“I’m really into that whole ur girlfriend should be ur best friend thing, if we’re gonna date u gotta be able to make me laugh so hard I cry”—@sexual-texts (via sexual-texts)
“I want to speak to a manager,” the middle-aged woman said in her stern I-used-to-be-a-soccer-mom-ten-years-ago voice, looking down at me over the top of her Gucci reading glasses.
A wicked grin split across my face and the gates of Hell opened up behind me, releasing a gust of hot wind that whipped my apron around my body and forced the woman to shield her face. Demons came forth, dancing around in flames with songs of, “She wants to speak to a manager. Did you hear that? She wants to speak to a manager!” before erupting into earsplitting shrieks of laughter, none louder than my own cackling.
I took in the woman’s look of utter horror before my eyes rolled back into my head and I growled,
“I am the manager.”
a thing for one of my favorite posts on this site
Never not reblog. Also, I totally imagined Death Note music.
