I took a look at my weekly FitBit step count and saw that my friend Leslie’s number was oddly low.
A normal, rational brain: “That’s an unusually low number of steps for Leslie to have walked in the past week. She must not be wearing her FitBit.”
My brain: “LESLIE IS DEAD!!!!!!!!!!!”
(She’s not dead. I confirmed via text. Because even with a possible death on the line, voice calls are hard.)
“I’m every bird’s worst nightmare.”
— Mom, casually explaining the manner in which she eats chicken.
In reference to the classroom…
You’ll get more steps on your Fit Bit if you walk allllllllllllllllll the way to the back of the liquor store where the pre-chilled wines are kept.
Due to Eric having diabetes and a general understanding of what humans should eat, he has had a very positive influence on my diet.
Andrew is ruining everything.
Dating and living with a type 1 diabetic has been very educational. I now have no problem recognizing the symptoms of a low blood sugar. When it happens, Eric becomes very quiet and unresponsive, his eyes glaze over, and he is just generally disconnected from what’s happening around him. And there is a very clear pattern to the timing of these episodes.
They happen whenever I start talking.
Dear NYC Department of Education,
You’re probably looking at this photo and thinking “Hmmm, what am I looking at here?”
Well I’ll tell you what you’re looking at.
This is a picture of a GIANT FUCKING COCKROACH, roughly the size of my man-handed fist, trapped underneath a book bin, then secured with a chair. This massive fella decided to show himself in the middle of the NY state test today, casually sauntering across the library floor like he owned the place, causing two of my 4th graders to jump out of their chairs, and, subsequently, the entire room to start screaming bloody murder.
As the only adult in the room, I had to act quickly and maturely. This consisted of me screaming “EVERYBODY STAY CALM!!!!!!” like a batshit psycho, while darting across the room to the shelves, grabbing the nearest book bin, dumping out the entirety of its contents onto a table where 4 kids were test-taking, holding my breath, and trying to retrace the life choices that had lead me to this exact moment in time, so that I could undo them.
Once I trapped it beneath the bin, I put a chair on top of it, just in case that motherfucker decided to try something funny. Trust no one, DOE.
After the chair was secured and I had both swallowed the vomit in my throat and wiped the tears from my eyes, the kids were asked to sit for another hour, alongside the cockroach, and finish their exams.
So that’s why everyone failed.
Love,
Miss Emily
“Your hands smell like cheese snacks.”
— woman giving me a hand massage at the hair salon.
Eric challenged me and his friend Ari to a “Workweek Hustle,” so I spent all week strapping my FitBit to the most hyperactive kid in my class.
#strategy
Just now, walking in my apartment, I stepped on something extremely sharp that almost pierced through the heel of my foot. I was sure it was a broken piece of glass and began to panic.
Upon closer inspection, however, I realized it was a super dry, likely weeks-old piece of bacon.
So yeah, it’s true what they say. Bacon is bad for you.
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