GNAR

this world sucks so I made my own

nevillellongbottom:

So apparently feminism is a hate movement. I’m sorry I don’t remember any feminists going on any shooting sprees because they were rejected by men or sending death and rape threats to blogger who pointed out sexism in video games.

(via justvxto)

things to remember, -n.m. (via thegirlwithfernweh)

(via justvxto)

1) Learn to put on your bracelets and zip up your dresses by yourself. There will be times when you will be alone.
2) Get on a long plane ride. Look out the window. Understand the immensity of our world. Understand your insignificance. Understand your absolute importance.
3) Press the send button. If you don’t say it now, you never will.
4) Do not sneer at happiness or roll your eyes at sadness. Be aware that apathy is not healthy.
5) You are more than the amount of people who want to have sex with you.
6) That pit in your stomach when he doesn’t text you back, it shouldn’t be there. No one should be able to control you like that.
7) Shopping is cathartic. Buy the shoes and deal with one-ply toilet paper for a while.
8) It will get better, but it will never be perfect. Learn to live through the small moments of happiness. When they disappear, remember they will resurface.
9) I promise that cookie will not change anything (except that it will make you smile).
10) Please, please, take care of yourself. You are everything to somebody. You are everything to your self. That alone is enough.

knitmeapony:

I love my skin!

Oh my god SO IMPORTANT SO SO SO IMPORTANT

(Source: arthaemisia, via justvxto)

so I gave my nephew a set of avengers cookie cutters and last night they made some sugar cookies with them

sicilian-macaroon:

rangerkimmy:

most of them came out REALLY GOOD like

image

spiderman

image

hulk

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and iron man

but then there’s…

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captain amerihurr

I can’t BREATHE

(via ruinedchildhood)

Kait Rokowski (A Good Day)

oh no, I’m crying

(via littlecatlady)

this was amazing holy fuck. tootiredtotryy (via a-blazingsoul)

(Source: justsingyourlifeaway, via splenitive)

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.

i just want you all to myself, i’m sorry - s-u-r-e-f-i-r-e (via perfect)

(via splenitive)

I was just thinking about someone else touching you and now I can’t decide on whether I want to break their hands or my own.
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