Press play and enjoy fuckers.


At first I’m just like “it’s fucking clapping, I don’t ca-” and then he began to sing and I took in such a deep breath my uncle had to make sure I was ok.

You don’t understand the kind of stress I went through to find this again and then it just decideds to pop up on my dash again!?

(via secretlyademigodinthetardis)


shoutout to people working weekends and overnights and overtime, people working in hospitality and retail and food service, who are sacrificing time with their loved ones, so fuckers with weekday desk jobs get to live comfortably with the amenities we provide while simultaneously shitting all over us for not getting “real jobs”

(via secretlyademigodinthetardis)


please stop asking me about my future ill cry

(via secretlyademigodinthetardis)

These boys want me to pat their heads, play with their hair, and tuck them into bed. They want me to take care of them. They do not want to take care of me.

I exist to them in the places I do not inhabit. Places I will never inhabit, not totally. He rocks back and forth, swatting away mosquitoes in his humid apartment. The smell of dirty water and trucks full of fish leak through the open window. He is thinking of me. Me lying in tiny flowered boxers in his bed. Me with my shirt sticky with river sweat. My goosebumped skin turning cold after he made a place for me in his shoulder. His lips brushing against my forehead. Sleeping there, for a few seconds, like they were too tired to do anything but purse on my brow.

They search for me in the crowd at their shows. I am not there. They lie alone in their beds and wonder what I am up to. They message me every so often. When they’re bored. When they’re tired. When they’ve been inside for a few days and already watched all the television they’d like. The absence of me sits down beside them. Keeps them warm. Curls up into their chests and asks them politely to please turn the volume down.

I am not there. I never will be. But they know me like this, as an idea, a concept, a thing that they created out of some conceptualized version of my skin, my bones, the framework of my Self. They know me like this. But never as I am. Never as I want to be.

I Found This In My “Drafts” | Lora Mathis

The title says it all ….

(via lora-mathis)


Good for you. Want a cookie

somebody made congratulatory cookies

(via secretlyademigodinthetardis)


i just almost missed my train because i was taking a personality quiz to find out what fruit I am

(via secretlyademigodinthetardis)


I’m not a misandrist, but a few quick questions:

If men can’t even make their own sandwiches, why are they allowed to make bills in congress?

If men can’t control their own sexual urges, why are they allowed to control nations?

If a woman’s legs/shoulders are enough to distract a man, how can we trust them to stay focused on things like open heart surgery or judging a murder trial?

Again not a misandrist, some of my best friends are guys and i’m even dating one.

(via avenge-with-me)




women are considered fragile but I’ve never seen anything as easily wounded as a man’s ego

this post is stupid as hell

case in point 

(via shingekitsune)


"real men dont rape" actually, real men do rape. they do. men rape. it isn’t done by ~fake mythical special brand of evil~ men, it’s done by real men, men who may seem nice, men who you think you can trust, men you know, men who you’re close to. real men do rape. that’s the problem

(via cumberkruemel)