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They were immaculate.

I went into my sixty-eight-year-old aunt’s garage to borrow some folding chairs. Beside my uncle’s model railway were six tubes of this fancy cream. “Modelling supplies,” Uncle Colin said. I picked one up. “Shea butter?” “For the hands. After the modelling.” A surprisingly expensive solution from a man who washes paintbrushes in old baked-bean tins. Then I noticed his nails. They were immaculate. Not clean. Colin has always been clean. These had shape. Shine. A finish usually reserved for cars he isn’t allowed to touch at exhibitions. “June’s been practising,” he said. “Practising what?” He looked towards the garden. I found Aunt June outside the summerhouse, moving a hanging basket directly in front of the window. “What’s in there?” “Garden things.” “Can I get the chairs?” “I’ll bring them round.” This was unusual enthusiasm for lifting furniture from someone who normally considers pointing a sufficient contribution. I opened the door. Inside were two armchairs, a stack of little tow...

My son said these were for his BB gun. My husband agreed without even getting off the couch.

I went into my twenty-two-year-old son’s room to collect the mugs. On his desk were these little silver cartridges, lined up beside his laptop. “For my BB gun,” he said. I took one downstairs and asked his dad. “Yep. Gas cartridges.” He barely looked away from the television. That was reassuring for about three seconds, until I realized I had received two identical answers from people who regularly ask me where we keep the towels. I found the packaging. “Then why does the box say whipped cream?” My husband paused the television. Apparently we had reached the part of the investigation where looking at the evidence was necessary. Upstairs, my son had suddenly become very interested in putting his laundry away. Specifically, putting it in front of his wardrobe. I asked him to open it. Inside was a whipped-cream dispenser, a milk frother, three bottles of syrup and a stack of plastic cups. Last month, I said we weren’t buying any more coffee equipment. We have a perfectly good coffee mach...

TIFU by pressing a button in my wife’s bedside drawer. The dog recognized the sound.

I was looking for a phone charger. That is the last point in this story at which I was behaving normally. In my wife’s bedside drawer, I found something green. With a button. Whatever you just pictured: yes. My brain went there too. Except mine immediately hired a lawyer. A small, sensible part of me suggested asking my wife what it was. Unfortunately, that part of me apparently has no voting rights. I picked it up. It had some weight to it. Suspicious. It was underneath a book. Concealed. Also suspicious. Please understand that once you’ve decided you’re a detective, even somebody reading becomes evidence. I pressed the button. It yodeled. I cannot adequately explain how unprepared my theory was for Alpine folk music. Then I heard claws on the hallway floor. Our Labrador came around the corner, parked himself directly in front of me, and performed the most professional sit of his career. He knew the sound. He knew the procedure. Somehow, I interpreted this as further evidence that I ...

A card game.

“Nobody should get to make the decision to end their life.” The words escaped his lips with such conviction that, for a moment, I almost envied him. There was something revolting about the certainty in his voice. Not the words themselves, perhaps, but the ease with which he could say them. But, perhaps that’s what kept him alive, the conviction, the belief, the dedication that nobody should get to end any life because of the repercussions it has on others. “Is that what’s keeping you alive?” It took me a few minutes to cough out, a live debate in my head. I didn’t care what was keeping him alive, I was just curious. But curiosity is what kills the cat. He seemed taken aback by the question. For a moment, the certainty that had filled the room just seconds earlier appeared to falter. “It’s one of the reasons, the others are more complex.” he said. I wondered whether he had expected me to accept that answer. Whether he thought it was enough. I didn’t dig deeper. I didn’t want to fi...

The confessions of a REAL sex worker as lived by me. Part 1

It started out easy enough. I had been talking to this guy from the Bay area for roughly six months. When my situation went bad at my sister's place and she got evicted he drove out here to pick me up. Said I could stay with him no big deal. Fast Forward like 2 weeks and he starts telling me I need to get some money and so I had better post an ad. I was lost! I had no idea what that meant and so the next day he dropped me off somewhere on E 14TH and told me to just walk down the street he would pick me up further down the street. By this time I caught on and was terrified. I had never done anything like this before. I was promiscuous but never for money. Luckily, (for me), no tricks stopped for me and he picked me up where he said he would . He was really mad. When we got back to his house he told me to get out. Threw me and my stuff out in the middle of Oakland with nowhere to go and not one person I could call. It was February and it was cold. I was freezing, scared, and felt l...

My friends convinced me I’m color blind last night

So we’re a group of 13 hanging out and it’s one of my friend’s birthday.. birthday decor, balloons and what not I use the washroom and come back to where the celebration was happening. They decide to ask me what color the balloon was and it was clearly red.. so I told them it’s RED They’re all like wtf no it’s blue.. so you’re color blind but don’t worry 1 in 10 people are like that This went on and on for hours my flabbers were clearly gasted. They didn’t budge And they finally convinced me. This morning I decided to tell my parents about it, showed them the ballot and asked them what color it was.. they’re both like: it’s red I need to start charging these idiots for emotional damages. submitted by /u/sooooodone_bye [link] [comments]