justlionaround:

naughtylittlekittygomeoww:

sizvideos:

If Girls Hit On Guys Like Guys Hit On Girls - Video

yes.

YES.

(via farrahtales)

Title: Howl Artist: Florence and The Machine 252,463 plays

dangerouspoetry:

Howl - Florence + The Machine

(via lionessrampant)

a-studyinsonic:

NOT ALL AUSTRALIANS:

  • Are tanned
  • Good-looking
  • Drink copious amounts of alcohol
  • Like sport
  • Can magically surf
  • Say G’Day Mate

ALL AUSTRALIANS:

  • Have ridden an emu to school at least once

(via mollyywobbles)

For 2014
I hope it brings you everything you need. I hope you work your ass off so that you can do the things you want. Get the damned tattoo and don’t worry about the fact that it’s not professional. Get rid of all of your old junk. If you don’t need it, don’t keep it. Tell all of your fake friends to get real or fuck off. Tell your demons to fuck off. Spend time by yourself and spend time with your friends. Tell your roommates that you appreciate them. Call your mother and tell her that you miss her. Remember that your grandparents are old and they’re time may be short. Remember that your time is short. Move away. If you are not satisfied, find satisfaction, no matter how long it might take. Grow. Love yourself and your work, your family and their mistakes, your life. If you do not love your life, fix it. If you do not love yourself, work for it. Deserve it. Eat healthy, exercise, think positively. If you don’t want to do that, then don’t, and love yourself anyways.
I hope for you, in this new year, that you will find everything your heart is looking for. Don’t waste a single second.

This is beautiful. (via gettingahealthybody)

(via shaeliveswell)

The wisdom-tooth-healing process was going great until I stabbed myself in the stitches by accident while brushing my teeth, preceded by a hidden peanut.
I’m freaking out.

I’m meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don’t stop reading till they’ve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, “He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say,“He’s great.”

A new boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks he’s being original. “We should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?” I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, I’d like that, I think. But he’s drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, “You have a tattoo? What’s it say?” ‘mad to live?’ What, are you angry about living? Aw, I’m just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.”

The next boy I kiss doesn’t read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep.

I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears he’s read every word I’ve put down. “You’ve got this voice that’s very modern, but also so classic.” I choke on my water as he says, “I read you to fall asleep.” At night, I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal and finds nothing about himself in it. “You don’t really love me, do you?” I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry.

I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like “presumptuously” and talk about “post-modernist new wave.” I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the “advantages of using film and listening to records.” But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.

I Am Not The Sea | Lora Mathis  (via qnln)

(via booklover)

I have massive post-wisdom-tooth chipmunk cheeks and nausea. I just want to read and draw and eat hot chips.
Or just eat.

faggitvekubby:

imagine if people were born with traits based on their zodiac signs so like aries had ram horns and hoofs like a satyr and shit how rad would that be

I’m a Gemini and I have a twin?

(via mollyywobbles)

(via exhaled)

Getting the wisdoms out Wednesday

(via vonmunsterr)