My ancestors:
The girl cooks, takes care of dogs, writes, reads, and creates artwork.
The boy spends his whole day staring at glowing rectangles, goes home and stares at more glowing rectangles, and then lays in bed staring at a smaller glowing rectangle…
I think we prefer the girl.
(I’m the boy for the record)
Ancestor spirits judge me not. I am pondering my hypocubes, and I will continue to do so until I have alchymically turned enough of the inherent risk of fishing into the prized ethereal substance of obligation to provide for my rampant spawn. The task is wearisome, and so it may come to pass that many a practitioner such as myself will also look deep within the hypocubes to ponder earthly delights and shake one out. So be it, ancestor spirits. Judge me not…
He does nothing but grow fatter each day. Is he perchance royalty?
Must be, hasn’t got shit all over him
With the price gouging of food we’ll get there again
His hands know not the toils of working in the fields, he possesses the ability to read and write, and his pantry contains exotic spices and teas imported from across the globe. It’s like he lives as a prince.
We finally made it!
smirking at the pound of white sugar in my pantry to dunk on my ancestors who had to fight bees or boil beets for days to get dessert
My ancestors:
“Oh, lord, he’s a witch!”
you: gets childhood diarrhea, doesn’t die
ancestors: WITCH!This one is me.
“For shame!! He dresses as a haughty maiden, paints his eyes in teal, and each day consumes a magic bean that gives him a curvaceous shape and a bust as big as his mother. He’ll never be a father and whiles away his days in gossip and fornication…”
Four pounds butter???
- in this economy?
- how many croissants do you intend to bake?
Costco is cheaper, but some things come in annual allotments.
I have too much butter in the larder.
mine might be pretty upset that I don’t know how to farm. and that I’m not pagan/Christan. oh and that im a lesbian
i bet they’re jealous of my indoor plumbing though 😎
We hunted wild animals and this snotbucket can’t even ask a girl’s hand in marriage. Our bloodline is doomed.
My ancestors looking at my broken ass and wondering how they created the human version of a pug.
Genghis Khan watching me struggle with crippling social anxiety:
My Irish ancestors watching me set aside the fries that are “too potato-ey”:
My ancestors unimpressed with me unable to tell the season down to the hour by merely glancing at a gigantic carved stone wheel.
