showered-flowers:

have you ever just looked at someone and thought, my fucking god i love you. i love every goddamn ounce. i love your bones and your soul. but I’m a loser, who just doesn’t wanna lose you. i can lose fucking everything, but not you. oh god. not you. 

princeowl:

will graham tries to solve the mystery of who’s been smoking all the Weed with the help of Harijuana Lecter 

ughbenedict:

you’re a phenomenon
ughbenedict:

you’re a phenomenon
ughbenedict:

you’re a phenomenon
ughbenedict:

you’re a phenomenon

ughbenedict:

you’re a phenomenon

friendswithfangs:

the perfect family :’0

jghak;a;kg;jksg I’m so repulsively sick and congested and I just want to curl up in a ball and read Howard’s End but I have to work on my digital animation final immediately

I have rice cakes, a blanket and a huge class of water I CAN DO THIS

image

"Now more than ever do I realize that I will never be content with a sedentary life, that I will always be haunted by thoughts of a sun-drenched elsewhere."
Isabelle Eberhardt  
"No one asked, at any point, if Mitt Romney might give up on his presidential ambitions because he wanted to spend more time with his litter of grandkids. Fuck, no one even asked in 2012 if Tagg Romney would do less on the campaign trail because he just got two new babies. No one asked because not only did no one care, but because everyone assumed that things would go on as normal because that’s what the fuck people do, men, women, grand or otherwise. The only reason anyone is talking about this is because Hillary Clinton has lady parts. And, no matter how you wanna sputter, “But…no,” it comes out sexist."

joyfulldreams:

slaughterhouse-ninetwofive:

albinwonderland:

ediebrit:

oh my fucking god

huge fucking trigger warning but oh my god

shots. fucking. fired.

MOTHERFUCKER

patron-saint-of-the-denial:

Raúl Esparza as Master of Ceremonies in the revival of Cabaret
patron-saint-of-the-denial:

Raúl Esparza as Master of Ceremonies in the revival of Cabaret

patron-saint-of-the-denial:

Raúl Esparza as Master of Ceremonies in the revival of Cabaret

incurablylazydevil:

 I know what kind of man you are 
incurablylazydevil:

 I know what kind of man you are 
incurablylazydevil:

 I know what kind of man you are 
incurablylazydevil:

 I know what kind of man you are 
incurablylazydevil:

 I know what kind of man you are 
incurablylazydevil:

 I know what kind of man you are 
incurablylazydevil:

 I know what kind of man you are 
incurablylazydevil:

 I know what kind of man you are 
incurablylazydevil:

 I know what kind of man you are 

incurablylazydevil:

 I know what kind of man you are 

"The truth is you already know what it’s like. You already know the difference between the size and speed of everything that flashes through you and the tiny inadequate bit of it all you can ever let anyone know. As though inside you is this enormous room full of what seems like everything in the whole universe at one time or another and yet the only parts that get out have to somehow squeeze out through one of those tiny keyholes you see under the knob in older doors. As if we are all trying to see each other through these tiny keyholes.

But it does have a knob, the door can open. But not in the way you think. But what if it could? Think for a second — what if all the infinitely dense and shifting worlds of stuff inside you every moment of your life turned out now to be somehow fully open and expressible afterward, after what you think of as you has died, because what if afterward now each moment itself is an infinite sea or span or passage of time in which to express it or convey it, and you don’t even need any organized English, you can as they say open the door and be in anyone else’s room in all your own multiform forms and ideas and facets? Because listen — we don’t have much time, here’s where Lilly Cache slops slightly down and the banks start getting steep, and you can just make out the outlines of the unlit sign for the farmstand that’s never open anymore, the last sign before the bridge — so listen: What exactly do you think you are? The millions and trillions of thoughts, memories, juxtapositions — even crazy ones like this, you’re thinking — that flash through your head and disappear? Some sum or remainder of these? Your history? Do you know how long it’s been since I told you I was a fraud? Do you remember you were looking at the Respicem watch hanging from the rearview mirror and seeing the time, 9:17? What are you looking at right now? Coincidence? What if no time has passed at all? The truth is you’ve already heard this. That this is what it’s like. That it’s what makes room for the universes inside you, all the endless inbent fractals of connection and symphonies of different voices, the infinities you can never show another soul. And you think it makes you a fraud, the tiny fraction anyone else ever sees? of course you’re a fraud, and of course you try to manage what part they see if you know it’s only a part. Who wouldn’t? It’s called free will, Sherlock. But a the same time it’s why it feels so good to break down and cry in front of others, or to laugh, or to speak in tongues, or chant in Bengali — it’s not English anymore, it’s not getting squeezed through any hole."
David Foster Wallace, from “Good Old Neon,” Oblivion