If i’m telling you, “this is a hot plate.” But I make no effort to put it down, i’m internally yelling at you to move your shit. Your phone. Your keys. Your bread. Whatever is directly in front of you is from that point on is now classified as your shit. The shit you are suddenly responsibly for and I am burning my hands for. Move your shit. I’m not going to move it for you.
Shoutout to the people who see me approaching with their food and immediately start clearing the way for me. You are the real MVPs. You know what’s up. You understand.
As for everybody else. Move. Your. Shit.
Me
We see that and we respect the fuck out of you. Thank you.
In addition: when I say “this is a hot plate”, I am not offering it to you. Yes it hurts, but I’m used to it. You, on the other hand – I’m going to assume you have baby hands. Virgin hands. Hands that have not be baptized by the fire of really hot plates. I’m not offering you this hot piece of ceramic for you to burn your hands on. That makes no fucking sense. Like, thanks for not just sitting there doing nothing, but trying to take the plate from me is the wrong action
I’m telling you it’s hot so you will move your shit
In addition to this ^, stop trying to reach for it. I keep jerking it back from you for a reason. This shit came on a crowded tray and it sat burning my neck the entire walk here. So I know its hot. I can not and I will not give you this plate that’s straight from the embers of Mount Doom. Because I know what will happen: I’ll give it to you and you’ll say, “Oh, that’s hot!” and then you will proceed to fucking drop it. Ain’t nobody got time for you to be a hero, Seat 4. Just let me do what I need to do, so I put this hot ass plate down.
QueerGalaxies 