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Sleeping Like A Crying Angel

| Pomona, CA, USA | Romantic | September 25, 2013

(My boyfriend and I are cuddling on my bed, and I’m excitedly telling him about my day.)

Boyfriend: “Shhh. No more talking. Silence.”

(I pout and stop talking. After a while, he’s asleep and all is quiet.)

Me: *leans in close to his ear and whispers* “Silence will fall when the question is asked.”

(I get a smack on the behind for that, but it made him laugh!)

No Hopes For Gropes, Part 2

| TN, USA | Romantic | September 25, 2013

(My girlfriend and I are watching TV, when she randomly decides to tickle me. I try to tickle her back, but because she shifts I accidentally grab her boob.)

Girlfriend: “Was that supposed to tickle?”

Me: “It sure tickled my fancy.”

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No Hopes For Gropes

Who Is The Crazy One?

| Romantic | September 25, 2013

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No Pain, No Gain

, | MD, USA | Learning | September 25, 2013

(I am in first grade. A boy steps on my finger during recess. It hurts a lot, and I can’t move it, so I go to the school nurse.)

Me: “Mrs. [Nurse], somebody stepped on my finger and it hurts. I can’t really move it.”

(It is very painful, but I am not really showing the pain beyond a grimace.)

Nurse: “Let’s have a look at it.”

(She examines my finger, manipulating it, looking at the way the bones are aligned, and looking for swelling and bruising, which are there. Of course, this hurts like h***, but I don’t scream. It’s an easy diagnosis though.)

Nurse: “…well, it looks like it’s bruising a little, so I’ll give you an ice pack.”

Me: “It really hurts. Are you sure it’s not something more than bruising?”

Nurse: “I’m sure, honey. Remember, you’re just in first grade and I’m a nurse. I know what I’m doing. It’s just a little bruise. Stop worrying and go to class.”

(Over my objections, she gives me an ice-pack and sends me to class, where I still can’t move the finger. It has swelled up and bruised even more by the time I get home.)

Me: *walking in* “Mom! I’m home!”

Mom: *sees my finger immediately* “Oh God! What happened!?”

Me: “Oh, someone stepped on it at recess. I can’t move it.”

Mom: “Let me see it.”

(My mom only got to 7th grade in school. She has no medical training whatsoever.)

Mom: “It’s obviously broken! Why didn’t you go to the nurse?”

Me: “I did. She said it was just bruised.”

Mom: “Just bruised my a**! The bone’s out of place, you can’t move it, and it’s swelled up to twice its size!”

(She takes me to the ER, where they find a huge fracture in the finger. By now, it has gone numb from nerve damage. They tell us that the delay in treatment has worsened it, and I will need surgery. The next day, my mother goes for a meeting with the principal and the nurse.)

Mom: “How could you not realize her finger was severely broken? Didn’t the bones look weird? No swelling? Nothing?”

Nurse: “Well, yes, the bones looked a little misaligned, and there was definitely swelling and some bruising.”

Mom: “Was she moving it?”

Nurse: “No, she said she couldn’t, but I came to the conclusion that it was just bruised.”

Mom: “WHY?!”

Nurse: “…because she wasn’t showing enough pain.”

Mom: “WHAT KIND OF A NURSE ARE YOU?!”

Nurse: “Excuse me?”

Mom: “You saw all the symptoms of a broken finger and you ignored them because she didn’t show enough pain?”

Nurse: “Yes…”

Mom: “So you’re saying that her not being able to move it, the fact that the bone was out of place, the bruising, the swelling, none of that counted because she didn’t show enough pain?”

Nurse: “Yes…”

Mom: “And you see nothing wrong with that?”

Nurse: “No…”

Mom: “Even I could tell it was broken! She has nerve damage and a severe fracture! The delay in treatment worsened it! You should’ve called an ambulance, not sent her back to class! You’ve caused serious damage to her through your neglect!”

Nurse: “But she wasn’t showing enough pain!”

Mom: “I never thought I’d say this, but lady, I am suing your a**.”

(I have since grown up and gotten extensive medical training. Thankfully, I can diagnose a broken finger.)

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Questioning The Teacher

| ON, Canada | Learning | September 25, 2013

(It’s the week before schools starts. I am leaving my apartment and waiting for the elevator down. A woman steps out of another unit and notices the stuff I’m carrying.)

Woman: “Back to school, eh?”

Me: “Yup.”

Woman: “What are you taking?”

Me: *misunderstanding what she said* “Grade eight. Language, History and French.”

Woman: “…Really? At your age?”

Me: “Well, I’m 25.”

Woman: “Is it some kind of remedial course?”

Me: “No, just plain old eighth grade.”

Woman: “How old is everyone else in the class?”

Me: *lightbulb* “OH! No, no, I’m teaching the class. Not taking.”

(She is quiet after that. I’m not sure she believes me.)

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