LoCuRa IdEaL @loucuraideal - Tumblr Blog

suddenly remembered this poem as i was making breakfast this morning & frantically googled “poem remembered to buy eggs?????????” & somehow managed to find it & it utterly knocked the wind out of me just as much as when i first read it

amor em tempos de corona vírus

Já que toda a escrita é marcada pelo desassossego diante da presença de certa relação com a morte, então ela pode ser uma forma de se esquivar dela e de corrigir uma realidade insatisfatória. – Nádia Laguárdia de Lima

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m4ge-deactivated20210331

i walk into starbucks and order a pumpkin spice latte with 13 shots of espresso. i tell the barista that i intend to transcend humanity and become a god. i ask for no whip cream

90stvqueen

you say this jokingly but i had a customer actually order a pumpkin spice latte with 9 shots of espresso (also no whip) and when i asked her to verify that she did indeed want 9 shots of espresso she looked me dead in the eyes and said “i have 5 kids”

antidarkmattermaker

I once had a woman come in and ordered an Americano with 19 shots of espresso. The drink took ages. It held up the line. I asked her why, and she shrugged and said “I just don’t care”. We still talk about that woman. We never saw her again.

anais-ninja-bitch

new cryptid: exhausted woman at starbucks

katjohnadams

Actual conversation I had at register: “Hi, welcome to [Starbucks]! What can I get you, today?”

“How much is it to fill a Venti with Espresso?”

“I- I’m sorry?”

“A venti cup. How much to fill it with Espresso?”

“Oh. uh. Well, it’d be I suppose… I only have a button for a Quad. I don’t have special pricing for twenty ounces of espresso in a single… drink.”

“Price is the furthest thing from my mind right now. How many ‘add shots’ is that?”

*deep breath of fear* “It’d be a quad with,” *clears throat* “uh, sixteen additional shots of espresso. But, ma’am, I should tell you that the shots will start to get really bitter if they have to sit and wait for us to pull twenty of them-”

“Taste means nothing to me.”

At this point I am truly fearing for my very existence in the presence of what must clearly be an eldritch being.

“Oh. Well, okay.” I put on my absolute best customer service smile to hide my terror and accept that I must face this dragon, fae, or demon with dignity. “We can certainly get that for you! The price will be _____.”

She begins to pay, I shit thee not, with golden dollar coins. We are a block from Wall Street, and this eldritch demi-being is paying for an unholy elixer with golden coins. My life will end soon, I am sure of it.

“Do you still have the ‘Add Energy’ packets?”

My heart began to race at this request. “Yes ma’am.”

“How many can I add?”

Futile though it is, at least I know the rote response to this. “For health reasons, we won’t add more than one per drink and we cannot sell the packets individually.”

“One then.”

I alter the order and tell her the new price. She pays, dumps the change and five golden dollars into the tip box. I write the order on the venti cup and pass it silently to the girl working the hot beverage station. Normally we called and pass, but this was … not something to be spoken aloud.

My fellow takes the cup, not thinking anything of the minor break with protocol, until she sees the order. She stares at me. “No.”

The woman, which I call her for no other greater insight into her terrifying being is within my grasp, simply stands on the other side and says, calmly but with a commanding tone I expect of Admirals in bad movies, “Yes.”

My fellow barista pales before her task. But we are dutiful, we are true to our task, great though it may be. She sets about clearing the two brand new Matrena’s of all distraction, and sets two tall cups in the ready position. The energy packet is emptied into the venti cup, and the shots begin pouring.

The barista was damn near shaking. This woman’s gaze felt like the fires of the sun. Finally, the shots are pulled, the cup is filled, and the hand off takes place.

Our visiting Incomprehensible takes it to our milk bar and adds a dollop of cream. Satisfied, she proceeds to down what must have been half the damn cup.

Then she smiled at us, like a benediction and I was honestly filled with joy. And horror. She left, and we knew nothing more of her after that.

When I talk with other former employees, we quickly begin talking about “The Company” as if we’d never l, perhaps knowing that part of our soul still powers that awesome and terrible corporate machine. And when I share this stroy, other Baristas at first act shocked but quickly settle and comes the chorus,

“Yeah, I had one like that.”

asa-kobeni-power

Did I just witness Coffee Gothic?? Hell yes. I’m totally down~!!!

azumianime

@taciturn-metronome

yesterdaysprint

The St. Louis Star and Times, Missouri, March 5, 1914

yesterdaysprint

yeoldenews

I felt the need to know more about this woman so…

Her name at the time of this article was actually Elizabeth Hesford, not Hesperd, and as far as I can tell she never lived in London.

She was born Elizabeth Anna Maxwell on May 6, 1870 just outside of Manchester, England. She was baptized at St. Thomas’ Church in Pendleton.

Her father (James) was a mechanic, most likely in one of the area’s many cotton mills, and her mother (Emily) took in washing. James was Irish, a native of Dublin, but had come to Manchester with his family as a child just before the Potato Famine. He was working as a weaver in the cotton mills by the time he was twelve. James died the week of Elizabeth’s first birthday, leaving Emily a widow with two children under the age of five.

Emily married a man named John Matthews when Elizabeth was eight, but the marriage appears to been an unhappy one. The couple were living separately by the time Elizabeth was eleven; John having apparently left Emily for another woman.

Elizabeth’s brother John found work, first as an errand boy and later as a shipping clerk, to help out with the finances, but Emily’s mental health appears to have taken a severe hit after her husband left her.

In the early morning of January 5, 1886 Emily slit her own throat. John found her when he got up, but despite being rushed to Salford Royal Hospital Emily passed away early the next morning. Elizabeth was fourteen.

At some point before she was twenty Elizabeth and her brother moved in with a widow named Mary Rycroft. Mary’s two grown daughters worked as dressmakers and Elizabeth soon found work in the same trade.

In the fall of 1891 Elizabeth married a man named George Stroud. So far I’ve been able to find very little of substance about George except that he died less than four years after their marriage in May 1895.

On September 29, 1900 Elizabeth married again, this time to a man named John Hesford. John was working at a local rubber mill at the time they married, but he had recently ended a 12 year enlistment with British army, half of which he had spent in India. John’s military records say his conduct was “Exemplary” and that he had “Steady” and “Temperate” habits (although they also note that he sought treatment for STDs on at least three occasions).

Elizabeth sailed from Liverpool on the RMS Oceanic on September 7, 1904 and arrived in New York City on the 14th. On the manifest she stated that she was going to meet a friend named Joseph Saroglia at the Hotel Jefferson in St. Louis, Missouri. Joseph was Swiss Italian and had worked as an interpreter in Manchester, though after he came to the US he worked as everything from a tavern owner to a piano salesman to a game warden. He had come over on the same ship a few months before Elizabeth.

John Hesford followed Elizabeth to St. Louis five months later, sailing from Liverpool on the RMS Umbria on February 4, 1905. He stated on his immigration form that he was going to meet Elizabeth at the Hotel Bereford in St. Louis, so she was presumably living there at the time.

John first found work as a clerk at Joseph Saroglia’s saloon, then as a taxi driver, then a mechanic. By WWI he had worked his way up to being the foreman at McPherson’s Garage, and by 1930 at the Western Automobile Co.

When she wasn’t frightening away muggers (which apparently happened three times in two years) Elizabeth worked from home as a dressmaker/seamstress.

(If anyone has any idea what the “Jewish 400″ means in this context I’d love to know.)

She and John never had any children of their own, but for a time appear to have cared for a boy named Cornelius van der Pluym. Cornelius is listed as their “adopted son” on the 1920 Census, but the “adoption” appears to have been temporary as Cornelius was back with his birth parents by the next census.

John died of heart disease in 1936, and Elizabeth moved in with an unmarried woman named Irene Harrington and her housekeeper. Irene’s recently-deceased father was a retired police officer and appears to have been a man after Elizabeth’s own heart.

Elizabeth lived to be 78 years old. She died on April 20, 1949 at Pine Crest Nursing Home in Manchester, Missouri. Over 4,000 miles from the Manchester where she was born.

Elizabeth was cremated, but her remains were apparently never claimed and are still being stored at Oak Grove Cemetery in Bel-Nor, Missouri (just in case someone wanted to throw her ashes into the eyes of a mugger for old times’ sake).

Frases Soltas#4

frases soltas#3

#frasessoltas #pensamentos aleatórios

frases soltas#2

colorfulcartoon-deactivated2019

If you’re around 18 and you dont find this nostalgic I feel bad for your childhood

y2k-aesthetic

I had that EXACT Doodle Bear! I actually thrifted it in college back in the late 2000s. I gave it to my young niece.

jackthebard

Just remember. There is no such thing as a fake geek girl. There are only fake geek boys. Science fiction was invented by a woman.

sourcedumal

shuttersmiley

Specifically a teenage girl. You know, someone who would be a part of the demographic that some of these boys are violently rejecting.

foxsan-deactivated20140515

Isaac Asimov.

sim0nbaz-deactivated20170205

yo mary shelley wrote frankenstein in 1818 and isaac asimov was born in 1920 so you kinda get my point

fancyeliza-deactivated20200804

If you want to push it back even further Margaret Cavendish, the duchess of Newcastle (1623-1673) wrote The Blazing World in 1666, about a young woman who discovers a Utopian world that can only be accessed via the North Pole - oft credited as one of the first scifi novels

Women have always been at the forefront of literature, the first novel (what we would consider a novel in modern terms) was written by a woman (Lady Muraskai’s the Tale of Genji in the early 1000s) take your snide “Isaac Asimov” reblogs and stick it

even in terms of male scifi authors, asimov was predated by Jules Verne, HG Wells, George Orwell, you could have even cited Poe or Jonathan Swift has a case but Asimov?

PbbBFFTTBBBTBTTBBTBTTT so desperate to discredit the idea of Mary Shelly as the mother of modern science fiction you didn’t even do a frickin google search For Shame

cryptovalid

And if you want to go back even further, the first named, identified author in history was Enheduanna of Akkad, a Sumerian high priestess.

gunthatshootsennui

Kinda funny, considering this Isaac Asimov quote on the subject:

Mary Shelley was the first to make use of a new finding of science which she advanced further to a logical extreme, and it is that which makes Frankenstein the first true science fiction story.

deathcomes4u

Even Isaac Asimov ain’t having none of your shit, not even posthumously.

velocigrey-deactivated20160825

You know what else was invented by women? Masked vigilantes, the precursor to the modern superhero. Baroness Emma Orczy wrote The Scarlet Pimpernel in 1905. The character would later inspire better known masked vigilantes such as Zorro and Batman.

geekinlibrariansclothing

Got that?

bettieleetwo

Stick that in your international pipe and smoke it

la-knight

I have literally been telling people this for over a year.

athenadark

the first extended prose piece - ie a novel, was not, as many male scholars will shout, Don Quixote (1605) but The Tale of Genji (1008) written by a woman