at the end of all things

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Brenna (Brr-eh-nuh). 19. University of Central Florida. Chronic asshole, my passions are dogs and television.

Have you ever wondered where books come from?

zwischendenstuehlen:

Well then, let me show you, because that’s what I do for a living.

Right now, it’s this time of the year, and the little ones have just freshly hatched:

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You’ll notice they’re still blind and naked when they hatch. So I make them little coats to keep them warm during their first winter:

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See how they happily line up to put them on:

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See? Better. Now they’re ready to go and explore the world.

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And if they make it through the winter and we take good care of them, they will grow up to be strong and wise like their older fellows:

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So, in case you were ever wondering, now you know.

(via primalooze)

whymakswhy:

‘STACEY’S MOM HAS GOT IT GOIN’ ON

SHE’S ALL I WANT AND I’VE WAITED FOR SO LONG

STACY CAN’T YOU SEE YOU’RE JUST NOT THE GIRL FOR ME

I KNOW IT MIGHT BE WRONG BUT I’M IN LOVE WITH STACE-‘

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….Hello…sir…

(via firehawkie)

When people say ‘This is my baby,’ they don’t always mean a baby. Sometimes they mean a dog.
- A Somali student, on what has surprised her most about the United States.  (via 33113)

(via dramakhalessi)

A white man is promoted: He does good work, he deserved it.
A white woman is promoted: Whose dick did she suck?
A man of color is promoted: Oh, great, I guess we have to “fill quotas” now.
A woman of color is promoted: j/k. That never happens.

I’m meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don’t stop reading till they’ve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, “He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say,“He’s great.”

A new boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks he’s being original. “We should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?” I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, I’d like that, I think. But he’s drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, “You have a tattoo? What’s it say?” ‘mad to live?’ What, are you angry about living? Aw, I’m just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.”

The next boy I kiss doesn’t read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep.

I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears he’s read every word I’ve put down. “You’ve got this voice that’s very modern, but also so classic.” I choke on my water as he says, “I read you to fall asleep.” At night, I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal and finds nothing about himself in it. “You don’t really love me, do you?” I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry.

I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like “presumptuously” and talk about “post-modernist new wave.” I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the “advantages of using film and listening to records.” But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.

- I Am Not The Sea | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

(via m0n0l0gues)

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