Rabbits are...

Rabbits are baller pets.

Well, mine is, anyway.

I’ve always had a dog in my life. Growing up, I had the most beautiful dog in the world. I know everyone says that about their family pets, but she was a stunning corgi-collie mix, and she was a real part of the family. She joined the household when I was six, and we had to put her down when I was twenty-two. It was like losing a sister, and it still makes me teary-eyed.

I’m getting way off-track. I could literally spend hours going on and on about how amazing our dog was—and I do, regularly, whenever someone vaguely mentions their dog in passing. But this post is about rabbits and how baller they are.

During my first year of university, I wanted a pet. I missed having a furry companion to sit with and talk at, but I was living in residence—dogs were a definite no, cats were borderline, and turtles and their tanks were hidden under boxes whenever the cleaning staff came through. When it was finally time to leave the zoo (aka my awful first year residence), I expressed an interest in getting a dog to my parents.

They were vehemently opposed to it. They loved dogs, but they figured I didn’t quite understand the full responsibility of proper dog ownership. That didn’t stop me from trolling online ads for rescue dogs, and clicking through shelter pictures whenever I had a free moment.

Second year university hit, and my housemates and I were a mess. We got along really well, but two moved out for various reasons—and the rest of us were stuck with a random Indian man getting his PhD at forty. Suffice to say that it didn’t exactly leave us in the best situation for me to throw a pet into the mix.

Third year. New house, two new roommates—one with fur allergies. I later learned she had several dogs on her farm, and just put up with the occasional itchy eyes because she loved them. However, that year my roomies were even more of a mess, and one ended up taking the brunt of all the house problems—not conducive for dog-hood yet again.

Fourth year had some better opportunities. The neighbourhood condo association permitted dogs in the rentals, and the house was mammoth; I don’t think I’ll ever had a room that size again. But it donned on me that I probably wasn’t home enough for a dog, as much as it killed me. Plus, at the time, I could still go home to see my stunner—my arthritic, half-blind, half-deaf stunner who was nearing the end of her life.

So, I broadened the search. I could afford a pet who was considered “low-maintenance”, and initially looked at birds. “Shit and feathers,” my mom told me, and I steered clear of them. Lizards don’t want to cuddle. My roommate hated cats.

And then I landed on bunnies. Rabbits can live for almost a decade with proper care. They are social animals who don’t need more than a yearly vet check-up (as long as their health stays good), and the monthly upkeep of their environment doesn’t cost much.

And they are cute. So cute.

I bit the bullet and went to a pet rescue before moving into the fourth year house. I found my Polish rabbit there, and the shelter owner had him in a cage in the garage—along with twenty other cages with shivering bunnies in it. She put that little bundle into my arms, and even though he did nothing but shake, I knew I wanted him.

Rabbits take some getting used to. And by some, I mean a lot. If you’re doing it right, you have a massive area of your house dedicated to their free time. They need exercise, and leaving them in a cage all day is unrealistic. Bored bunnies are destructive bunnies, just like every other living thing out there. I think I wanted to cry in frustration when my bun wouldn't stop chewing the bars of his enclosure for the first week--before I realized he needed more time to run around outside said enclosure. So, in retrospect, I was lucky to have such a massive room in that fourth year house: more half of it went to the bunny speedway.

Coming from a dog-owner perspective, I wasn’t used to my pet running from me. I wasn’t used to him hiding under my bed or chewing my textbooks. (Though, to be fair, I suppose a dog can do all of those things too.) Rabbits are most active at night, the early morning, and the late evening. They sleep during the day, which is great when you’re away in class or stuck at that shitty 9-5. They have delicate backs and can’t see directly in front of them—aha to the superiority (?) of stereoscopic vision!

Rabbits are baller because they make you a better person. To have a fulfilling relationship with one, you need to learn to speak rabbit. You need to do your research, and you need to adjust to them—you, predator, must adapt to them, prey. They don’t want to be picked up, but they really appreciate it when you get down on the floor and let them shove their face into yours. They like to groom your things because they think they’re doing you a favour. You learn to be quiet. You learn to appreciate small gestures. You learn to be patient.  

Also, they are cute as fuck when they clean their ears.

People don’t realize what incredibly social, expressive animals rabbits can be. They like routine, but my rabbit’s routine involves lounging in bed with me before I turn in, alternating between grooming the covers and my pajamas while I read. They love to explore, even if they are tentative about it, and eventually warm up to new spaces. When they’re really happy, they chatter their teeth—similar to a cat purring. Rubbing their face will earn you bonus points.

They litterbox train themselves. Yup. Not messy, unless you give them copious amounts of hay—as you should—and they drag that all over the house, stuck to their stupid little feet.

Sure, there can be headaches too. They eat their poop, which is both disgusting and awesome—mostly disgusting, but awesome because you don’t have to clean up those particular gross poops. They chew wires, not realizing they can get electrocuted and then die. They stop misbehaving when you tell them off, and then resume the behaviour two minutes later when they think you aren’t watching. They bolt across the room to safety for no reason whatsoever, giving you both a heart attack and an overwhelming feeling of guilt that you did something wrong.

But rabbits are baller. They love you, you silly human. You are part of their colony. They will groom your things, flop out beside you while you work, and zoom around the room while leaping in ecstasy—again, for no discernable reason. They are appreciative of great owners, and have individual quirks and personalities. (With that in mind, pay attention to what shelter workers have to say when you pick your bun out—personalities do matter, more so than breeds in some situations.)

Don’t knock them until you try them. They aren’t low-maintenance pets. You still need to clean their litterbox and cage area. I spend way too much each week on fresh veggies for my fatty. But after living on my own for the first time after university ended, I'm so happy to have my rabbit in my life. He makes me feel less lonely, and isn't that the point of animal companionship? Bunnies are worth all the time and effort you put in earning their trust—and it takes a while, believe me. But you’ll have it for life, and what’s better than that?

Can’t get a dog because reasons? Why not rabbit?!     

The first book I wanted to publish...

The first book I ever sent to a publisher was a hot mess.

I spent years and years writing fanfiction, and I loved doing it. At the back of my mind, I had always wanted to be a writer, and I had a few original ideas penned, a book written—but no drive to do anything with it. So, as my university undergraduate career slowly came to an end, I decided to get my act together and look into publishing ventures. There was so much to learn, and I still feel like I’m drowning in information about an industry that outsiders think is easy-breezy.

One day, I stumbled upon an e-book provider that accepted unsolicited manuscripts from writers without agents. I thought I had hit the jackpot. At the time, I didn’t have anything that fit with what they usually published, but then I found their prompts page. It was basically a page that dictated what their editors would like to see for the upcoming year. There were deadlines to meet and a bunch of different lines to write for—I was thrilled.

I eventually settled on one that I figured I could make work: historical romance. I chose the Victorian Era, and went with their prompt to write about the life of a governess. Easy. I decided to add vampires to it, because everyone likes vampires, right?

I finished the manuscript about a week before the deadline. I then scrambled to edit this massive document myself. I think I read it twice over, correcting things as I went along, and that was it.

That was it. No beta readers, no editors, no proofreaders. Hot off the presses, I submitted with a rushed query and a synopsis that was too long for anyone to care about. I, however, thought I had just handed gold over to the editors at this publishing house. Hell, I even mentioned my fanfiction in my query and just how many amazing readers I had.

So, I waited. I even told a writing professor of mine—a published author—what I had done, and he looked at me over the top of his glasses a la Albus Dumbledore.

“So, you just sent it in?” he asked.

“Yup! They said it was fine that I didn’t have an agent.”

“Oh.” A long pause. “Well, best of luck. Let me know if it gets published.”

I waited the twelve weeks it usually took for a response, and was devastated when I received my first-ever rejection. I was stunned. My work was brilliant. I had great characters, an interesting plot, and vague historical accuracy that would probably fly with an uneducated reader.

Like I said, it was a hot mess. Looking back, I realize I started my novel off with the main character in a stage-coach, where she mulled over her life up until that point. It was dreary outside. Six pages of introspection and exposition.

Cringe. Never mind that I hadn’t ever read a Victorian romance before, but I thought I could get away with sending in a manuscript that no other person has ever seen except myself. Rookie mistakes across the board, and I thought I had learned my lesson.

I submitted something else to the same publishing house for a different prompt a few months later. I had a professional editor look it over, and she seemed to like it.

I waited again. I didn’t talk to anyone about it, worried that I’d get my hopes up again by sharing the news.

And… rejection. This time I was genuinely hurt: I worked really hard on the next manuscript, and I thought it was leaps and bounds ahead of the first manuscript I sent in.

But no one gives you a publishing contract for “Most Improved Manuscript Submission”. No one cares. Once again, I hadn’t let any beta readers go through anything, and I assumed my writing experiences with fanfiction would carry me somewhere special.

It didn’t. No even a little.

So, this time around, I have a wonderful team of beta readers to kick my ass a little. I have people to tell me what they like, what they dislike, and what needs to be scrapped. 

Writers need to learn that this isn’t a solitary art. It isn’t something you should want to do on your own, even if you spend the majority of your time alone—just you and the computer/pen and notepad. You need feedback. You need your ego checked. You need help. Take it when it’s offered, you literate idiot.  

Movie Theatre Behaviour for Dummies

I’ve worked at a movie theatre for a little over three years. It was part-time work to help pay for university, but now that I’ve graduated, it’s become the Pit of Hell that I try to work at five or so days a week to pay for things. I love my co-workers. I feel like I get paid to hang out with my friends for six to eight hours, and the job itself is pretty brainless. Plus, I haven’t paid for a movie in years.  

Still, those are small benefits compared to the shitstorm you put up with from people who actually go to the movies. I don’t know what happens when people walk through our doors, but it’s like all logic flies straight out the window. People turn into raging beasts who take out all their misery on the poor minimum wage workers in hats and nametags, and it makes me want to staple things to their face.

I suppose it’s the same in all awful minimum wage positions, but I had always thought people would be happy to come to the movie theatre. I mean, you’re going to be entertained for over two hours in fairly comfortable seats. You’re going to eat fatty foods, drink gigantic fizzy drinks, and munch on any candy you want. If you’re smart, you sneak extra food from the convenience store nearby in too, just to be on the safe side.

But then there are the special idiots who make my job ridiculous. For those of who you are terrible, let me give you some basic rules that you should follow for various positions at the theatre.

Box Office

Know what you’re seeing by the time you get the register. If the line is enormous, you have at least five minutes to mull over your choices with your friends/loved ones/awkward dates. No, I am not going to tell you what every movie is about when there is a massive line behind you. YOU should have your shit figured out beforehand like everyone else.

If a theatre worker asks if you have some sort of loyalty card, don’t look at them like they are the scum of the Earth for asking. We get written up if we don’t ask and a mystery shopper records it. WRITTEN. UP. Three write-ups and we’re fired. So fuck you. I’m going to ask. It takes five seconds for you to tell me yes or no.

Don’t launch into a big tirade about how you don’t want to buy a loyalty card either. I don’t care. The guy in the register next to me doesn’t care. We don’t care if you have the shitty loyalty card or not. We have to ask. And hey, if you do, great! Get your points! Otherwise, fuck right off with your attitude.

Don’t complain to us about the prices. Do you think my sad nametag with my favourite movie on it means I control this stuff? Do you think if I said anything to anyone in a position higher up than me, something would change? No? Good. Because that’s how it goes.

If you look under fourteen or under eighteen, I will ask you for ID. Don’t give me sass. Don’t roll your eyes. Just do it. Do it and I’ll give you a ticket. Movie theatres get fined big time for having underage assholes in theatres they aren’t supposed to be in, and there’s a possibility the person who sold the ticket can get in trouble too. You. Are. Not. Worth It.

Also, if you just turned eighteen, don’t scoff and act like it’s the dumbest thing in this whole wide world that I asked for some proof. You can’t even drink yet, you little shit, so get over yourself.

If I’m the only person working and there’s a massive line, don’t stand in front of me and tell me that we’re understaffed. No fucking kidding we’re understaffed. Would you like to jump on a till? No? Then order your damn tickets and get out of there.

Tell me if it’s debit or credit. It matters for the buttons I press on my end, and both cards look almost identical—especially if you hold the hard up backwards and your stupid finger covers all the information. Specify, you dick, or we’re going to have to do this all over again when the machine says it can’t read your card.

I don’t make the movie times, so don’t get pissy when you read something wrong and you’re late for a show. Get over it. We don’t change times at random. The website is connected to my machine. My times are right. The website is right. YOU fucked up. Deal with it.

Don’t show up five minutes before your show on a Saturday night, the second day said popular movied is released, and be baffled that it's sold out. Don’t throw your attitude in my face. Don’t yell at me. Pick another show or gtfo.

Similarly, we can’t oversell a theatre. We aren’t a fucking airline. We can’t magically conjure up extra seats. So when you come back to me for a refund and are incredibly rude about it, telling me we oversold—we didn’t. I have to smile and nod because that’s all I’m allowed to do. But you’re wrong. There are seats in the theatre. They aren’t right in the center near the back two minutes before trailers start on a busy night, but there are fucking seats available. I mean, no one wants to sit in the front row, and I'd return my ticket too if that was my only option, but get some perspective.

Don’t cut in front of the line to ask me a question. I have to answer you so you don’t complain to my manager, but it’s ridiculous and the people behind you come to me rattled that it even happened.

Tell me how many tickets you want. Tell me if they are kids or adults or seniors. I’m not a mindreader. I don’t know you have six people waiting by the concession stand. Have your shit READY.

The same goes for coupons. I get a lot of coupons that are half-concession and half-ticket, so do me a favour and RIP them before you get to me. It saves us both some time.

Don’t be a dick. I’m stuck in this little box asking the same questions over and over again for six to eight hours of the day. When you’re a dick, it makes me want strangle you. Maybe staple your eyelids. Whatever.

Concession

Don’t complain about the prices. You know what you’re getting into: it’s pop culture lore that movie theatre food is overpriced and over-portioned. You don’t need it, so don’t hassle us when it comes time to paying for it.

Real butter always costs extra. Always. We have to do it. Have to. Don’t fucking wait until we’ve rung everything through and ask for butter, because then we have to do it without charging you, and we get in trouble. It’s usually less than a dollar. Fuck right off with this.

There are a finite number of fizzy drinks you like. I’m sure we have one of them. When I ask if you want Coke, either agree and we can move on, or disagree and tell me what else you want. Don’t make a huge thing about it and take ten years to pick a drink.

Only certain candies come with a combo. No, we can’t put something different in there for you. Pick from the options, or don’t get the combo. What a difficult world you live in.

Don’t huff and puff when you’re in line. Generally, we know what we’re doing—it’s the idiots in front of us that are taking a full ten hours to order their food. Huff and puff at them.

Floor/Ticket Ripping/Bathrooms/Theatres

Don’t be a pig. I don’t know how people get popcorn fucking everywhere, but try to have a little restraint when you eat in the dark. If you’re angry about shit that went down at box office or concession, don’t grind your popcorn into the carpet, because now we get to clean it up—we who had nothing to do with your previous debacle.

I know everyone does it, but don’t put your feet up on the backs of chairs when someone is sitting there. It’s gross for them and it’s douchey for you—and then we have to handle someone complaining.

When you get your ticket ripped, hang on to the damn stub. You need it to get in and out to the concession area, depending on the layout of the theatre. On busy nights when that one person ripping hundreds of tickets is swamped, do them a favour and fucking have your ticket with you.

Don’t ever pop in front of someone’s face and be like LOL CAN U REMEMBER ME PLZ? No. No, I won’t. By the time you go and come back, I’ll have handled fifty to a hundred other people trying to get in to see their show. The only time this is acceptable is if it’s a weekday matinee and I’m doodling on a piece of paper—clearly we aren’t busy then, and it’s plausible to remember you.

Step out of the way if someone is trying to sweep where you’re standing. We have to do it. Stop fucking dropping little pieces of popcorn everywhere.

Put your trash in the garbage can at the condiment stands. Like. It’s literally RIGHT BESIDE YOU. You can push your straw wrapper that extra inch and keep the area tidy—I have faith in you.

Ladies, have some decorum in the bathrooms. Flush toilets. Don’t leave paper towels by the sinks. Put your fucking tampons in the bins. Put your fucking used pads in the bins. Use the garbage bin that seems least full. I feel like this shouldn’t even have to be said, but it does, and that’s sad.

Take some of your garbage down when the show is done. I know it seems like there is a whole crew of us to clean your shit, but let me break it down for you. A crew at night may have seven people on it. One person is ripping tickets at all times—and another may assist if the line gets cray-cray. Two other people are on washroom duty, and have to leave every half-hour or so to clean them. Another person is on theatre duty, and has to check on pre-shows and the like. So that leaves, what, between two and three people to clean however many theatres that just finished in the last ten minutes. Have a little respect and just help out a little, for fuck’s sake.

Don’t leave wet tissues in drink-holders. It’s fucking disgusting—snot or drink condensation, who knows?!

Don’t wedge that cardboard box you used to carry your one popcorn and drink twenty feet to your theatre under the seat. It’s hard to get out when we have full hands from other messy people.

Don’t walk into a theatre while we’re cleaning and just take a seat. Wait outside like a normal person until we’re finished. Do you want to sit in garbage? No? Thought not. And we don’t want you in there, so just give us some space. Plus you probably by-passed a line that the ticket ripper told you about that you blatantly ignored, so we’ll have to deal with your bitching later.

Hide your outside food. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST DO IT. I have to take it away from you otherwise, and I really, really hate fighting with people about it. Your two-dollar coffee is not worth me getting written up. Nope. Fuck right off. Don’t talk to me like we’re buds and I’ll just let you do it this one time—no. Put your food from other places in a purse, under your coat, whatever. Don’t parade it in front of me and then become a ball of white hot rage when I tell you—politely—that it’s our policy not to let it in. I find random wrappers and food containers all over the theatre while I’m cleaning: clearly those people got it right, so why can’t you?

Tl;dr version: Don’t be a dick. Clean up after yourself. We know better, so just do what we tell you. Thank you, and enjoy the show. 

There was definitely a lot more swearing than I anticipated. Apparently, I have some anger issues. On average, I deal with a lot of nice people. I work with awesome individuals, and I get to interact with movie nerds and little kids who are all so thrilled to see a show. There are just those few people that really get under my skin, and they ruin it for everyone. 

Does anyone else have any similar horror stories to share? Did I miss anything?