He didn’t.

“I only use Facebook for CandyCrush” — Kevin

Couch of the Day Club

This EIGHT FOOT LONG NAUGAHYDE couch comes direct from a retired cowboy’s double wide. The truth is that he never was a real cowboy, but damned if he didn’t own a sweet collection of cowboy hats and animal skins he picked up at the annual RENAISSANCE FAIRE. In between sucking on a pipe that was never filled and chewing on a cigar that was never lit, this tanned skin beach cowboy finally moved in with his lousy son-in-law since someone needs to change his oxygen tanks. He’ll miss this NAUGAHYDE dream factory, as it’s where he conceived two of his kids, found JESUS and discovered the sheer joy of wearing chaps indoors.

Industry Music

Queens of the Stone Age — Live Samsung Hall, Dübendorf, Switzerland 11/06/2017. This is an amazing live performance and you can listen to the entire thing here on the YouTube. This is one of the greatest rock bands in all of modern history and certainly of the 21st century so don’t be a pleb when it comes to good rock and roll music and don’t tell me rock is dead because it is not dead. Your taste in music is what stinks of death.

Tech Industry Newz

42% of the websites YOU VISIT are vulnerable to phishing attacks. Log off the internet. Click the article if you want auto-play video. Also log off the internet. It’s all trash. HAVE YOU EVER LOST YOURSELF ON IMGUR? Log off the internet. Go outside, get a Naugahyde couch and die.

Startups, especially tech companies, don’t want to go public anymore. That sweet IPO bell ring no longer holds the imaginations of startups. Why? Is it because of that orange faced trash person in the Oval office? Probably, but the official reason is that startups just don’t want to disclose their secrets in order to file for an IPO. This makes sense, I mean, did you see that company last year that built an amazing machine to squeeze bags of juice? How the fuck did they do that? HOW DOES THE JUICE GET SQUEEZED MOM? MOM? MOM? WHERE IS MY JUICE!?

IN OTHER NEWS the first APPLE HOME POD reviews are starting to hit the interwebs and ALEXA WHAT IS THE SHITTIEST TALKY DEVICE THING — it’s the Home Pod. Siri is about as intelligent as your expectation that your toddler won’t shit on the carpet the first day of potty training. The Home Pod requires you to remain trapped in the prison of APPLE, which is nothing like the world Steve Jobs envisioned. Now, it’s a stale, luxury prison with nutritional pills instead of actual food. That’s kind of what Apple tech is starting to feel like. It feels like someone is feeding you plain white apple sauce and telling you it’s steak. Fuck that.

IN CRYPTO NEWS Bitcoin and all its friends continue to follow stock market trends and slide, slide, slide. All the HODL folks are whacking desperately at their blockchain boners, trying to get it back up for one last push before they pull out of the market for good. Don’t act like when this temporarily rebounds all the bulls will become bears and their babies will be MANBEARPIGS.

Sandwich of the Day Club

Mushroom burger & fruit cream cheese with sweetcorn on vienna bread. It should be noted that a mushroom is not in fact a burger, but in this case it replaces the burger as a grilled, vegetarian alternative. Sweetcorn!

Something About Ed

DIRECT QUOTE: “th ebeautiful genius, ed zitron”

One time ED said: “Basically all PR people are professional dust-eating bugs with a million legs. Except for me and my company. That is the official statement.” THIS IS NOT IN HIS BOOK WHICH IS CALLED FIRE YOUR PUBLICIST

ED said to Kevin not other Kevin: “i’m so sorry this was about another kevin raposo. this is really awkward.” One Kevin is a server at Coconut Jack’s Waterfront Grille and another Kevin listens to Ludacris. ED does not hold either Kevin in high regard.

ED’s bb will likely inherit his oblong British skull. This is in ED’s last will & testament specifically as “upon my untimely and brutal death, my child shall post my cleaned, oblong British skull upon its mantle, to be cherished as if won in battle.” This is normal British things as tea and a time to be drinking tea.

EDWARD BRUNGTHUMPTIN MARSHA ZITRON is the full name of ED that he only uses at the DMV in hushed tones whilst he celebrates getting to queue, which is a thing that is cherished by many people born on the island known as the United Kingdom. A queuing expert, EDWARD BRUNGTHUMPTIN MARSHA ZITRON’s next book is about the art of the queue and what to do with your hands when your iPhone runs out of battery power midway through lunch hour.

The book is tentatively titled “Ms. Queue, How I Love Thee, Let Me Queue For Your Love”.

Industry Dies

In a revolution there are generalities that must be accepted and fully realized. What we haven’t realized yet is that true revolution not only takes sacrifice, but sacrifice at the highest level possible. In technology, this usually means breaking down any personal constructs in order to truly find the innovation that leads to revolution. That means that sometimes, you have to destroy everything you know in order to build something you don’t know, but that might change everything you did know. This holds true when it comes to actual revolution, except usually with much less blood. But there is always blood.

Couch of the Day Club

This lovely piece of suede comes straight from Nick Foles’ living room. Next year, when he’s starting for the [insert NFL team here but probably the Browns] under a huge new contract (like so many backups forced into starting roles before him who see success in the playoffs) he won’t need this green monstrosity. For now, your Super Bowl MVP is Nick Foles and not Tom Brady’s fumble.

Industry Music

If you’ve never listened to Marc With a C, then you’ve never heard the best Monkees cover song ever. Regardless, he’s got a new album out and it’s called “Obscurity” and it’s the culmination of over a decade of songwriting, performing and being a creative genius for you ungrateful swine. Go buy the new album, your pants will thank you.

Tech Industry Newz

A new coalition of smart people who used to work for tech giants has popped up with the mission of proving that technology is addictive and kid’s should know this or do drugs or something. Frankly, I didn’t read it. The point is that they think that “What began as a race to monetize our attention is now eroding the pillars of our society: mental health, democracy, social relationships, and our children.” Well duh, and you guys were part of it. How come I get the feeling that this is just some grand idea that will fizzle and die once they pivot to video?

WINDOWS VISTA IS STILL A PIECE OF TRASH BUT ACTUAL TRASH HAS A PURPOSE

Intel has finally made smart glasses that won’t make you look like a super tech douchebag, but just a regular ‘ol hipster nerd. Called “Vault”, the glasses project directly onto the retina. It uses a class-one laser to project onto the back of your retina and this seems contradictory to the mission of the aforementioned coalition that thinks shit like this is eroding society. It’ll be interesting see which wins out, our social networks projected directly into our retinas or some bunch of sour tech bros who want to limit exposure to such things. I’m placing bets on the porn glasses. Don’t pretend that’s not the first place your mind went.

Sandwich of the Day Club

Dutch loaf & rustinu with maple bacon on tandoor bread. Rustinu is a French cheese introduced by famous French cheesemaker, Joseph Guidicelli. It’s a real word.

Something About Aaron

Sunday February 4, 2:08pm: As much as I shit on the Eagles, they’re a good team. I don’t think they’ll be very rattled. I think the D will keep it close and Foles will be OK. But in the end, the Patriots will be more prepared and they will execute when it counts. Because they’re led by dual GOATs.

Patriots 34 Eagles 27

Sunday February 4, 5:04pm: I’m getting nervous. Superstition-wise, things are out of whack.

First of all, my lucky playoff beer rebranded and doesn’t look the same. Second, we always get shrimp for every Super Bowl — this year it was bad. We had to take it back. Our 2001 Patriots Super Bowl DVD has a permanent scratch in it when you get to the Super Bowl.

The ju-ju is all off. I’m worried all the things we did last year to make the impossible happen have a cost that hasn’t been adequately repaid. I’m not sure what or who we need to offer as a blood sacrifice, but I’m willing to consider all options.

Sunday February 4, 6:13pm: Eagles jumping around like idiots after introductions.

Patriots go right out to the field for work.

Because the latter has been here before.

Sunday February 4, 9:03pm: That was not a catch. And the refs missed a CLEAR illegal formation on the Foles TD. Don’t ever say the refs are in the Patriots pocket again.

Sunday February 4, 10:05pm: Nick Foles played a fantastic game. Hats off to the Eagles. Just didn’t have the horses.

Sunday February 4, 10:19pm: Congrats, Philly. Foles played great. Real deal. No excuses. I’ll always wonder what would’ve happened if Butler had played.

This sucks.

Sunday February 4, 10:40pm: A “football decision?” Fuck you, Belichick. Fans deserve an answer when the team’s best corner, who played 97% of regular season snaps, was inexplicably on the bench.

There’s no way the team was better with Butler on the bench.

Monday February 5, 12:12am: Now Gronk talking about retiring? Awesome. Fuck everything.

Monday February 5, 9:40am: Had to get outside and go for a walk. I often look to nature when in search of answers.

Unfortunately, EVEN NATURE CAN’T EXPLAIN WHY IN HOLY FUCK YOU BENCH MALCOLM BUTLER RIGHT BEFORE KICKOFF IN FAVOR OF RICHARDS AND BADEMOSI!!!!!!

Goddammit…

Industry Dies

It appears that as tech bros age they start to actually consider the impact of their actions and inventions. They start to question the reasons why and begin the long process of self-reflection that always comes after innovation. The criticism that Silicon Valley is disconnected from reality is not without merit, often technology is designed and released that only seems to exist for the purpose of existing. The thing is, this crap needs to happen in order for true innovation to take place. Because then someone says, “what if we use this thing for that purpose” and then we have BREAKFAST SANDWICH MACHINES because you fuckers can’t manage to learn how to cook a goddamn egg.

Couch of the Day Club

This couch comes straight from your grandma’s patio in Palm Beach. It stinks of death and the bitter sting of the nearby orange juice processing plant. Littered with cigarette burns from the thousands of times your grandma missed the ashtray, this couch screams MEMORIES. The arms are always cold and the cushions always feel like you are sitting on the lung cancer that killed your nana.

Industry Music

Filthy supplies? Say something! The new Justin Timberlake album Man of the Woods is out. You know I’m down for his smooth jams. I don’t know that wearing flannel in his videos really qualifies JT as a true man of the woods but at least he’s trying. He seems more like a glamper than a camper, but what do I know about music?

Tech Industry Newz

Ahead of earnings calls, someone at Snap Inc. turned to the teenagers sitting out in front of a coffee shop in the late 1990s and asked them what to do. Naturally, they suggested starting a line of t-shirts, because they had some truly creative ideas and NO-ONE in history had ever made funny t-shirts before. Since everyone at Snap clearly has no idea what’s going on besides being the creative team behind some of the best Instagram innovations, a physical product line was 100% the way to go. So here we are. A social media company is making t-shirts. Whoooooo.

Hot dog plush. A FUCKING HOT DOG PLUSH FROM SNAP INC. ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED? For those of you who were sexually attracted to the dancing hot dog, now you can cuddle with it. GET SOME MUSTARD UP ON IT.

IN CRYPTO NEWS it seems that all the hodl people have gone terribly silent in the last few days as Bitcoin has fallen below 9k for the first time in a long time. For those of us who lost our one Bitcoin years ago, this is great news. Fuck you crypto, I got Washingtons in my wallet.

PRIVACY privacy you have no privacy. Google and Facebook know everything about you and there is no sign of stopping. Every freaky thing that makes you you on the internet is straight up being tracked and cataloged and used to SERVE YOU ADS. Either get comfortable with it or quit everything and move out to the woods with JT.

Sandwich of the Day Club

Tuna & queso de murcia with oregano on babka bread. Whatever you do, don’t put this one on the panini press or you’ll be cleaning up the panini press.

Something About David

Someone give David money for a TV show. I’m not sure what his idea is, but here’s a shirtless picture before he made some quality GAINZ. With those gainz and ideas that only millennials could fathom, David is clearly on the rise. Just send your Executive Producer level donations to his Venmo.

Industry Dies

Something was pressing at me. Either an idea, a formation of a plan or even something more sinister. Sinister less in form, but rather in the effect such a feeling has on oneself when oneself is rather unable to discern the source of said feeling. It was like, suddenly, as a fish, the meal I just secured drew me mystically towards the surface, where I would be unable to breathe and then shortly thereafter, die. The point at which I stood, was noticing something shiny in the water. The decision to investigate, that is weight.

Couch of the Day Club

Holy shit. This bright masterpiece of butt support comes loaded with freshly cleaned couch cushions so you never have to imagine the type of people that used to bang on a BRIGHT BLUE COUCH. This is the type of couch that says “just because my towels are brown doesn’t mean I wipe my ass with them.”

Industry Music

Music is the lifeblood of your reality, even if your reality is constantly slipping in between multiple dimensions. Today’s hawt ear bubbles are coming from Larkin Poe, Giant Anteater and The Regrettes. I suggest listening to all three at the same time while trying to set fire to your past.

Tech Industry Newz

UNGH earnings reports are out for the Facebook and the other tech and there is no god and none of it really matters. Usually I write some speculative nonsense about how wonderful the earnings are for Amazon WHOLE FOODS BONER KILLER or FACEBOOK LIKES TO TOUCH YOUR PRIVACY but this year I’m skipping the earning reports in favor of not giving a shit.

Embrace the apathy. Touch the devil in the taint. Behave madly. Buy penny stocks and HODL your CRYPTO with your white knuckles as the bank laughs at your second mortgage.

There is finally a launch date for Red Dead Redemption 2. It comes out right after my birthday but right before you post some belated birthday shit on my FB timeline so don’t do that maybe.

IN OTHER NEWS Wired has decided to put up a paywall and rethink its approach to editorial or something like that. There is a new ideas section which will feature ideas from some of the greatest thinkers alive today, but like all great ideas they are LOCKED UP unless you fork over a monthly subscription fee for them. Because, that’s how ideas thrive apparently.

Here are the tech publications I read in order of volume of links clicked on I guess:

The Verge
Forbes (cause, my own articles)
Um, other stuff like Tech Crunch and Mashable and Crunchbase and whatever. Who cares.

Sandwich of the Day Club

Pastrami brisket & teifi with lays chips on potato bread. Delicious if not a tad confusing.

Something About Kevin

One time Kevin was in an escape room and had to really use the bathroom which was incapacitating his ability to logically solve the escape room. When the construction workers found him locked inside the port-a-potty the next day, he was covered in feces and screaming about a key inside the television set.

Industry Dies

Playing Monopoly spawns the malevolent spirit of a telecom company. Every version of Monopoly is just another nail in the coffin of consumerism that you have been buried alive within. There is no air. You can’t feel your hands. Your genitals are pudding. But not good pudding, that terrible grainy shit they serve in mental institutions and hotel conference rooms at three in the morning during dental conventions.

Fucking don’t.

Go play outside. Do a puzzle. Spend time with friends. Play video games. Have sex with your sex robot. Eat a sandwich.

In a reversal of a compromise between Nintendo and livestreamers on YouTube, Nintendo has decided that “Livestreaming on YouTube falls outside the scope of the Nintendo Creators Program.” This is part of an ongoing conflict between Nintendo and Nintendo fans who livestream their favorite games on YouTube. Livestreamers and players who uploaded videos of them playing Nintendo games were ambushed by Nintendo, which abruptly filed copyright claims to garnish revenue generated by videos including content from their games.

The Nintendo Creators Program was launched as a compromise to give YouTubers back some portion of this ad revenue, ostensibly to share it. This was workable, not perfect, but better than other potential solutions. This didn’t stop Nintendo from choosing to skew the deal in its favor, as they have not exempted livestreaming from the program. The program works on a per channel basis, and livestreaming on the channel registered to the Creators Program is no longer allowed. This means that people who want to stream must choose to either deregister from the program and lose their revenue or start a second channel and divide their audience.

This where Stream comes in. Stream believes in exploring how to properly compensate creators by freeing them from the financial and creative confines of standard streaming platforms. We are developing a Chrome extension that will allow content viewers to tip streamers and players for their content directly, across any major platform, right from their browser. Additionally, Stream will be distributing Stream Tokens each week to the best videos activated on our protocol.

While some companies like Nintendo might be taking a hardline approach to revenue sharing, there is no reason that content creators can’t work to secure additional revenue streams and get paid to play the games they love by the viewers who love their content.

Do you want to keep livestreaming fun? Join our Discord community and our Telegram announcement channel, follow us on Twitter and Facebook, and visit our site!

Nintendo Backs Off Creators Program, Stream is Ready to Pick up The Slack was originally published in Stream on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Right now DK isn’t making any money off his videos, but knows that someday he’ll need to if he wants to make videos for a living. He understands the freedom from centralized constraints that Stream will bring to creators, saying in his Facebook post,

Above all else, I value my independence as a creator. I want to be able to talk about any topic, no matter how controversial, and share my thoughts, no matter how unpopular. That means I want to minimize the influences in my life that could limit my independence.

This is what Stream is focused on, giving creators a greater sense of freedom by building a decentralized payment system wrapped around existing creation platforms. The solutions that Stream will offer will change how creators collect, earn and maintain their revenue streams (more information about our vision can be read here). As fans, we will pay for the content we love while creators get to rely on their fanbase to support them, which is the way it works for most artists. We buy books, we subscribe to music services — why not livestreamers and video creators as well?

With that in mind Stream is pleased to bring on DK as an advisory role, with a shared vision for the future of video creation and the future of payments for creators. Like the team at Stream, DK believes that online video creation should be funded in part by the audience that consumes the videos, because that’s just a future in which we all play a part in the content that is being created and consumed.

I think the best business model for creators who want to maintain their independence is to be funded directly by their fans though things like donations, merchandise, paid content, etc. That way, they can focus on making the content they want and the content that their fans enjoy, without worrying about upsetting advertisers. Over time, I want to grow my audience to the point where I can live solely off viewer contributions. That’s my dream scenario, and I hope that companies like Patreon and Stream will help change our mindsets around content and get more people to directly support creators they enjoy. To make that a reality, I’m joining Stream as an advisor to help them try out different ideas and give them feedback. I want to help creators like me make a living without having to run ads on their videos or compromise their integrity.

We at Stream welcome DK’s feedback, hopefully in video form and we promise not to always pay you with a handful of pennies. Sometimes there will be snacks.

Join our Discord community chat and subscribe to our Stream newsletter.

DK The Human Joins Stream as an Advisor, Talks Future of Creation in New Video was originally published in Stream on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“There is only one Olive Garden, but it has a thousand doors,” she said, pushing on the door that was clearly labeled with a sign in a large lettered font that indicated the door was recommended to be pulled, rather than pushed. I stood patiently, not knowing if this would be the last door or the first of many more. Most in my situation would have an overwhelming feeling of impatience, anger even, but there was no reason at this point to feel anything but a hopeful tremor of positivity along with deathly ambivalence. Regardless of the outcome, if we were to die here in this Olive Garden, it had been an experience worth living a lifetime for. There had been bread-sticks, yes, but that is not the sole reason one ventures to Olive Garden. Just like soggy skinned chicken wings is not the sole reason one ventures to a Chili’s. There was something a bit more ethereal about just being here, much less being stuck here for what seemed like and what actually may have been an eternity.

There was a time where I would have balked at the very idea of venturing to an Olive Garden, much less a chain restaurant. However, earlier that morning while I was adding entirely too much sugar to my coffee, she proposed that we go somewhere tonight. I suggested that we try a new Greek restaurant that opened a few blocks away, she, holding the weekly coupon mailer, suggested something that would shake the very foundation of not only our relationship but reality as well. In that moment, I was still smitten by her morning glow (as I was wont to be before we dressed and headed to our respective jobs) and was very agreeable. Both coming from Midwest towns with limited food choices, when she held up a coupon for the Olive Garden and gave me that smile that ensured my support no matter the question, I could not argue. I would not argue. Frankly, after a month of wildly annoying stress, a large bowl of carbohydrates and tumblers of wine sounded pretty fantastic. She tossed the coupon flyer at me as she passed me on her way to the bedroom and I knew that I was both terribly blessed and hypnotically doomed.

Years later we would both be telling this story to our children, laughing while recalling the day, still not sure if this was our reality, or we were still stuck in the Olive Garden.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I can’t be quite sure if it even matters, if you can even hear me or discern these words for the reality they represent. I may perceive one thing, she may perceive another. Perhaps she is still back in our kitchen, wondering why I’m staring off into space, the coupon flyer in her hand, her coffee cooling on the counter. Me, sitting in a daze, lost in my own mind. Or perhaps I’m still at that table, waiting on the waiter to write something down. How come they never write anything down? Or perhaps I’m in front of the first door we pulled opened, the one that felt like an amusing trick, rather than an endless cycle of topped off pasta bowls and guffawing mid-westerners, their outlandish bellies slapping against the edges of their tables. Their stench, of minivans and Parmesan cheese, permeating every corridor as we trudged forward. Their laughing faces, blushed with no shame as they stuffed cake slice after cake slice into their maws. At first, both of us were disgusted, but after a few dozen doors she started to make jokes, turning from frustration to sarcasm. She always knows how to keep me level, as my frustration level was brewing after only a few doors. I joined in on the joking, verbally poking at the infinite blubber of lasagna gorging humans. Soon, we were casually strolling through the restaurant, tossing over trays, drinking and eating whatever we pleased and verbally insulting the wait staff and patrons in a tone that would get us kicked out of most restaurants. If only that would have been true here.

Several dozens of doors later, maybe hundreds, I had honestly lost count at this point, nor was I counting, she held my hand. It was a strange feeling. We’d been together for quite some time and of course there was always physical contact, but neither her nor I was much for holding hands in public. There was something commanding about it that neither of us wanted to embrace. It was like one was always leading the other. Rather, we used tender pokes and pointing to indicate direction changes or something we wanted the other to see. But now, she held my hand and I stopped with her. There was sadness on her face, most likely reflecting the sadness on mine. There was less a sense of not being able to escape the Olive Garden, but a sense of just being in this paradigm to begin with. I could sense her questioning our reality as fervently as I was in my head. Were we really here? Where was here? Why was no one reacting to us? Were we dead? Was this a Beetlejuice situation? Except, when we walked outside there were no sandworms, there was no outside, there was just more Olive Garden. The cycle began again. We had tried every door. The front, the emergency exits, the kitchen, the ladder to the roof (which gave us a moment of hope as we pulled open the hatch and saw what we thought was the dark of the sky but only opened up into the floor above the wine cellar). Were we trapped? Was this our dimension, on Earth? Or was this some other reality into which we had slipped? A parallel dimension where we did not belong, where Olive Garden was as endless as the bread-sticks, where god was Alfredo sauce in gallons and there was no smoking at the bar except cigars, which made less sense than the situation we were in.

She looked into my eyes, mine into hers. She smiled at me and slowly raised a bread-stick to her face from out of sight and took a bite. I laughed. Like I said, she has a way. If we were to be stuck in this shitty reality of pasta Americana at least we wouldn’t starve to death.

So then we frolicked. We could interact with, but didn’t appear to be physically in the Olive Garden. It’s hard to explain. The staff and patrons paid us no mind as we ate their food, flipped their cups and put linguini on their heads. Yet, every time we opened a door and strolled through, the scene would reset and we’d be back at the moment we walked into the Olive Garden. Except no one would ask to seat us, there was no wait for us at this Olive Garden, except a seemingly eternal one. It was fun, exhilarating. We shed our clothes and rolled in tomato sauce. We made out on a table while a hipster couple debated their theory about dining at chain restaurants and how bread-sticks actually made them more hipster. We went into the kitchen and threw knives at things. We drank all the alcohol. We slept. We fucked. We puked. We did it again and again and again. Each door, a clean start. Each door another step closer to eternity. Each door a never-ending glimpse into what actually may be hell. Or heaven, depending on what you believe. We weren’t physically suffering, but the mental toll, while unseen, was building. Olive Garden, if not our final resting place, was killing us.

We were slowly descending into madness in this reality, to the point that she had to drag me through the doors, where I was content to just wallow in the mess we had created in one instance of the Garden. Stuffing bread-sticks in my face, sitting on a pile of broken plates, soaked with wine and blood from punching tables and walls, she would plead with me to reset, to clean up and start fresh. We were both mad in this reality. Her, thinking that each reset would bring a glimmer of fresh hope as if anything would change. Me, content to just wither away and die in the lobby of a shitty restaurant that was owned by a conglomerate and would scoop up my body, toss it in the dumpster out back and move on. Oh, how I dreamed for such a result.

I thought about killing myself. I spun a knife on my finger, considering what would happen if I did. Would I wake up in Olive Garden? Would I die? Would she be left alone in this place, this Formica laden, cheaply carpeted coffin? We had been through so many doors. I was tired. She was ready for the next door, which was the same door. I was not. She bunched her fists and glared at me. I just spun the knife. What was the point? Another door, another Olive Garden, another dead end reality. A dimension that is one goddamn Olive Garden after the other, ad nauseum, infinity. She always had a way of lifting me up though, this time literally. She slapped the knife from my hand, grabbed both my ears and pulled. I stood. Stubbornly, I would not move. I stood, but would not move. She grabbed my hands and pulled, I would not budge. Again, she pulled. Again I stood my ground. I was done. So she dropped my hands and walked around behind me. She put her back against mine and shoved. I stumbled, but held my balance. She did it again, this time harder. I fell forward, caught myself and stood. I was a few steps closer to the door. I braced for her to do it again, but instead she walked past me to the door.

She considered the door for a moment. There was a sign above the handle that said very clearly ‘pull’. We had been pulling. Every door. Every single time. I knew what she was doing. I stepped forward. We could be wrong, but she smiled and turned to me and took my hand. “There is only one Olive Garden, but it has a thousand doors,” she said as she pushed open the door with her free hand. The fucking double hinged Norman door opened, as it had roughly 999 times before. This time, we left Olive Garden.

******

h/t Helen Rosner for the writing prompt. If you are curious, she donated my dinner cause there’s no way I’d actually ever again eat at Olive Garden.

Don’t.