Things you have an irrational hatred of

[spike]

My buddy had a small party at his mom’s house in college. I remember noting that every time I went to take a leak (we were drinking), the bin next to the toilet had been emptied of any trash. I assume this is the kind of person who swaps out hand towels when having company.

[Jorge]

How finicky Adobe products can be. I'll be working on a huge project and maybe absent-mindedly click something or move my mouse a certain way and suddenly my entire workspace looks different and I have to spend the next 20 minutes trying to get it back to normal

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[Ello Sailor]

Can you not save a custom workspace/template and just re-open it?

[Jorge]

Yes, but you can still find yourself mysteriously toggling or dragging or moving stuff without realizing it, even within your custom workspace or even your timeline

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[bodysnatcher]

I like to consider myself a thoughtful and gracious host, but I have never switched up the hand towel 2 hours in.

This is why when I go to a nice restaurant that has a stack of those cloth-like individual paper towels in the restroom, I steal the whole thing and just place it on my bathroom counter when I have people over.

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[bart]

i dont think this is irrational but god damn do i hate renaissance festivals

[E.H. Ruddock]

i dont think this is irrational but god damn do i hate renaissance festivals

The idea of them? Or do you go to them?

[epilogue]

i dont think this is irrational but god damn do i hate renaissance festivals

I went to my first Ren Fest in like 25 years a couple Sundays ago. It was mostly for our friend's 3 year old. And it rained for hours.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a great time. I would also be lying if I didn't say I was blown away by one of the stage acts that we just happened to stumble upon. It actually moved me to tears.

Such a weird day.

[wease]

Did you enjoy a flagon of mead?

[Chris_H_2]

only joe could sob at eating mutton with a wooden, speared fork whilst he speak in ye' old english.

[Monkey_Driven]

i dont think this is irrational but god damn do i hate renaissance festivals

I went to my first Ren Fest in like 25 years a couple Sundays ago. It was mostly for our friend's 3 year old. And it rained for hours.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't have a great time. I would also be lying if I didn't say I was blown away by one of the stage acts that we just happened to stumble upon. It actually moved me to tears.

Such a weird day.

They're so bizarre, but highly likely enjoyable if you're a current or former theatre kid. Basically, grown up make believe land with questionable food safety and large beers.

[epilogue]

only joe could sob at eating mutton with a wooden, speared fork whilst he speak in ye' old english.

To be fair, none of that happened. I mean, I sobbed, yes. But the rest of it. Just so we're clear.

[B]

I can't see hating Ren Fests. You wouldn't even know they exist if you don't seek them out. 104% avoidable.

[Ello Sailor]

Now I want to eat mutton with a wooden, speared fork.

[Chris_H_2]

wait. is this the same as larping?

[doug rr]

Now I want to eat mutton with a wooden, speared fork.

I dont think we have an eating mutton food thread..should we make one? Australia has a lot of extra mature muttons from what I hear

[spike]

only joe could sob at eating mutton with a wooden, speared fork whilst he speak in ye' old english.

there were no utensils in medieval times, hence, there are no utensils at medieval times.