waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat

waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat

(via haraikotsu)

1,864 notes

zenaxaria:

if you decide not to be anyone’s life anymore, stay out. you can’t just fuck with people’s heads by coming in and out of it just because you’re bored.

I’m sorry.

(via kwen-b)

248 notes

(Source: reddlr-trees, via everyonedies)

12,708 notes

danbutt:

who dat who dat

danbutt:

who dat who dat

137 notes

Turning over new leaves. Remembering why we love each other. Falling in love all over again. Knowing this is what I want. Not letting go yet.

1 note

cruelredsmear:

vshleymve:

squishietechies:

One of my biggest insecurities is my stretch marks. After I had my son I was covered in them. It’s been over two years and the deep gashes have made no progress on disappearing.

So in an attempt to try to not hate them (and myself) as much, here they are.

extremely beautiful

Women are incredible

(via wangclub)

17,693 notes

johnhoustonstockton:

just wanna get rich enough to buy my mom all the shit she deserves 

(via dearbuddha)

409,057 notes

fitblrholics:

Veggie toppings on zucchinis (x)

Holy yum.

fitblrholics:

Veggie toppings on zucchinis (x)

Holy yum.

(via damnedwhoresandgodspolice)

119 notes

howtocatchamonster:

A lot of actors act intelligent, but Philip was the real thing: a shining, artistic polymath with an intelligence that came at you like a pair of headlights and enveloped you from the moment he grabbed your hand, put a huge arm round your neck and shoved a cheek against yours; or if the mood took him, hugged you to him like a big, pudgy schoolboy, then stood and beamed at you while he took stock of the effect.
 Philip took vivid stock of everything, all the time. It was painful and exhausting work, and probably in the end his undoing. The world was too bright for him to handle. He had to screw up his eyes or be dazzled to death. Like Chatterton, he went seven times round the moon to your one, and every time he set off, you were never sure he’d come back, which is what I believe somebody said about the German poet Hölderlin: Whenever he left the room, you were afraid you’d seen the last of him. And if that sounds like wisdom after the event, it isn’t. Philip was burning himself out before your eyes. Nobody could live at his pace and stay the course, and in bursts of startling intimacy he needed you to know it. 
No actor had ever made quite the impact on me that Philip did at that first encounter: not Richard Burton, not Burt Lancaster or even Alec Guinness. Philip greeted me as if he’d been waiting to meet me all his life, which I suspect was how he greeted everyone. But I’d been waiting to meet Philip for a long time. I reckoned his “Capote” the best single performance I’d seen on screen. But I didn’t dare tell him that, because there’s always a danger with actors, when you tell them how great they were nine years ago, that they demand to know what’s been wrong with their performances ever since. 
There was a problem about accents. We had really good German actors who spoke English with a German accent. Collective wisdom dictated, not necessarily wisely, that Philip should do the same. For the first few minutes of listening to him, I thought, “Crikey.” No German I knew spoke English like this. He did a mouth thing, a kind of pout. He seemed to kiss his lines rather than speak them. Then gradually he did what only the greatest actors can do. He made his voice the only authentic one, the lonely one, the odd one out, the one you depended on amid all the others. And every time it left the stage, like the great man himself, you waited for its return with impatience and mounting unease. 
We shall wait a long time for another Philip. - John le Carré (X)

howtocatchamonster:

A lot of actors act intelligent, but Philip was the real thing: a shining, artistic polymath with an intelligence that came at you like a pair of headlights and enveloped you from the moment he grabbed your hand, put a huge arm round your neck and shoved a cheek against yours; or if the mood took him, hugged you to him like a big, pudgy schoolboy, then stood and beamed at you while he took stock of the effect.

Philip took vivid stock of everything, all the time. It was painful and exhausting work, and probably in the end his undoing. The world was too bright for him to handle. He had to screw up his eyes or be dazzled to death. Like Chatterton, he went seven times round the moon to your one, and every time he set off, you were never sure he’d come back, which is what I believe somebody said about the German poet Hölderlin: Whenever he left the room, you were afraid you’d seen the last of him. And if that sounds like wisdom after the event, it isn’t. Philip was burning himself out before your eyes. Nobody could live at his pace and stay the course, and in bursts of startling intimacy he needed you to know it.

No actor had ever made quite the impact on me that Philip did at that first encounter: not Richard Burton, not Burt Lancaster or even Alec Guinness. Philip greeted me as if he’d been waiting to meet me all his life, which I suspect was how he greeted everyone. But I’d been waiting to meet Philip for a long time. I reckoned his “Capote” the best single performance I’d seen on screen. But I didn’t dare tell him that, because there’s always a danger with actors, when you tell them how great they were nine years ago, that they demand to know what’s been wrong with their performances ever since.

There was a problem about accents. We had really good German actors who spoke English with a German accent. Collective wisdom dictated, not necessarily wisely, that Philip should do the same. For the first few minutes of listening to him, I thought, “Crikey.” No German I knew spoke English like this. He did a mouth thing, a kind of pout. He seemed to kiss his lines rather than speak them. Then gradually he did what only the greatest actors can do. He made his voice the only authentic one, the lonely one, the odd one out, the one you depended on amid all the others. And every time it left the stage, like the great man himself, you waited for its return with impatience and mounting unease.

We shall wait a long time for another Philip. - John le Carré (X)

(via scabicide)

464 notes

http://monsterpussy.tumblr.com/post/92622674035/famphic-also-i-dont-know-why-no-one-likes-vee

famphic:

Also I don’t know why no one likes Vee. She was cheated out of redemption by the writers, but even before then, she was cunning and manipulative, and you’d have to admire that in a character – in a person it’d be annoying and in the real world just fucking despicable (a sort of…

Where can I sign up for this ~exclusive feminism club where women use other women to manipulate a situation to their own advantage? And are then rewarded for it? I’m down.

24 notes