. Not when it plays out in the dark, out of sight, without witness. Not when he’s the only one who walks away, the one who dons a mask and buries his name, retreats from humanity and loses all semblance of mercy. Against all odds Ryan managed to survive. The man he had once been did not.

The story takes on a life of its own and the Vagabond does nothing to stop it; he is, after all, a killer. People should fear him, should run and hide and pray he doesn’t darken their doors. He killed a man who he loved dearly; what line was there left to cross? What sin could be thought too great?

Free from distraction the Vagabond throws himself into his work, takes job after job and sets to building the most terrifying image possible, a reputation full of atrocities which grow with every telling. There are no weak spots for his enemies to target, no useless emotions dragging him down; they say he’s heartless, say he’s inhuman, call him evil, call him corruption, call him nightmare. Eventually Ryan grows used to the way people shudder when they see him, confident in his talents and comfortable with his image. He finally acclimatises to the way mirrors reflect nothing but a cold black skull, and perhaps he couldn’t quite call himself happy but he isn’t exactly displeased with his life.

It becomes cathartic in it’s own way, a sense of satisfaction born from devastation, a sort of peace found in ruin. It makes him his own kind of damaged Ryan knows. Makes him unfixable, maybe. Or maybe it’s that thought in and of itself that condemns him, self awareness of his own desecration, a self fulfilling future of irredeemable wrongness. Either way he knows there’s no going back to how he was. Either way he knows, deep down, that he isn’t sure he wants to. Isn’t sure he’d take back soft, harmless Ryan even if he could, even with the nightmares, the fear and self doubt, the guilt. The glaring absence of guilt.

Ryan isn’t ashamed of what he is, of who he became. He can track his path directly, has run his choices over and over in his mind and comes to the same solutions every time; the Vagabond has always acted with intention. Ryan has always done what he needed to, what he wanted to, always evolved and advanced and overcome. So he isn’t ashamed, but he’s not always proud either. Not always confident that a life spent doing what is necessary rather than what is right is a life worth preserving.  

It’s easier now, in the island of misfit toys, the family of selfish entertainment and bloodstained choices. Easier to justify the savagery of necessity when it is more than just his own life he is protecting, more than just his personal goals he is chasing. In the FAHC Ryan has found the acceptance he never knew he wanted, rekindled emotions he’d have sworn were beaten out of him in a dark alley all those years ago. Like stitching together a ragged wound he’d borne for so long he’d forgotten how to live without it; the scars would never truly fade away, still twinge on the worst days, but all of a sudden he’s faced with a life free of constant misery.

There is no way to repay them for that, for showing him a world where death and joy do not cancel each other out, soothing his conflictions without changing who he has become, for kinship between the equally wicked. Ryan knows they believe he’d die for them, and he would. Would jump right in with eyes wide open, just as self-aware as when he let’s Geoff make a show of his obedience, let’s Jack drag him out looking for ridiculously specific vehicles or let’s Jeremy tag in on a job he could have handled alone. As when he slows down a new trick Michael’s covertly trying to replicate or resigns himself to indentured servitude when Gavin plays him like a puppet; affection clearer in action than he could ever conceptualise in speech, trusting his team to understand.

What they don’t seem to understand is the fact that, if they needed him to, he would do so much more than die for them. To die is nothing, is brief sacrifice, but Ryan would ruin. Would create and destroy and conqueror. Were he asked to he would tear down the whole world around them, set it alight and shelter them from the blaze; a level of devotion that scares even himself when he considers it late at night, beyond thankful for their ignorance. Well, Geoff probably knows, something dark and thoughtful in his eyes when he looks at Ryan, something deeply confident in Ramsey when he commands the Vagabond. Assurance that no threat is idle, no harrowing claim is merely theatrics, and that knowledge alone should be enough to send Ryan running, to remind him of what happens when he lets down his guard, but it doesn’t, not anymore. Not since he recognised the clear display of trust in all that conviction, relishing in the opportunity to prove himself worthy; eyes alight with dangerous promise he now merely looks back at Geoff and has faith.

It’s not perfect; no matter how happy he is with his crew Ryan will still lose himself inside his own head sometimes, a place no other can follow, no other can ever truly understand. For all he is the ghoul in the nightmares of so many others Ryan never could quite extinguish his own demons. After all this time he still goes back and considers all his choices, still asks himself endless questions, gives endless answers, constantly assessing his place in the world, his counts and tallies, his debt. It’s how he reassures himself of the truth.

Did he make mistakes?


Does he have regrets?


Does death haunt him?


Did he choose this?


Is he monstrous?


Would he do worse?


Does he love them?


Did they destroy him?


Does he love them?


Will he destroy them?


Does he love them?


Is it worth it?


Are they worth it?


Is he worth it?


Is he worth it?

Ransom and Holster worry that the whole Jack and Bitty dating thing might be a one-sided thing originally. They’re happy for the two of them when they reveal it over group chat but, after all, all they know about about Jack’s dating/hook-up history is just that he seems emotionally unattached, and although Jack’s their bro, they’re both a little concerned for Bitty.

Their fears are extinguished when Jack comes over to visit Bitty and he basically hovers around Bitty and looks after him like he’s one second away from asking for a kiss. He’s always helping in the kitchen and handing jars from high cabinets to Bitty with such a practiced motion that the tiny Haus kitchen doesn’t seem to bother him at all.  But it’s really only during Bitty’s nighttime pie-making sessions that Ransom and Holster let go of their worries once and for all, when Bitty starts talking about how one of the Falconers had an awful playoffs beard mishap when they were trying to shave it off: “It looked like a worm on his face, I swear–”

And their serious once-Captain, now-NHL Jack Zimmermann–a so-called ‘hockey robot’–just picks up a piece of the dough and puts it above his lips, and says, “Playoffs ‘stache. Kiss me.” Bitty erupts in peals of laughter as Jack tries to smooch his neck, crying out, “Jack, that is unsanitary” which Jack responds with an “Aww, Bits. But I love you.”

Ransom shrieks and he has to take several deep breathes to regain his composure. Holster is hoisting himself on the counter, caught between wanting to chirp them about how embarrassingly adorable they are and yelling “FOINNNE,” but he ends up sticking a dough ‘stache to his own face and attempting to kiss both Bitty and Jack. Lardo gets it on video and sends it to the group chat. Shitty cries and texts back “YOU CAN KISS ME JACK ZIMMERMANN!!! :( :( :(”

SNS week - Day 1

Headcannon #1

Naruto leaves Konoha only a few months after Sasuke. Not because he want’s to get away, or because he needs the space to sort himself out, but because he dearly misses the people he met when travelling with Jiraiya, and longs to see the large amounts he met and befriended. 

And, well, if he brushed into a certain Uchiha on his travels, spent a night under the stars, or weaving through packed crowds, food in hand, that was neither here nor there to anyone else but the two of them, was it?


Both of these pictures are of Thor. Really.

Neil Gaiman was 6 years old when he first met the Norse god Thor — although he wasn’t the red-bearded hammer-slinger of legend. “Marvel. Marvel’s Thor came first,” he says. “I was reading the reprints of Marvel’s Thor in an English comic called Fantastic. … Dr. Don Blake found this stick in a cave, banged it down and transformed into Thor, and the stick transformed into the hammer.” Gaiman says he spent a lot of his first decade looking for likely sticks, “just on the off chance that they might the Thor stick, and might transform into a mighty hammer. But none of them ever did.”

And I GOT TO TALK TO HIM ABOUT HIS NEW BOOK NORSE MYTHOLOGY, WHOOOO!! (And I didn’t even fangirl too much.)

Check out our conversation here!

– Petra