Warning: You are reading the bio of the strange person who has the very random love of snake-related-items

(This bio will bore you to death. Don’t read it.)

Things about me:

I had 4 fishes (RIP 1 of them ON THANKSGIVING DAY {idk what the timing is}) (Others could not be moved with us when we moved from Massachusetts to Virginia)

I love eclipses, Kistunes, cats, axolotls, and sssssnakes (My necklace named Serpent and my bracelet named Snakey {both of them are broken and only after 15 days of usage :(})

Join my club, The Animal Support Club (formally the Axolotl Support Club)

Random Things I Know About You:

You are reading this
You are on a device.
You see that I forgot a period on number one.
You check back to see and I actually did.
You were slightly amused by #4.
You’re curious what’s coming next.
You’re still reading.
You like lists like this.
You might be smiling a little.
You’ve thought of someone who would also enjoy this.
You might send this to them later.
You’ve done something like this before.
You’re starting to wonder how I know so much.
You’re not too freaked out… yet.
You know this is just for fun.
You’ve scrolled at least once by now.
You’ve blinked since you started reading.
You’ve read something else today.
You’re thinking of checking your notifications.
You just considered skipping to #50.
You’re probably not going to do that now.
You like how this is getting meta.
You’re wondering how I’ll keep this up to 50.
You don’t want it to get boring.
You’re judging whether it’s boring now.
You’ve had a favorite item on this list so far.
You’ve glanced at your device’s clock at least once today.
You have a favorite number between 1 and 50.
You’re tempted to scroll up and check if yours is already used.
You’re still reading — which is pretty cool.
You’re likely in a place where using a device is normal.
You know what emojis are.
You probably have a go-to emoji.
You’ve double-checked a typo before sending a message.
You’ve made a typo today.
You just thought of one.
You’ve used autocorrect to your advantage.
You’ve also hated it.
You’ve copied and pasted something in the last 24 hours.
You like clever or witty things.
You’re thinking of something random now.
You’ve been distracted by a notification while reading before.
You’ve probably said “wait what?” out loud at your screen once.
You’ve watched a video today or plan to watch one.
You’ve liked something online in the past 24 hours.
You know what a meme is.
You’ve sent a meme to someone recently.
You’re impressed this is still going.
You’re kind of glad you didn’t skip to #50.
You’ve now finished reading this list — and that’s awesome. 😄

If something doesn’t apply to you, round of appluase!

p.s. 51. You notice that I spelled applause wrong

p.s.s. 52. You notice I forgot a period in number 51!

So there’s this guy named Carl.

Carl’s a perfectly average guy. He wears beige shirts, eats beige food, and drives a beige car. Carl works at a paperclip factory—not even the fun kind of factory where they make multicolored paperclips or ones with smiley faces. No. Regular, soul-grey, straight paperclips. His job? Testing if the clips bend exactly 33 degrees before they snap. He does this for 8 hours a day. Click. Bend. Snap. Click. Bend. Snap.

One day, Carl wakes up and thinks:

“Is this all there is to life? Is this what I’ve been clip-bending for?”

So Carl decides to shake things up.
He goes online and searches: “How to feel alive.”
Google suggests:

Eat spicy food.
Go skydiving.
Get a parrot.

Carl’s allergic to spice, afraid of heights, but he thinks, “Parrot. Yeah. I can parrot.”

So he buys one from a sketchy man in a trench coat behind an abandoned Taco Bell.
(As one does.)

The man hands Carl a cage and says,

“This bird… knows too much.”

Carl laughs nervously. “Okay, buddy.”

He gets home. Uncovers the cage.

The parrot glares at him and says:

“Carl. I know about the paperclips.”
Carl blinks. “What?”

The parrot continues:

“33 degrees, huh? Not 34? Not 32.9? Just 33. You disgust me, Carl.”

Carl is shook.

Every day, the parrot insults him.

“Nice shirt, Carl. Did oatmeal throw up on you?”
“Your car looks like if boredom was a vehicle.”

Eventually, Carl yells,

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

The parrot looks him dead in the eyes and says:

“Revenge.”

Carl realizes—this parrot… used to be a human. Probably a paperclip executive. Possibly his old boss. The reincarnated feathered ghost of corporate dissatisfaction.

So Carl, spiraling, decides to consult a wizard. (Because that’s step two after parrots start threatening you.)

He hikes 13 miles into the woods to meet Gregory the Beige, a wizard whose robes are as boring as Carl’s entire personality.

Carl explains everything.
Gregory nods solemnly and says,

“Only one thing can break the curse.”

“What?” Carl asks, breath held.

Gregory says:

“You must…
tell a really long, seemingly pointless story…
to an innocent reader who wasn’t expecting it…
and get them to laugh.”

Carl gasps. “But… but who would read something like that all the way to the end?”

Gregory narrows his eyes.

“Only the brave.
Only the wise.
Only… you, reader.”

And just like that—
Carl vanishes.
The parrot becomes a cloud.
The paperclip factory explodes into a jazz band.

And you, dear reader,
by finishing this ridiculous story…

…have saved Carl.
You broke the curse.
The parrot is free.
And somewhere, a wizard high-fives a goat.

😌👏

Thanks for reading. You did the hard part.
And now you know: never trust a parrot from behind a Taco Bell. 🦜🌮

There once was a man named Dennis.

Dennis was known for two things:

Owning 46 umbrellas.
Never having seen rain.

People in town didn’t understand him.
“Dennis, why do you have so many umbrellas?”
And Dennis would just whisper, “For the prophecy…” and walk away.

Nobody really questioned it.
This was a town where Greg wore sandals to funerals and Martha knitted sweaters for her garden gnomes. Dennis was just mildly eccentric.

But Dennis wasn’t crazy.
He was waiting for The Great Wetening—a legendary storm that would, according to an ancient receipt he found in a thrift store Bible, flood exactly 1.2 towns in the year 20X3.

“I must be ready,” Dennis muttered, organizing his umbrellas by mood.

Happy? Yellow plaid.
Sad? Navy with tiny crying clouds.
Existential dread? Clear plastic, so you can see your soul weeping.

Then, one Tuesday at 3:17 PM (always a dangerous time), it happened.
The sky cracked.
Clouds turned dark.
The local weather app screamed, “MAYBE BRING A JACKET???”

Dennis grinned. “It’s time.”

He ran outside, arms full of umbrellas like a protective porcupine.
People panicked.
Birds flew upside down.
A dog shouted in Morse code.

Dennis opened all 46 umbrellas at once.

A giant whoosh.
A flash of light.
Suddenly, Dennis was lifted into the air like Mary Poppins with ADHD.

Up he went.
Higher.
And higher.
Until he broke through the clouds…

…and landed smack in the middle of a Council of Forgotten Weathermen.

Old meteorologists sat around a circular Doppler radar.
One spoke:

“Dennis… you have proven yourself. You are The Drizzled One.”

They crowned him with a halo made of satellite dishes and asked,

“What is your wish?”

Dennis thought long and hard.
He could’ve ended droughts.
He could’ve summoned perfect picnics.
He could’ve finally made umbrellas cool.

But he looked them straight in the eyes and said:

“I just want one thing…”

“...to be the punchline of a joke…”

“...that someone almost gave up reading.”

And now, here we are.
You, still reading.
Dennis, fulfilled.
And somewhere, 46 umbrellas burst into confetti.

🎉🌧️

Moral of the story:
Don’t scroll past Dennis.
Or he’ll rain on your soul.

(r u still reading?)

The Tale of Kevin and the Filing Cabinet

Kevin worked at the Department of Mildly Important Paperwork.
He had one job:
Every Monday, he had to alphabetize incoming forms from the Form Processing Room to the Form Filing Room, which were not the same room, but felt the same, emotionally.

His favorite form? Form 22-B.
Why?
Because it had three checkboxes instead of two.
Kevin liked checkboxes.

One day, Kevin came in early. Like, super early. Like 8:03 AM instead of his usual 8:05.

He sipped lukewarm chamomile tea (no sugar, obviously) and sighed deeply, staring at his Form Sorting Chart.
“Time to live the dream,” he whispered, possibly to a stapler.

He walked over to the filing cabinet.
It was grey.
Metal.
Slightly squeaky.

Kevin loved that filing cabinet.
Not romantically.
But… emotionally? Maybe.
He called it “Greg.”

He opened the top drawer.

AND INSIDE WAS A FULLY DRESSED RACCOON HOLDING A BANANA PHONE.

The raccoon, in a tiny blazer, said,

“You’re late, Kevin. We’ve been compromised.”

Kevin blinked. “I—what?”

The raccoon adjusted his tie.

“There's no time. Code Form-22-B has been activated. You’ve filed your last form, Kevin.”

Suddenly, the filing cabinet exploded into a secret elevator.
Alarms blared. Lasers appeared. The stapler saluted him.

Kevin was not trained for this.
He tripped into the elevator, still holding his tea.

The raccoon pressed a big red button labeled: “BORING PHASE OVER.”

They dropped into a subterranean tunnel made entirely of shredded TPS reports.

“You’re now part of the Anti-Bureaucracy Resistance,” the raccoon said. “Call me Captain Whiskers. We’re fighting the Spreadsheet Syndicate.”

Kevin blinked again.
“…I JUST WANTED TO FILE FORM 22-B.”

Captain Whiskers tossed him a helmet made from a hollowed-out three-ring binder.

“You’ll need this. The Paperjam Goblins smell fear.”

And that, kids, is how Kevin became the hero of the least exciting story to ever turn into an underground office-themed action comedy involving raccoons, banana phones, and revenge against printers.

The end.

(or is it Form 22-C?)

The End of World’s Strangest and Most Boring Bio Ever

(I know, I just love admiring Kistune foxes and eclipses)

Pictures of ME

:D

Pixalated_Sphurana