This Is My Realm
Why do you put your self esteem in the hands of complete strangers?
Helena Bonham Carter (via qoldlush)

(Source: splitterherzen, via heavy-skies)

endlessmagic:

ssweet-dispositionn:

lilith-not-eve:

Marrying young is not the end of my freedom. It means I want to travel and see the world, but with her by my side. It means I still like drinking in bars and dancing in clubs, but stumbling home with her at 2am and eating pizza in our underwear. It means I know that I want to kiss those lips every morning, and every night before bed. If you see marriage as the end of your ‘freedom’, you’re doing it wrong.

Omg

OMG

(via legitimately-beastly)

ringokotomi:

Have you ever just looked at someone and thought, “I really love you”. They’re just talking or humming or watching a movie or reading a book or laughing or something, and there’s something about them in that moment that makes you think, “I just really love you”

(via legitimately-beastly)

katbot:

Professor: Your essay must be 3,000 - 6,000 words

Me: image

(via kristinecake)

chuabaka:

textpostsandcats:

being a pizza delivery driver is great because literally no one is disappointed to see you

image

(via hexagonss)

ravenclawslibrary:

bookworldau:

We’re all too familiar with this.

That is the single greatest moment of panic I’ve ever experienced.

ravenclawslibrary:

bookworldau:

We’re all too familiar with this.

That is the single greatest moment of panic I’ve ever experienced.

(via charlottejanine)

me: *wakes up*
me: wheres my phone
me: *rips off blankets*
me: *hears loud thud*
me: there it is
is it free
every student ever when offered something (via evanpetrers)

(Source: princessmowgli, via kristinecake)

praxis89:

Orange in his Hand
I see two men sweat at the exit of the freeway.
One is brown and burnt from the sun rays the other is white with an American Flag stitched across his trucker hat.
They both wear dirty clothes. They both burn  to hold a little green.
One sells oranges, walking up and down the street.  One holds a sign that reads, “I’m hungry, help me eat.” I feel for both of them, but I only admire one.
The one who hands oranges in bags to tired faces, who chases cars for his change, who counts pennies as profit to keep his apartment.
The one whose wife wakes before sunrise to walk through Los Angeles streets yelling “tamales, tamales” with a 4 year old daughter  at her side.
The mother who crossed over 4 years earlier so her daughter wouldn’t have to sell tamales with a baby at her side.
The father tells his son never to beg, but to work hard for the bread. So the son sells Cheetos at his high school and gets called beaner for not owning  named brand clothes. A son who must bring dollars before good grades because rent is two weeks late. A son who will one day hold  a gun to the head of a liquor store clerk, only to remember  his father’s words.
Mijo, work hard for the bread.
Rent is two weeks late  so the family breaks tax laws to make jobs and they lifts roses to the sky hoping someone passing by is falling in love again, so the family takes elotes to the neighborhood projects hoping the ninos are hungry.
The news says this family is here to take my job,  my seat in school,  my country, but the only thing they’re taking  is the risk of being handcuffed, broken and deported in the name of family in the name of love in the name of trying  everything to stay above the current and that is why I can’t help
But to admire the man with an orange in his hand, a fireball of hunger in his palm.

praxis89:

Orange in his Hand

I see two men sweat
at the exit
of the freeway.

One is brown and burnt
from the sun rays
the other is white
with an American Flag
stitched across his trucker hat.

They both wear dirty clothes.
They both burn
to hold
a little green.

One sells oranges, walking up
and down the street.
One holds a sign that reads,
“I’m hungry, help me eat.”
I feel for both of them,
but I only admire one.

The one who hands
oranges in bags to tired faces,
who chases cars
for his change,
who counts pennies
as profit
to keep his apartment.

The one whose wife wakes
before sunrise to walk
through Los Angeles streets
yelling “tamales, tamales”
with a 4 year old daughter
at her side.

The mother who crossed over
4 years earlier so her daughter
wouldn’t have to sell tamales
with a baby at her side.

The father tells his son
never to beg,
but to work hard for the bread.
So the son sells Cheetos
at his high school
and gets called beaner
for not owning
named brand clothes.
A son who must bring dollars
before good grades
because rent is two weeks late.
A son who will one day hold
a gun to the head
of a liquor store clerk,
only to remember
his father’s words.

Mijo, work hard for the bread.

Rent is two weeks late
so the family
breaks tax laws to make jobs
and they lifts roses to the sky
hoping someone passing by
is falling in love again,
so the family
takes elotes
to the neighborhood projects
hoping the ninos are hungry.

The news says this family is here
to take my job,
my seat in school,
my country,
but the only thing they’re taking
is the risk
of being handcuffed,
broken and deported
in the name of family
in the name of love
in the name of trying
everything to stay above
the current
and that is why
I can’t help

But to admire the man
with an orange in his hand,
a fireball of hunger in his palm.

(via mandyfaye)