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Notes: 1020082 | Posted On: Tue Jul 29th, 2014 | Reblog

(Source: blushpink, via whatthefluffay)

Notes: 39768 | Posted On: Tue Jul 29th, 2014 | Reblog

"

1. I can’t get up at the crack of dawn to carpe fucking diem because I’m out five nights a week chasing laughter and the moonlight.

2. I don’t want to wake up feeling comfortable. Fuck comfort. I want to wake up and know I’ve woken up, I want to feel my life as it happens and if that means a throbbing headache, so be it; I’d rather dance in the dark than under a rainbow.

3. Eat whatever you want, idiots.

4. My breakfast happens at 1pm and I’d like to read whilst I eat it, thankyou very much.

5. I don’t need to stretch, nor do I need to reach for the sky; I am not a member of S Club 7 and my head is already in the clouds.

6. Drink all the water your body needs, put a chopped up lemon in your bottle but never neglect iced tea and vodka - whatever your poison, indulge yourself in it sometimes. Striving for perfection in any aspect of your life is just going to disappoint you; have a shot every now and then.

7. If you’re living life, you might not have time to write down your activities until four in the morning. Your life record may be scribbled onto receipts as you ride the train. That’s okay too; it doesn’t have to be beautiful to be valid.

8. Sleep on a pile of towels if you have to. Sleep in the grass. Sleep at a new friends’ place every night. As long as you’re sleeping next to something you love - whether it be a partner or the latest Palahniuk - scented fabric softener won’t mean shit.

9. Chaos can be better sometimes.

10. Run into the ocean instead.

11. You don’t owe strangers your smile. You don’t owe nature your observation. Maybe you don’t have a dog to walk.

12. Don’t make plans you can’t follow through with, it’s unfair.

13.

14. Fuck it. Pick up a book because you liked the cover. Pick up a book because the person before you left it behind. Scribble all over it if you want. Tear pages out and cut out words if you want. Pick up no books for a month, then ten in a day. Books will always be there.

15. Be yourself without imposing cliched values and movie-romance ideas onto your personality. Do what comes naturally. If you don’t want to pay your speeding fines, don’t fucking pay them, it’s your life. If you don’t like old people, don’t go and volunteer at their homes, you’ll only make everyone there miserable. Find your true bliss rather than assuming you’ll know what it is by sticking your tongue out at babies. You’ll get there, there’s no rush.

16. Don’t fucking daydream about it. Do it. Write your own ending.

"

Fuck Your ‘Sixteen Small Steps to Happiness’, love Daisy Lola (via meatandsarcasmguy)

(Source: fuckmisstexas, via whatthefluffay)


Notes: 3697 | Posted On: Tue Jul 29th, 2014 | Reblog

"I’ve fallen in love with you one hundred and thirty two times.
The first was at 2am, sheets sticking to our skin, sharing a pillow,
“tell me another secret”,
“okay”.
The twenty third time was on a highway four hundred miles later. You held my face, the sun with butterflies, the sky with pink. I felt the world spinning around its invisible axis, the solar system around its visible star, my heart dizzy from your gravity.
The seventy seventh time was when you came pouring out like a waterfall onto my toes. Give it all to me baby, the entire river, the flow and crash. I can take it. I can count so much higher.
The one hundred and tenth time was when you took it all away from me. Left my mouth gaping, a vacuum trying to suck you back in. I fell in love with you as you were leaving, fell in love with what I’d miss.
Fell in love with the face I kissed for the last time two days ago without knowing it.
The one hundred and twelfth time was in the mouth of another man calling me baby. “you’re mistaken, I was not born in you, I was born in blue eyes that are blinking somewhere else now”.
And shit, I fell in love with you just a moment ago, naked in your arms again, glutinous in how much of you I take, hoarding each moment I get in your arms, keeping them in the caves of my memory in case I’m forced to hibernate again.
I’ve known you for six hundred and something days, loved you in three hundred and something of them. Some days I spend worrying about finances and the state of the world, some days I spend locked in my room listening to Radiohead albums on repeat, some days I smoke too much and some days I sleep through to take a break from being awake. But some days I experience the in-between of miracles and magic. Some days I lose myself entirely, all because you exist. Some days you look at me and I forget my name. I fall in love over and over, again and again, adding another tally to the wall.
I’ve been alive for seven thousand and something days, most of which were mundane. Most of which were wasted. Some of which were spent falling in love with you, in your voice and in your fingertips, in your eyes and in your stride, in your presence and in your absence.
Over and over.
Again and again.
With infinite tallies on a wall."

Magic Numbers by Stevie Lorann (via caelums)

(via littlevoicesbigdreams)


Notes: 4814 | Posted On: Tue Jul 29th, 2014 | Reblog

standardwhore:

my chipotle bag really knows me

(via whatthefluffay)

Notes: 91189 | Posted On: Mon Jul 28th, 2014 | Reblog

"You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body."

C. S. Lewis (via lazarusknowsthetruth)

(via guiltyrealities)


Notes: 85245 | Posted On: Mon Jul 28th, 2014 | Reblog
Notes: 261137 | Posted On: Mon Jul 28th, 2014 | Reblog

"Note to self: every time you were convinced you couldn’t go on, you did."

(107/365) by (DS)

(via guiltyrealities)


Notes: 266315 | Posted On: Mon Jul 28th, 2014 | Reblog

(Source: lenmanas, via guiltyrealities)

Notes: 9634 | Posted On: Thu Jul 24th, 2014 | Reblog

"

I am riding in the passenger seat, listening to my mother talk about the ways love has failed her. I can see the fifty-six years on her face, though she wears them well. She has been called “wife” by four men, “girlfriend” by eight names she has slipped into conversation, “lover” by strangers I will never meet. When I curiously ask, “Why stay married if you’re unhappy?”, she goes stiff. ‘You don’t understand,’ she says defensively. ‘You’re just a kid.’

I am seventeen the first time a boy mentions marriage to me. We are giddy with the idea of gaining light by revealing our dark to each other. But we are too entranced by how bold shouting ‘forever’ is to know how suffocating it can be. We have no idea that we will spend months listening to each other punch ‘fiancee’ out of our speech. Or that one day, when we are sharing a bed, we will look forward to getting away from each other in sleep.

At nineteen, I am doodling in the margins of my college notebook, when my teacher says, ‘Second marriages have a 67% chance of ending in divorce. Third marriages have a 73% chance. And if you’re on your fourth, well, really, what are you doing?’ I think of my mother in her fourth unhappy marriage. I think of my father in his fifth. I wonder if picking myself up and trying again is in my genes.

I do not pick myself up and try again when I learn that I am not going to marry the first person I loved. I pack the remainder of my tiny world into two suitcases and leave the photos of us to die on our bedroom walls. I write lots of shitty poetry and tell my ghosts to ‘keep quiet’ when I think nobody is listening. The next time a boy knocks on my chest and asks, ‘How deep do you go?’, I do not show him. I say, ‘Infinitely’ and leave when he complains about the spaces in me he will not be able to fill up.

My ninety-year old grandma, with her silver hips and bullet-wound lips, tells me, in a thick accent, that ‘Nice girls should be married.’ For years, I watched her treat love as the greatest task on her ‘to-do list,’ always cooking and cleaning to keep the relationship alive. But I am too weak, too selfish, too young to carry the weight of love. She says, ‘Find someone nice and settle down,’ but I have a desire for the world that must be fed. And I am trying to first settle the disorder in my head before I think about being sharing my bed.

"

Forever Is Too Large To Promise | Lora Mathis  - soggypoetry (via perfect)

(Source: lora-mathis, via its5am-andiloveyou)


Notes: 5336 | Posted On: Thu Jul 24th, 2014 | Reblog

(via liquidmeth)

Notes: 92417 | Posted On: Tue Jul 22nd, 2014 | Reblog

"Everyone wants to be the sun to lighten up everyone’s life, but why not be the moon, to brighten in the darkest hour."

Unknown (via constellationofaquarius)

(via constellationofaquarius)


Notes: 446113 | Posted On: Tue Jul 22nd, 2014 | Reblog

rosefire:

gaywitch-practisingabortion:

situationalstudent:

purplespacecats:

professorbutterscotch:

kiskolee:

THIS.

I have never thought about it in this context

that’s actually really, really creepy.

I… fuck.

Yeah, basically.

I once pointed this out to my mother and she just stared at me, in stunned silence for ages. 

There will always be a girl who is less sober, less secure, with less friends walking in a darker part of town. I want her safe just as much as I want me safe.

(Source: bigfatphallusy, via whatthefluffay)