I am here for the races
09-26-2014, 07:31 AM
#62
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09-26-2014, 09:22 AM
#69
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But the MENSA isn't a test. They accept your results administered elsewhere on the Wechsler, the Stanford-Binet, the Woodcock Johnson (my favorite) and possibly others but those are the big three. I was a psychology major and have taken the first two and really like the name of the third one 
Platitudes! I love platitudes! I especially like them caramelized in a skillet with a little sugar.
Or was that plantains? I forget.
^ I choked on my cafe' americano.
Platitudes! I love platitudes! I especially like them caramelized in a skillet with a little sugar.
Or was that plantains? I forget.
^ I choked on my cafe' americano.
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09-26-2014, 10:59 AM
#73
He always brought home milk on Friday.
After a long hard week full of days he would burst through the door, his fatigue hidden behind a smile. There was an icy jug of Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz in his right hand. With his left hand he would grip my waist - I was always cooking dinner - and press the cold frostiness of the jug against my arm as he kissed my cheek. I would jump, mostly to gratify him after a time, and smile lovingly at him. He was a good man, a wonderful husband who always brought the milk on Friday, Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz.
Then there was that Friday, the terrible Friday that would ruin every Friday for the rest of my life. The door opened, but there was no bouyant greeting - no cold jug against the back of my arm. There was no Tuscan Whole Milk in his right hand, nor his left. There came no kiss. I watched as he sat down in a kitchen chair to remove his shoes. He wore no fatigue, but also no smile. I didn't speak, but turned back to the beans I had been stirring. I stirred until most of their little shrivelled skins floated to the surface of the cloudy water. Something was wrong, but it was vague wrongness that no amount of hard thought could give shape to.
Over dinner that night I casually inserted,"What happened to the milk?"
"Oh,"he smiled sheepishly, glancing aside,"I guess I forgot today."
That was when I knew. He was tired of this life with me, tired of bringing home the Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz. He was probably shoveling funds into a secret bank account, looking at apartments in town, casting furtive glances at cashiers and secretaries and waitresses. That's when I knew it was over. Some time later he moved in with a cashier from the Food Mart down the street. And me? Well, I've gone soy.
Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz
After a long hard week full of days he would burst through the door, his fatigue hidden behind a smile. There was an icy jug of Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz in his right hand. With his left hand he would grip my waist - I was always cooking dinner - and press the cold frostiness of the jug against my arm as he kissed my cheek. I would jump, mostly to gratify him after a time, and smile lovingly at him. He was a good man, a wonderful husband who always brought the milk on Friday, Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz.
Then there was that Friday, the terrible Friday that would ruin every Friday for the rest of my life. The door opened, but there was no bouyant greeting - no cold jug against the back of my arm. There was no Tuscan Whole Milk in his right hand, nor his left. There came no kiss. I watched as he sat down in a kitchen chair to remove his shoes. He wore no fatigue, but also no smile. I didn't speak, but turned back to the beans I had been stirring. I stirred until most of their little shrivelled skins floated to the surface of the cloudy water. Something was wrong, but it was vague wrongness that no amount of hard thought could give shape to.
Over dinner that night I casually inserted,"What happened to the milk?"
"Oh,"he smiled sheepishly, glancing aside,"I guess I forgot today."
That was when I knew. He was tired of this life with me, tired of bringing home the Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz. He was probably shoveling funds into a secret bank account, looking at apartments in town, casting furtive glances at cashiers and secretaries and waitresses. That's when I knew it was over. Some time later he moved in with a cashier from the Food Mart down the street. And me? Well, I've gone soy.
Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz
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09-26-2014, 03:12 PM
#77
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That's why MT.net is teh win.
Although it's hard to have a discussion with him cuz he just says "you should have researched." That gets kinda old after reading it in the 5th thread or so.
Although it's hard to have a discussion with him cuz he just says "you should have researched." That gets kinda old after reading it in the 5th thread or so.
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09-26-2014, 05:08 PM
#80
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No. In the Cuban-dominated part of Tampa. They came here to work in the cigar factories hand rolling cigars in the early 1900's and never left.
Tampa La Teresita Restaurant, Tampa Spanish Cuban Food Restaurant and Banquet Hall
Tampa La Teresita Restaurant, Tampa Spanish Cuban Food Restaurant and Banquet Hall
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