ninamodaffari:
so every night my cat Astro has a little ritual where he will ‘tuck’ my wife and I into bed.this usually happens around 11pm on the dot, where he will start to meow at us and demand pets. My wife will usually go to bed first, led by Astro, where he will let her pet him, but he won’t be happy until I get into bed too (I sometimes stay up later). This makes mr. Astro boy not so happy, and my wife says he’ll look at the bed with just her for a few minutes before running off to fetch me He will. Not. Stop. Meowing. Until I shut off the computer and go to the bedroom with him. This is a nightly thing. This little boy will not let me stay up! I have to go 'one second!’ as I’m shutting things down before going to my bed and laying down. He will then proceed to nuzzle us and give us both cuddle time for ten minutes before fucking offMy cat has figured out a way to get me to go to bed on time. I love this for himThis is said boy
so every night my cat Astro has a little ritual where he will ‘tuck’ my wife and I into bed.
this usually happens around 11pm on the dot, where he will start to meow at us and demand pets. My wife will usually go to bed first, led by Astro, where he will let her pet him, but he won’t be happy until I get into bed too (I sometimes stay up later). This makes mr. Astro boy not so happy, and my wife says he’ll look at the bed with just her for a few minutes before running off to fetch me
He will. Not. Stop. Meowing. Until I shut off the computer and go to the bedroom with him. This is a nightly thing. This little boy will not let me stay up! I have to go 'one second!’ as I’m shutting things down before going to my bed and laying down. He will then proceed to nuzzle us and give us both cuddle time for ten minutes before fucking off
My cat has figured out a way to get me to go to bed on time. I love this for him
This is said boy
(via skwesy)
hardboiledleggs:
derinthescarletpescatarian:“The trannies should be able to piss in whatever toilet they want and change their bodies however they want. Why is it my business if some chick has a dick or a guy has a pie? I’m not a trannie or a fag so I don’t care, just give ‘em the medicine they need.”“This is an LGBT safe space. Of COURSE I fully support individuals who identify as transgender and their right to self-determination! I just think that transitioning is a very serious choice and should be heavily regulated. And there could be a lot of harm in exposing cis children to such topics, so we should be really careful about when it is appropriate to mention trans issues or have too much trans visibility.”One of the above statements is Problematic and the other is slightly annoying. If we disagree on which is which then working together for a better future is going to get really fucking difficult.I think this is something young people in particular are confused about. My dad has always had a slightly off color sense of humor, he always feels the need to privately ask me “boy turned girl or girl turned boy?” if I mention a friend and stress said friend’s pronouns, and yet when we had repair work done in the house and the worker was listening to a podcast discussing the evils of transgender people and how to cleanse society, he went out of his way to contact the owner of the business to discuss his disappointment with that worker’s conduct and stress the negative effect that could have had if there had been trans kids in our home.Our allies will never be perfect. They will never use the perfect language or have the perfect politics. But we have to appreciate those allies and meet them where they are, especially if they are willing to learn.
derinthescarletpescatarian:
“The trannies should be able to piss in whatever toilet they want and change their bodies however they want. Why is it my business if some chick has a dick or a guy has a pie? I’m not a trannie or a fag so I don’t care, just give ‘em the medicine they need.”“This is an LGBT safe space. Of COURSE I fully support individuals who identify as transgender and their right to self-determination! I just think that transitioning is a very serious choice and should be heavily regulated. And there could be a lot of harm in exposing cis children to such topics, so we should be really careful about when it is appropriate to mention trans issues or have too much trans visibility.”One of the above statements is Problematic and the other is slightly annoying. If we disagree on which is which then working together for a better future is going to get really fucking difficult.
“The trannies should be able to piss in whatever toilet they want and change their bodies however they want. Why is it my business if some chick has a dick or a guy has a pie? I’m not a trannie or a fag so I don’t care, just give ‘em the medicine they need.”
“This is an LGBT safe space. Of COURSE I fully support individuals who identify as transgender and their right to self-determination! I just think that transitioning is a very serious choice and should be heavily regulated. And there could be a lot of harm in exposing cis children to such topics, so we should be really careful about when it is appropriate to mention trans issues or have too much trans visibility.”
One of the above statements is Problematic and the other is slightly annoying. If we disagree on which is which then working together for a better future is going to get really fucking difficult.
I think this is something young people in particular are confused about. My dad has always had a slightly off color sense of humor, he always feels the need to privately ask me “boy turned girl or girl turned boy?” if I mention a friend and stress said friend’s pronouns, and yet when we had repair work done in the house and the worker was listening to a podcast discussing the evils of transgender people and how to cleanse society, he went out of his way to contact the owner of the business to discuss his disappointment with that worker’s conduct and stress the negative effect that could have had if there had been trans kids in our home.
Our allies will never be perfect. They will never use the perfect language or have the perfect politics. But we have to appreciate those allies and meet them where they are, especially if they are willing to learn.
(via vampsprite)
teathattast:
teathattast:teathattast:💯🙏💛🟨👍Worst part about this is I’ve only ever used that yellow square emoji once and it was just to see how it looked. This isn’t who I am. However, in retrospect, I suppose it isReading through the notes is a surreal experience please keep adding more to fuel my effervescent consumption of non descriptive emojis
teathattast:💯🙏💛🟨👍Worst part about this is I’ve only ever used that yellow square emoji once and it was just to see how it looked. This isn’t who I am. However, in retrospect, I suppose it is
💯🙏💛🟨👍
Worst part about this is I’ve only ever used that yellow square emoji once and it was just to see how it looked. This isn’t who I am. However, in retrospect, I suppose it is
Reading through the notes is a surreal experience please keep adding more to fuel my effervescent consumption of non descriptive emojis
(via valen-dreth)
teawitch:
i-rate-your-blaze:skrytch:pseudonymjones:It’s been months and I’m still fighting this fightOP let it be known I tried to blaze this and it got rejected…I guess we’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.Denizens of Tumblr!You know what must be done.10/10 “Blaze”Off means off
i-rate-your-blaze:
skrytch:pseudonymjones:It’s been months and I’m still fighting this fightOP let it be known I tried to blaze this and it got rejected…I guess we’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.Denizens of Tumblr!You know what must be done.10/10 “Blaze”
skrytch:
pseudonymjones:It’s been months and I’m still fighting this fightOP let it be known I tried to blaze this and it got rejected…I guess we’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.Denizens of Tumblr!You know what must be done.
pseudonymjones:
It’s been months and I’m still fighting this fight
OP let it be known I tried to blaze this and it got rejected…
I guess we’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.
Denizens of Tumblr!
You know what must be done.
10/10 “Blaze”
Off means off
(via mutecrows)
wizard-email:
wizard-email:There is a café in the forest. Its lights are bright, it should not be there.Something chimes. You don’t remember opening the door that swings closed behind you. You’re out of breath. Have you been running? Your brow furrows. There is mud on your boots. Clumps of dirt that dry and crack then fall away as you stand there, staring.“May I have your name?” You look up. Your neck strains as if it hasn’t moved in days. Blink, flex your hands. Needles race up your arms like stabbing insects. The barista stands before you with limbs that are too long and a smile that reaches their eyes in more ways than one. “May I have your name?” They say again, like a name is a thing to be taken. Maybe it is. You are struck with the notion that you do not want them to have yours. With great effort you pause the words forming on your lips. When did you open your mouth? It doesn’t matter. You give them a name.The barista’s smile widens, if that is possible. Their skin is ashen gray and the apron they wear shifts in a way that blinds you. “That isn’t your name.”You shake your head. No, it isn’t. You are seated at a table. (Is wood supposed to bleed?) The menu is soggy in your hands. Syllables jerk twisted and raw from your mouth as you pick an order at random and read. A mockery of language, you don’t recognise your own voice. The barista nods slowly. “Will that be all?”“Yes,” You find yourself saying. “That will be all.”They turn away and you are left with yourself. Roll a corner of the menu between your finger and thumb, yellow liquid oozing from its fibers. Your hand is shaking.Something chimes, slams. A man stands in the doorway- He has mud on his boots, though he does not stop to watch them dry. He sees you and you remember then why you went running in the woods at night. Ordinary fear; of abuse and fists and gaslit-rage. You cringe in your seat. He is an animal made of popping veins and flying spittle. He stalks towards you and then-“May I have your name?” Was the barista always there? You don’t remember them arriving, you don’t remember them being there a moment ago. They stand with a smile that is still too wide, hands outstretched in a beckoning motion. The man doesn’t notice, or perhaps he is too caught up in his own rage to care. He shoves the barista, but he may as well be shoving at a pillar, or a mountain. They make the beckoning motion again and you’re not sure which of them to warn of danger.“May I have your name?” The man scowls, giving it offhandedly as he moves to step past. Then he stops. You stare, transfixed as the colour drains from his face. His legs seem rooted to the floor. You steel yourself to meet his gaze but it's… Hollow. The eyes you meet are that of a shell- a vacant, breathing corpse. You look away and the barista descends upon what remains. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t make a sound at all. The wet tearing of flesh is enough to keep your eyes on the floor. The tiles are stained a dirty brown. (Smack.) They have chipped in places, little cracks running through and revealing the loose earth beneath. (Thud.) A bug crawls from the dirt. Or at least, you think it’s a bug. (Tear.) A crimson puddle seeps into view; you decide to look elsewhere.Happy, laughing things stare at you from a poster. The figures on it are almost human, smiling renditions of men and women if they had been clumsily sculpted by a child. The only accurate features are the teeth. The clock on the wall has eleven numbers. The hands rotate at random, spinning and stopping in opposite directions. You watch as it falters and picks up speed, never once coming to a point where it could properly mark the passage of time.A clink against the table pulls you from your transfixion. There stands the barista, smiling. They’re different now- the slant of their chin, the colour of their eyes. Those features are new, stolen from a man who is now something different.They have placed a cup in front of you; the muddy red liquid swirling inside almost looks like tea. You pick it up (because what else are you supposed to do?) and run a thumb along the handle’s rough surface. It’s white, with a hundred organic ridges. The liquid inside is warm and distinctly metallic. You try not to think about it.“Would you like a sample?” They slide a tray towards you. You’re not sure what the things on it are, but you know that you want them. Desires, goals. When you ask if they are free the barista says nothing. When you ask for the price a curious expression crosses their face before they give it to you.You decide that no, you would not like a sample today.The barista steps towards you clumsily, as if putting one foot in front of the other is something they haven’t done before. They take your hand. Their fingers are hard, smooth as ice and just as cold. They run an almost-thumb down your palm, bones growing and shifting, snapping into place as their limbs change to imitate your own. You yank your arm away. The cold of their fingers has forced you to focus, pulled you back to some semblance of reality. You stand, knocking over your chair in the process. It hits the ground with a dull thud and begins to gently sink into the earth.The barista looks at you with eyes that were his and are now yours too. You hug your chest, bile rising in your throat. You have to get away. They don’t stop you, and perhaps that is the most disturbing thing of all. Calling out a simple “come again!” before you can flee, breathless, into the night.In the dark and cold you think for a moment that you have stumbled into another hell, so sudden is the change. But no, there are outlines of trees; leaves beneath your shoes. This is the forest once more.You turn, expecting a building but greeted by darkness. Blink, let your eyes adjust to the night. There is a corpse at your feet. It looks like it’s been there a while. Mushrooms grow from its eyes, the slant of its chin. You stumble away. The rumble of traffic offers a clear direction. Lights flash in the distance and you realise for the first time that your hands are caked in dry crimson. Look away, focus on the treeline and the false safety it promises. The taste of copper sits heavy on your tongue.‘Come again!’ The call was not a request, but a promise. Not tomorrow, if you’re lucky not for years to come. But you will return one day,To the midnight café.❗️this is a reupload ❗️the original was deleted for some reason
There is a café in the forest. Its lights are bright, it should not be there.Something chimes. You don’t remember opening the door that swings closed behind you. You’re out of breath. Have you been running? Your brow furrows. There is mud on your boots. Clumps of dirt that dry and crack then fall away as you stand there, staring.“May I have your name?” You look up. Your neck strains as if it hasn’t moved in days. Blink, flex your hands. Needles race up your arms like stabbing insects. The barista stands before you with limbs that are too long and a smile that reaches their eyes in more ways than one. “May I have your name?” They say again, like a name is a thing to be taken. Maybe it is. You are struck with the notion that you do not want them to have yours. With great effort you pause the words forming on your lips. When did you open your mouth? It doesn’t matter. You give them a name.The barista’s smile widens, if that is possible. Their skin is ashen gray and the apron they wear shifts in a way that blinds you. “That isn’t your name.”You shake your head. No, it isn’t. You are seated at a table. (Is wood supposed to bleed?) The menu is soggy in your hands. Syllables jerk twisted and raw from your mouth as you pick an order at random and read. A mockery of language, you don’t recognise your own voice. The barista nods slowly. “Will that be all?”“Yes,” You find yourself saying. “That will be all.”They turn away and you are left with yourself. Roll a corner of the menu between your finger and thumb, yellow liquid oozing from its fibers. Your hand is shaking.Something chimes, slams. A man stands in the doorway- He has mud on his boots, though he does not stop to watch them dry. He sees you and you remember then why you went running in the woods at night. Ordinary fear; of abuse and fists and gaslit-rage. You cringe in your seat. He is an animal made of popping veins and flying spittle. He stalks towards you and then-“May I have your name?” Was the barista always there? You don’t remember them arriving, you don’t remember them being there a moment ago. They stand with a smile that is still too wide, hands outstretched in a beckoning motion. The man doesn’t notice, or perhaps he is too caught up in his own rage to care. He shoves the barista, but he may as well be shoving at a pillar, or a mountain. They make the beckoning motion again and you’re not sure which of them to warn of danger.“May I have your name?” The man scowls, giving it offhandedly as he moves to step past. Then he stops. You stare, transfixed as the colour drains from his face. His legs seem rooted to the floor. You steel yourself to meet his gaze but it's… Hollow. The eyes you meet are that of a shell- a vacant, breathing corpse. You look away and the barista descends upon what remains. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t make a sound at all. The wet tearing of flesh is enough to keep your eyes on the floor. The tiles are stained a dirty brown. (Smack.) They have chipped in places, little cracks running through and revealing the loose earth beneath. (Thud.) A bug crawls from the dirt. Or at least, you think it’s a bug. (Tear.) A crimson puddle seeps into view; you decide to look elsewhere.Happy, laughing things stare at you from a poster. The figures on it are almost human, smiling renditions of men and women if they had been clumsily sculpted by a child. The only accurate features are the teeth. The clock on the wall has eleven numbers. The hands rotate at random, spinning and stopping in opposite directions. You watch as it falters and picks up speed, never once coming to a point where it could properly mark the passage of time.A clink against the table pulls you from your transfixion. There stands the barista, smiling. They’re different now- the slant of their chin, the colour of their eyes. Those features are new, stolen from a man who is now something different.They have placed a cup in front of you; the muddy red liquid swirling inside almost looks like tea. You pick it up (because what else are you supposed to do?) and run a thumb along the handle’s rough surface. It’s white, with a hundred organic ridges. The liquid inside is warm and distinctly metallic. You try not to think about it.“Would you like a sample?” They slide a tray towards you. You’re not sure what the things on it are, but you know that you want them. Desires, goals. When you ask if they are free the barista says nothing. When you ask for the price a curious expression crosses their face before they give it to you.You decide that no, you would not like a sample today.The barista steps towards you clumsily, as if putting one foot in front of the other is something they haven’t done before. They take your hand. Their fingers are hard, smooth as ice and just as cold. They run an almost-thumb down your palm, bones growing and shifting, snapping into place as their limbs change to imitate your own. You yank your arm away. The cold of their fingers has forced you to focus, pulled you back to some semblance of reality. You stand, knocking over your chair in the process. It hits the ground with a dull thud and begins to gently sink into the earth.The barista looks at you with eyes that were his and are now yours too. You hug your chest, bile rising in your throat. You have to get away. They don’t stop you, and perhaps that is the most disturbing thing of all. Calling out a simple “come again!” before you can flee, breathless, into the night.In the dark and cold you think for a moment that you have stumbled into another hell, so sudden is the change. But no, there are outlines of trees; leaves beneath your shoes. This is the forest once more.You turn, expecting a building but greeted by darkness. Blink, let your eyes adjust to the night. There is a corpse at your feet. It looks like it’s been there a while. Mushrooms grow from its eyes, the slant of its chin. You stumble away. The rumble of traffic offers a clear direction. Lights flash in the distance and you realise for the first time that your hands are caked in dry crimson. Look away, focus on the treeline and the false safety it promises. The taste of copper sits heavy on your tongue.‘Come again!’ The call was not a request, but a promise. Not tomorrow, if you’re lucky not for years to come. But you will return one day,To the midnight café.
There is a café in the forest. Its lights are bright, it should not be there.
Something chimes. You don’t remember opening the door that swings closed behind you. You’re out of breath. Have you been running? Your brow furrows. There is mud on your boots. Clumps of dirt that dry and crack then fall away as you stand there, staring.
“May I have your name?”
You look up. Your neck strains as if it hasn’t moved in days. Blink, flex your hands. Needles race up your arms like stabbing insects. The barista stands before you with limbs that are too long and a smile that reaches their eyes in more ways than one.
“May I have your name?” They say again, like a name is a thing to be taken. Maybe it is. You are struck with the notion that you do not want them to have yours. With great effort you pause the words forming on your lips. When did you open your mouth? It doesn’t matter. You give them a name.
The barista’s smile widens, if that is possible. Their skin is ashen gray and the apron they wear shifts in a way that blinds you. “That isn’t your name.”
You shake your head. No, it isn’t.
You are seated at a table. (Is wood supposed to bleed?) The menu is soggy in your hands. Syllables jerk twisted and raw from your mouth as you pick an order at random and read. A mockery of language, you don’t recognise your own voice.
The barista nods slowly. “Will that be all?”
“Yes,” You find yourself saying. “That will be all.”
They turn away and you are left with yourself. Roll a corner of the menu between your finger and thumb, yellow liquid oozing from its fibers. Your hand is shaking.
Something chimes, slams. A man stands in the doorway- He has mud on his boots, though he does not stop to watch them dry. He sees you and you remember then why you went running in the woods at night. Ordinary fear; of abuse and fists and gaslit-rage. You cringe in your seat.
He is an animal made of popping veins and flying spittle. He stalks towards you and then-
Was the barista always there? You don’t remember them arriving, you don’t remember them being there a moment ago. They stand with a smile that is still too wide, hands outstretched in a beckoning motion. The man doesn’t notice, or perhaps he is too caught up in his own rage to care. He shoves the barista, but he may as well be shoving at a pillar, or a mountain. They make the beckoning motion again and you’re not sure which of them to warn of danger.
The man scowls, giving it offhandedly as he moves to step past. Then he stops. You stare, transfixed as the colour drains from his face. His legs seem rooted to the floor. You steel yourself to meet his gaze but it's… Hollow. The eyes you meet are that of a shell- a vacant, breathing corpse.
You look away and the barista descends upon what remains.
He doesn’t scream, doesn’t make a sound at all. The wet tearing of flesh is enough to keep your eyes on the floor. The tiles are stained a dirty brown. (Smack.) They have chipped in places, little cracks running through and revealing the loose earth beneath. (Thud.) A bug crawls from the dirt. Or at least, you think it’s a bug. (Tear.) A crimson puddle seeps into view; you decide to look elsewhere.
Happy, laughing things stare at you from a poster. The figures on it are almost human, smiling renditions of men and women if they had been clumsily sculpted by a child. The only accurate features are the teeth.
The clock on the wall has eleven numbers. The hands rotate at random, spinning and stopping in opposite directions. You watch as it falters and picks up speed, never once coming to a point where it could properly mark the passage of time.
A clink against the table pulls you from your transfixion. There stands the barista, smiling. They’re different now- the slant of their chin, the colour of their eyes. Those features are new, stolen from a man who is now something different.
They have placed a cup in front of you; the muddy red liquid swirling inside almost looks like tea. You pick it up (because what else are you supposed to do?) and run a thumb along the handle’s rough surface. It’s white, with a hundred organic ridges. The liquid inside is warm and distinctly metallic. You try not to think about it.
“Would you like a sample?” They slide a tray towards you. You’re not sure what the things on it are, but you know that you want them. Desires, goals. When you ask if they are free the barista says nothing. When you ask for the price a curious expression crosses their face before they give it to you.
You decide that no, you would not like a sample today.
The barista steps towards you clumsily, as if putting one foot in front of the other is something they haven’t done before. They take your hand. Their fingers are hard, smooth as ice and just as cold. They run an almost-thumb down your palm, bones growing and shifting, snapping into place as their limbs change to imitate your own. You yank your arm away. The cold of their fingers has forced you to focus, pulled you back to some semblance of reality. You stand, knocking over your chair in the process. It hits the ground with a dull thud and begins to gently sink into the earth.
The barista looks at you with eyes that were his and are now yours too. You hug your chest, bile rising in your throat. You have to get away. They don’t stop you, and perhaps that is the most disturbing thing of all. Calling out a simple “come again!” before you can flee, breathless, into the night.
In the dark and cold you think for a moment that you have stumbled into another hell, so sudden is the change. But no, there are outlines of trees; leaves beneath your shoes. This is the forest once more.
You turn, expecting a building but greeted by darkness. Blink, let your eyes adjust to the night. There is a corpse at your feet. It looks like it’s been there a while. Mushrooms grow from its eyes, the slant of its chin. You stumble away.
The rumble of traffic offers a clear direction. Lights flash in the distance and you realise for the first time that your hands are caked in dry crimson. Look away, focus on the treeline and the false safety it promises. The taste of copper sits heavy on your tongue.
‘Come again!’ The call was not a request, but a promise. Not tomorrow, if you’re lucky not for years to come. But you will return one day,
To the midnight café.
❗️this is a reupload ❗️
the original was deleted for some reason
(via coredesignixandnekonee)
thewiddler:
thewiddler:Hell is when book covers get redesigned with the actors of the show/movie that was made based on it.stop saying there are exceptions to this post there are literally no exceptions!!!
Hell is when book covers get redesigned with the actors of the show/movie that was made based on it.
stop saying there are exceptions to this post there are literally no exceptions!!!
(via egberts)
mycroftrh:
theconcealedweapon:I can’t begin to express the difference it makes just that I’m able to wear exclusively t-shirts, baggy shorts, and flip-flops. And the thing is, right. What you notice is that I’m wearing something slightly odd for the weather. What you don’t notice is that I’m not curled up with my hands clamped over my ears because socks make the clinking plates in the restaurant too loud.
theconcealedweapon:
I can’t begin to express the difference it makes just that I’m able to wear exclusively t-shirts, baggy shorts, and flip-flops. And the thing is, right. What you notice is that I’m wearing something slightly odd for the weather. What you don’t notice is that I’m not curled up with my hands clamped over my ears because socks make the clinking plates in the restaurant too loud.
(via zachsbees)
orionsbelts:
yesterday I went to a little meeting at my local queer community center and I was admiring their bookshelves and mentioned that I work at the public library and someone said “well I bet they don’t have any [LGBTQ+ books] at our library” and I was like um. yes we do. we have tons of them. half of our employees are queer leftists so they said “oh well I bet they don’t in [nearby rural county]” and I was like uh once again yes they absolutely do. gay people live and work there as well so here’s a quick reminder that if you don’t think your local library has enough queer centered materials you should actually check before assuming, and if you’re not satisfied with their collection you should submit a request for more such books. I don’t know what the political landscape of libraries looks like outside the us rn, but within the us no matter where you are, I promise you there are employees at your library fighting for inclusion and intellectual freedom and they can’t win without vocal public support
yesterday I went to a little meeting at my local queer community center and I was admiring their bookshelves and mentioned that I work at the public library and someone said “well I bet they don’t have any [LGBTQ+ books] at our library” and I was like um. yes we do. we have tons of them. half of our employees are queer leftists so they said “oh well I bet they don’t in [nearby rural county]” and I was like uh once again yes they absolutely do. gay people live and work there as well
so here’s a quick reminder that if you don’t think your local library has enough queer centered materials you should actually check before assuming, and if you’re not satisfied with their collection you should submit a request for more such books. I don’t know what the political landscape of libraries looks like outside the us rn, but within the us no matter where you are, I promise you there are employees at your library fighting for inclusion and intellectual freedom and they can’t win without vocal public support
(via amarriageoftrueminds)
ca-tsuka:
Legend of Hei x Solar terms (Spring/Summer) illustrations by HMCH animation studio.
(Source: weibo.com, via ruem)
marlinspirkhall:
spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:My little sister’s new boyfriend got a tattoo for her about a month ago and he wanted matching tattoos so he decided to get uh. The tattoo on her ankle of her ex boyfriend’s name that she hasn’t gotten covered up yetShe broke up with him but I also just got the same tattooOK my dad also got itDYLAN!It took five months but we finally convinced my stepmom to also get itMy fucking manager got itThe human affinity for memes transcends all reason
spicyblogger2:
spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:My little sister’s new boyfriend got a tattoo for her about a month ago and he wanted matching tattoos so he decided to get uh. The tattoo on her ankle of her ex boyfriend’s name that she hasn’t gotten covered up yetShe broke up with him but I also just got the same tattooOK my dad also got itDYLAN!It took five months but we finally convinced my stepmom to also get itMy fucking manager got it
spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:My little sister’s new boyfriend got a tattoo for her about a month ago and he wanted matching tattoos so he decided to get uh. The tattoo on her ankle of her ex boyfriend’s name that she hasn’t gotten covered up yetShe broke up with him but I also just got the same tattooOK my dad also got itDYLAN!It took five months but we finally convinced my stepmom to also get it
spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:My little sister’s new boyfriend got a tattoo for her about a month ago and he wanted matching tattoos so he decided to get uh. The tattoo on her ankle of her ex boyfriend’s name that she hasn’t gotten covered up yetShe broke up with him but I also just got the same tattooOK my dad also got itDYLAN!
spicyblogger2:spicyblogger2:My little sister’s new boyfriend got a tattoo for her about a month ago and he wanted matching tattoos so he decided to get uh. The tattoo on her ankle of her ex boyfriend’s name that she hasn’t gotten covered up yetShe broke up with him but I also just got the same tattooOK my dad also got it
spicyblogger2:My little sister’s new boyfriend got a tattoo for her about a month ago and he wanted matching tattoos so he decided to get uh. The tattoo on her ankle of her ex boyfriend’s name that she hasn’t gotten covered up yetShe broke up with him but I also just got the same tattoo
My little sister’s new boyfriend got a tattoo for her about a month ago and he wanted matching tattoos so he decided to get uh. The tattoo on her ankle of her ex boyfriend’s name that she hasn’t gotten covered up yet
She broke up with him but I also just got the same tattoo
OK my dad also got it
DYLAN!
It took five months but we finally convinced my stepmom to also get it
My fucking manager got it
The human affinity for memes transcends all reason
quacktown:
catchymemes:
(via dontbeanassbutt)
murielswedding:
amptp’s bluffing by the way
(via thebuginthecornerofyourroom)
astraldemise:
thebooknotthemovie:astraldemise:astraldemise:astraldemise:girl i know i love old boats and they got into accidents all the time and i wouldnt exactly regard an ocean liner as a not horrifying mode of transport but i just remembered we used to have those fucking balloon airships. i dont like planes myself but thank god we started making air transport out of shit that wasnt 100% flammable ALTdomt like thatgirl they used to catch fire for no reason and kill everyoneTHAT WAS ONE TIMEit happened a few times
thebooknotthemovie:
astraldemise:astraldemise:astraldemise:girl i know i love old boats and they got into accidents all the time and i wouldnt exactly regard an ocean liner as a not horrifying mode of transport but i just remembered we used to have those fucking balloon airships. i dont like planes myself but thank god we started making air transport out of shit that wasnt 100% flammable ALTdomt like thatgirl they used to catch fire for no reason and kill everyoneTHAT WAS ONE TIME
astraldemise:astraldemise:girl i know i love old boats and they got into accidents all the time and i wouldnt exactly regard an ocean liner as a not horrifying mode of transport but i just remembered we used to have those fucking balloon airships. i dont like planes myself but thank god we started making air transport out of shit that wasnt 100% flammable ALTdomt like thatgirl they used to catch fire for no reason and kill everyone
astraldemise:girl i know i love old boats and they got into accidents all the time and i wouldnt exactly regard an ocean liner as a not horrifying mode of transport but i just remembered we used to have those fucking balloon airships. i dont like planes myself but thank god we started making air transport out of shit that wasnt 100% flammable ALTdomt like that
girl i know i love old boats and they got into accidents all the time and i wouldnt exactly regard an ocean liner as a not horrifying mode of transport but i just remembered we used to have those fucking balloon airships. i dont like planes myself but thank god we started making air transport out of shit that wasnt 100% flammable
domt like that
girl they used to catch fire for no reason and kill everyone
THAT WAS ONE TIME
it happened a few times
(via snowanoki)
nocakeno:
jessiphia:laughcentre:insidethevalley:the cheese always falls off the top shelf if i open the door too fastthis is truly a magnificent beautiful picture of cheese falling downIts like cherry blossoms cascading from trees in the windi found it y'all
jessiphia:
laughcentre:insidethevalley:the cheese always falls off the top shelf if i open the door too fastthis is truly a magnificent beautiful picture of cheese falling downIts like cherry blossoms cascading from trees in the wind
laughcentre:
insidethevalley:the cheese always falls off the top shelf if i open the door too fastthis is truly a magnificent beautiful picture of cheese falling down
insidethevalley:
the cheese always falls off the top shelf if i open the door too fast
this is truly a magnificent beautiful picture of cheese falling down
Its like cherry blossoms cascading from trees in the wind
i found it y'all
(via squidmaid)
carolinecrane:
callese:refseek.comwww.worldcat.org/link.springer.comhttp://bioline.org.br/repec.orgscience.govpdfdrive.comPDFDrive stopped working a couple months ago, but you can try oceanofpdf.com instead.
callese:
refseek.comwww.worldcat.org/link.springer.comhttp://bioline.org.br/repec.orgscience.govpdfdrive.com
refseek.com
www.worldcat.org/
link.springer.com
http://bioline.org.br/
repec.org
science.gov
pdfdrive.com
PDFDrive stopped working a couple months ago, but you can try oceanofpdf.com instead.