Live. Laugh. Love.

daftlypunk:

i hit my coworkers shoulder lightly and he was like “you’re going to make me cry like a girl” and i was like “what’s wrong with being a girl?” and he was quiet for a moment then he looked into the distance and whispered “the social standards they’re forced to live by”

(via backshelfpoet)

I want to be able to tell you
that when we read Hamlet in class,
my teacher leaned back against the blackboard
and pushed his hands into his khaki pockets
and said he loved the way Ophelia died.
He said he loved how beautiful it was,
all that pale, all that lifeless, all that
you take my breath away forever, baby.
He said it so I could see the pink in his mouth
behind his smile. He had chalk on him
all day after. He had crime scene on him
all day after.

I want you to know that my legs
are so used to being crossed for you
that they forget when it is time to run.
It is why we fall so often. It is why the gravel
loves us most, skins our knees and our palms
and calls it loving, calls it intimate.
You and the gravel have a lot in bloody common.

I want you to know how scared my mama is.
She holds my hands to her sides and says
no boys, okay? No boys because they take.
Take, take, take. No boys because night has
their faces in all the corners, their sneers
painted into the sky. The crickets are actually
their whispers, okay? I want you to know
how fear seems to run in my family but
skip the male genes.

I want you to see how badly my hands
turn unsure when I board my train.
I want you to know that I’ve been reading
the same sentence of my book since
nine stops ago.
I want you to know that I’m not texting anybody,
that the woman next to me
is not my friend, but I will lean a little closer
to her anyway.
I want you to know that I have no keys with me,
but I hope my loose change sounds
like sharp to you.

I want you to know how safe is
a language unlearned and
I am second generation lost.
I want you know that I will remember
the colour of your eyes and always forget
the definition of compliment, of romance.
I want to read you a list of all that I want to say
and another of everything I couldn’t.
I want to tell you that
both lists are the same, as I
uncross my legs and fold them back
the other way.

To the Man on the Subway Who Would Not Stop Staring | Ramna Safeer (via inkywings)

Bill Maher on the criticism he’s received for his views on religion, his film, Religulous, specifically.

(Source: geeksquadgangbang, via kaeandlucy)

gypsywayofliving:

dutchvintagesoul:

"Lunch atop a Skyscraper". Probably one of my favorite photographs ever taken. Probably taken by Charles Clyde Ebbets on September 20th, 1932.

Have to agree with this. <3

gypsywayofliving:

dutchvintagesoul:

"Lunch atop a Skyscraper". Probably one of my favorite photographs ever taken. Probably taken by Charles Clyde Ebbets on September 20th, 1932.

Have to agree with this. <3

(via rustyvoices)

“Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus”

(Source: youngestweasley, via kartrashyian)

godshideouscreation:

congalineofdurin:

everybody-calmdown:

congalineofdurin:

had to shut a bitch down today

And that’s how public shootings and school shootings and shit like that happen. I’m not saying that this dude is not creepy as fuck, but this is not the way to handle this! He didn’t say anything mean (on purpose), and when you shut him down like that how the fuck do you think he’s going to react? He must know he’s somewhat creepy, but when a complete stranger that he adores tells him so vividly how creepy he is, that must wreck his world. I’m just saying I wouldn’t be surprised if he bought a gun (legally, but that’s a different issue) and went in to the store he knows you fucking work at. Just be nice to people fuck.

Alright, you know what? I don’t want to reblog this post. I want this post to die. And I have never once reblogged to reply to someone else’s comment on this post. But this one? This one I’m fucking gonna, because how. dare. you.

Are you seriously one of those slimy, inhuman grease traps of a human being who blame VICTIMS OF SHOOTINGS FOR THE FUCKING SHOOTINGS

Don’t you EVER come at me and try to tell me that I need to be responsible, personally responsible, for the mental satisfaction of the kind of monsters who would do something like that. Don’t you ever tell me I have to let myself be uncomfortable around people who LITERALLY STALK ME and put on a big smile and let them down gently because in your twisted little brain it is MY JOB TO KEEP THEM FROM KILLING PEOPLE

H O W   F U C K I N G   D A R E   Y O U

YOU are the problem. YOU are the kind of person who justifies that kind of senseless violence by saying WELL IF SHE HAD JUST GIVEN HIM A CHANCE

IF SHE HAD JUST FUCKED HIM

IF HE HAD JUST ‘GOTTEN SOME’

HE WOULDN’T HAVE RAPED HER/SHOT THEM/DONE IT

Are you fucking proud of that? Are you proud that that’s the tiny drop you choose to drop into society’s bucket? 

I don’t care if it ‘wrecked his world’ when he was called out on his socially unacceptable, disgusting behavior. I don’t caaaaaaaare

His actions are HIS actions. His actions are HIS fault

the next time I see a tragedy like the elliot rodger shooting on the news, I’m gonna think of all the vile comments from people online that say it all could have been avoided if the people he threatened and menaced would just relinquish their bodies and their comfort and their personal space for him, and I’m gonna  s e e   y o u r   f a c e  and I hope you fucking know it.

Don’t you ever talk to me. I am sick to my stomach over your fucking bullshit.

she fucking told you. all of you. so many rounds of applause. 

(via letdownyourhairzel)

brownglucose:

Listen. Some of these white folks truly do get it. I’m here for y’all. Thank you for being allies. But y’all need to check your fellow white folk and police each other better.

(Source: -teesa-, via kartrashyian)

“64,000”
— That’s how many black women are currently missing in America — but the media doesn’t seem to care (via altersociety)

(Source: micdotcom, via cold-winter-days)

And so you try to count the clothespins stuck
on your thighs. Say, this skin is onion fabrics
pinned together. Say, this skin has dug one hundred
forty eight graves in order to bury the tears
of the ones who made it. It is not your fault,
if your mother choked on teeth, if she had
battle scars even before the divorce. Know,
that she was already at war with herself.
But you should have seen her carry a dozen rainbows
and superhero magazines to put around her belly
when you were inside it just to make sure
you come out covered with whitewash powder
instead of blood, with a cape to fly with
but not to hide in. With softness. With a little
thumbprint of heavy. Not like hers, a mountain.
Your chest is a calm river but a pebble can make
you feel tidal. How much is an ocean? You ask.


She asked the same question once, carrying
one hundred forty eight pinches of salt
with her left hand while holding you with the other.
You should have seen her. You should have seen
the look in her eyes when she chose you,
when she threw every pinch back to the ocean
as though she never needed something to heal
all her wounds. And you were there, unabashed,
wearing a superhero cape, your neck covered
with whitewash powder. You should have seen it.
How she smiled when you started running,
convinced that you were already about to fly.

Kharla M. Brillo, She always believed you will. She always believed you can. (via pouvoires)

(via pouvoires)

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.

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 loves-war)

Let me be clear: Unarmed college hopefuls don’t deserve to be shot. Unarmed kids heading to work or trade school don’t deserve to be shot. Unarmed kids floundering aimlessly through life don’t deserve to be shot. Unarmed kids who have been in trouble—even those who have been nothing but trouble—don’t deserve to be shot.

The act of pinning the tragedy of a dead black teen to his potential future success, to his respectability, to his “good”-ness, is done with all the best intentions. But if you read between the lines, aren’t we really saying that had he not been on his way to college, there’d be less to mourn?

That’s dead wrong.

Black Kids Don’t Have to Be College-Bound for Their Deaths to Be Tragic by Jasmine Banks (via gwest650)

(via backshelfpoet)

iammagicitself:

# still the best moment in a tv show ever

(Source: princesconsuela, via accep-t)