the baseball page


A quick follow-up to reassure you that, yes, I am aware that being bad at video games is a Joestar family tradition.  This was another tangent–next time, things get a little more serious. Stay tuned!

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i am so SICK of men (men. not boys, fully grown, adult ass men) replying to my comments on baseball instagram pages trying to make me feel stupid. I’ve been watching baseball for years and unlike YOU, i research and know what im talking about. i’m not the one who needs an explanation. i know what im saying. i know im right.

INTJ being obnoxious (as always)
  • yearbooker: what should i ask the senior baseball players for the baseball page?
  • INTJ: Have you ever hit a home run? *wiggles eyebrows*
  • How often do you make it to second base?
  • yearbooker: i can't say that!
  • INTJ: Why not? You want something more BASE-ic? I thought you had the balls to do this!
  • yearbooker: shut up.
  • INTJ: You gotta ad-MIT that they are pretty good.
  • yearbooker: shut up.
  • INTJ: I don't understand why you are being so comBATive.
  • yearbooker: you are no help.
  • INTJ: Okay i'm sorry. I'll be serious now. Didn't mean to strike out! I can't help but feel that something between us is ending...

Five Times Jack Didn’t Ask Bitty Out (And One Time He Did)


It’s a matter of six simple words. Do you want to get coffee?

Bone-crushing hits he can handle. Pucks flying at his head and the chaos of swinging sticks? No big deal. Why then does the prospect of asking one question to the most non-threatening being Jack has ever encountered in his entire life have him pacing in his room?

He pivots near the head of his bed and walks back toward the open door listening for Bitty’s unmistakable bounding tread on the stairs. From the warm scent of cinnamon and bubbling fruit filling the Haus and the recent sound of the oven timer, he’s sure Bitty will be back up soon.  

When he at last hears Bitty approaching, he freezes, suddenly aware of the way he’s standing stiffly in the middle of the room. He sits quickly on the bed before scrambling up again and arranging himself in his desk chair.

“Bittle,” he calls and it’s all wrong already. His voice is too loud, too captain-like.

Bitty appears in his doorway, eyes wide. “Yes, Jack?”

“Do you want coffee?” Well, that was…almost all the words.

Bitty blinks a few times before answering. “The pie is cooling and then I was going to make a fresh pot so—“ he gasps and holds up a hand. “I forgot to label the crème fraiche.” There’s a system in place for Bitty’s ingredients in the Haus fridge. Anything he needs for baking gets ERB neatly written on it in with the red Sharpie that lives in the small bin magnetized to the refrigerator door. Anything unmarked or with the initials crossed out is up for grabs. “If I don’t label it, Shitty uses it in his tuna salad. His tuna salad, Jack.” Bitty literally shudders at the thought and then he’s gone again, leaving Jack exactly where he started.


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