When I get a Dachshund pup — a long-haired brindle — from the breeders my family’s gone to for at least ten years, Mom and I find out that a couple from our town is adopting another dog from the same litter. Mom gives the breeder our contact information for playdates, which never come about. 

A year later, I bring my dog for another round of standard obedience, and my boss — the trainer — mentions that another long-haired brindled Dachshund is also going to attend. I half-joke, “Wouldn’t it be funny if it was [Dog]’s brother?” only for my boss to tell me she believes the dog came from a different breeder. Bummer.

Before class begins, a lady comes in with the aforementioned Dachshund, and without giving us a chance to try properly introducing them, my dog and hers immediately rush toward each other and started playing. After making sure our boys won’t fight, exchanging our names and theirs, and mutually gushing over how cute they are, the lady asks me where I got mine.

Me: “[Business] in Wetmore.”

Lady: *Pauses* “What were his parents’ names?”

Me: “The sire’s name was Romeo Junior, and the dam’s name was… uh…” 

Lady: “Sunrise? Sunset?”

Me: “Yeah!”

Lady: “Those were my dog’s parents, too!”

She was one of the people Mom had tried to leave contact information for! It turned out the staff member overseeing the adoptions had forgotten to pass it on. But our dogs still somehow recognized each other, even after a year of separation. Of course, we scheduled regular playdates, and two years later, we’ve become good friends, while our dogs still get along like butter and popcorn. 

Thus far, meeting [Friend] and [Her Dog] has been the cutest coincidence I’ve ever experienced.

I’m about thirteen years old. Though I now have an autism spectrum disorder and anxiety disorder diagnosis, at that time I only had the anxiety disorder one. My class consists of only thirteen people including me. I am not a popular person and have never been. 

This occurred in biology, with a teacher I have since gotten to know as completely ignorant of teenage sociology. He is setting up a small group assignment. He won’t set the groups himself. Instead, he calls students to the front, one by one, to ask who they want to be paired up with. I am dreading this as I can see everyone in my class is already pairing up. Unluckily enough, I am called to the front to pick a partner. I know the only four remaining people have already paired up and I can see their dislike of the situation in their faces. My anxiety gets sky-high and I shake my head, unable to speak. He pushes me a bit more, causing me to almost break out in tears. Instead of finding out what the problem is with this clearly distressed young girl, he sends me out of class. 

Keep in mind that I’m normally a really well-behaved girl and have never gotten in trouble with teachers before. Being sent out of class is something really negative in that school. I tear up outside the classroom and cry. 

At some point — I can’t remember whether it is the end of the day or the end of the class — I have to return to him. By this point, my anxiety has dropped and has become anger. I am given a few sheets to copy in my own writing. It is this absolutely horrendously finger waggling set of rules, both normal and moral, and it gets me even angrier. 

Granted, I am a little rebel and decide to just write unreadable squiggles instead of what was actually written — not that far off from my handwriting then — but I still feel like I have done nothing wrong. 

In the end, I am stuck with that particular teacher for five or six years of biology. There isn’t a year without incident with that teacher.

I’m a pastry and baking student at a well known program in Seattle. We take orders, and Thanksgiving is probably our biggest order time. The table where orders are picked up isn’t right in front of the scaling room with all the ingredients, which is where I am.

A woman comes in to get her order (five pies), and opens all the boxes.

Woman: There’a sugar on my berry pie. I didn’t want sugar on my berry pie.

Student: I’m sorry, ma’am, but it doesn’t say on your order that you didn’t want sanding sugar on your pie.

Woman: But I told the chick who took my order that I didn’t want sugar!

Student: I’m sorry, ma’am. If you can wait fifteen minutes we can bake a pie without sugar for you.

Woman: I DON’T HAVE TIME TO WAIT FOR ANOTHER PIE!

The woman flips out, screaming about how she told the chick taking her order that she didn’t want sugar on top of her blueberry pie, and about how she deserved a free pie for her trouble. The student keeps trying to calm her down, still offering to make her a new pie without sanding sugar on top, asking if she would like to trade it for a pumpkin or pecan pie.

Chef appears around the corner, no doubt attracted by the sound of screaming. The student looks visibly relieved. The woman suddenly becomes super polite and explains, and Chef apologizes and offers to make her a fresh pie.

Woman, looking smug: That would be great.

She turns and glares at the other student, and says: But it would have been even better if she had offered first.

Chef, who had heard the entire thing before he came up to talk to her: We like customers to be happy, but we also have a very strict policy on not mistreating our students. Please take your pies and go before I call security.

Woman looks utterly shocked. Yells about how she’ll be reporting us to the dean for being so rude to her, and storms out.

My dad is a single father. He’s great and all, but he had absolutely no idea how to raise a daughter by himself. He didn’t understand anything normal girls liked, so he went with what he understood. As such, I was raised on a diet of martial arts, outdoor survival, and marksmanship — basically anything he remembered from his time in the army.

As such, I’ve dealt with plenty of side effects of my lifestyle, like boys running away from me because I was better at fighting than they were and girls refusing to socialize with me as they perceived me as a violent brute. Once, we even had child services called on my dad when I went to school with a black eye.

But the single worst aspect I’ve had to deal with is this.

Me: “Dad. I hate you. Why did you have to teach me military tactics? You ruined Infinity War for me! I couldn’t enjoy the final battle as, when I saw it, all I saw was every stupid tactical mistake everyone made! No flanking, no use of cover, air support flying too low, no artillery…”

Dad: “Uh, oops?”

My glare intensifies.

Me: “Well, on the bright side, at least you know why they lost to Thanos.”

I’m an American who lives in Tokyo teaching English. I’m just finishing up a forty-minute lesson with two intermediate-level students: a middle-aged man and a young woman. I always use the last minutes to ask if the students have any questions about anything since this is usually their only time to interact with a non-Japanese person.

Me: “Okay, guys, before we finish, do you have any questions about anything? About the lesson? About America? About me?”

Male Student: “Do you like Japanese girls?”

This is a really common question asked by male students to male teachers.

Me: “Um, no. Actually, I like Japanese guys. I’m gay.”

Male Student: “Oh.”

The conversation goes silent. I’m pretty open about that fact and students are always very nice about it, but it usually is a conversation stopper.

Me: “Okay, so, no more questions?”

Male Student: “How do you, um…”

The student pauses for a moment, obviously struggling to find the right words.

Male Student: “How do you, um… play in the nighttime?”

I’m completely taken aback by his question and try to think of something to say, but before I can, the female student speaks up.

Female Student: “Hey, hey, I don’t want to hear this. Please ask him after the lesson!”