Let’s talk about
Jon Hamm’s butt.
3 weeks ago - 
3
3 my heart just broke in 9 seconds..
This post has been featured on a 1000notes.com blog.
this is too much.
(Source: c0caino)
I don’t want you
I don’t want you to lose any weight. I don’t want you to waste your time thinking you need to lose weight. I don’t want you to think other people think you need to lose weight. I also don’t want you to gain any weight—so put those protein drinks away. I don’t want you to weigh any less or any more than you do at this moment, unless you want to do so.
I don’t want you to cut your hair. I don’t want you to grow it out. I don’t want you to perm it or shave it or have it relaxed. I don’t want you to braid it or dye it or straighten it or dry it. I don’t even want you to let me run my fingers through it, unless you want to do so.
I don’t want you to watch less TV, or more TV, or to read that book that I told you I liked, or to let me borrow that book that you told me you liked. I don’t want you to see that movie I really want to see with me. I don’t even want you to sit next to me in the theater and hold my hand. I don’t want you to do anything with me at all, unless you want to do so.
I don’t want you to work harder, or to work less, or to care more or less about your work. I don’t want you to work-from-home. I don’t want you to work up the nerve to ask for that big promotion. I don’t want you to overachieve, or to underachieve, or to achieve anything at all, unless you want to do so.
I don’t want you to kiss me differently. I don’t want you to always kiss me the same way. I don’t want you to stop kissing me. I don’t want you to stop kissing me. I don’t want you to stop kissing me, ever.
I don’t want you to point out that I broke the format in that last paragraph. I don’t want you to be more organized. I don’t want you to be less punctual. I don’t want you to buy renters insurance even though it’s a really good thing for people in apartments to have in case they are burglarized. I don’t want you to ask me if I sell rental insurance on the side. I don’t want you to tell me how you’re feeling. I don’t want you to ask me how I’m feeling. I don’t want you to tell me or to ask me anything at all, unless you want to do so.
I don’t want you to get religion. I don’t want you to lose your religion. I don’t want you to laugh more or to laugh less, or to start a band, or to stop playing in that stupid band. I don’t want you to go to therapy. I don’t want you to stop going to therapy. I don’t want you to travel more, or to travel less, or to subscribe to the travel blog I’m keeping about real and imaginary trips I take and what I eat when I’m on them. I don’t want you to ask me to go to Europe with you. I don’t want you to ask me to go anywhere with you at all, unless you want to do so.
I don’t want you to wear less yellow or more fur or all green. I don’t want you to start or to stop eating meat. I don’t want you to introduce me to your parents. I don’t want you to buy me a coffee or play me a song. I don’t want you to tell your friends anything. I don’t want you to stop telling your friends anything. I don’t want you to always remember this night, or anything at all, unless you want to do so.
I don’t want you to start loving me if you don’t, or to stop loving me if you’ve already started. I don’t want you to burst into my wedding and to steal me away like Dustin Hoffman. I don’t want you to propose to me.
I don’t want you to change. I don’t want you to not change.
I just want you.
I want you. I want you. I want you.
(Source: thoughtcatalog.com)
Okurie by Yosuke Tan
WELP
THAT QUICKLY TURNED INTO SOMETHING HORRIFYING
Reminds me of something I’ve heard about cherry blossom trees, and how their color becomes a deeper pink/red from their roots because of dead bodies in the ground around them.
This post has been featured on a 1000notes.com blog.
(Source: from89)
I’ve always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.
David Benioff (via katyjean)
(Source: cad-y, via punkcantdie)
Zara Vanities, What do they see in each other?
It is the “soon” and “better” got them.
Feeling ’little quicker, new: A drama
Of beautiful women—lilies—who toil not.
But get thin. New thin… Clashing whites…
“Convent bred” in fuzzy arbors. Now leading,
Winning, Zara Vanities. Now says never knew fear,
Says “Terror” her last. And here
is tiny Ina Ansen, the dancer, diving.
Diving into what? Oh, nothing, just diving!—Steve Carey, “Hollywood, Spring, 1924”
Photography Credit Joseph Szabo
(via iloveyoursoul)
. She wore an oversized t-shirt. Loose around her scooped out features. Beautiful and too thin—thin like the alleyway dogs like the strings protruding from the couch she ran her fingers through. Her hair long and brown unworked into perfection. Hanging down hiding her ears spilling over her shoulders. Last night’s makeup clung to her face showing still beauty under the foundations. Her freckles constellations traced in milky dust. Her green eyes, half open in the soft light, waiting for nothing and seeing as much as the blind television in front of her. She abandoned the cigarette to smolder in an empty beer can and went about lighting its replacement. Remembering how she’d shown me the various styles of holding a cigarette. She always smoked in the French style. Clenched fist the smoke sucked through the gap between thumb and forefinger. She inhaled and caught her lungs in a choking fit. She coughed quietly fighting back a more involved spasm. She wasn’t sick. Not ill in the sense of medicines. She was burning her blue neons a bit close to the quick and I loved her for it. For how much little she let matter and when things did—she mattered too. I mattered. By some Godsend rights I mattered to her. Jackson Pierce had introduced us at a party and later that night we introduced ourselves in the dark. Someone had played Radiohead’s High and Dry that night and we had both woken the next day to it playing in our heads. We’d put that song on when neither of us could think of anything else to say and sing the harmonies. The month we needed to get the ground beneath our toes we listened to Blonde on Blonde on the little phonograph we pillaged from the friend’s apartment we were sitting. Otherwise she played underground reggae on vinyl and hip hop in the nights. The Velvet underground made frequent visits when we were feeling especially unfortunate.
—2009 Character exercise, creating Sasha, Part 2.
