Once we hit forty, women only have about four taste buds left: one for vodka, one for wine, one for cheese, and one for chocolate.
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@bullworthxgraphics
Once we hit forty, women only have about four taste buds left: one for vodka, one for wine, one for cheese, and one for chocolate.
You color my world.
' Take some more tea, ' the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly. ' I've had nothing yet, ' Alive replied in an offended tone, ' so I can't take more.' ' You mean you can't take less, ' said the Hatter: ' it's very easy to take more than nothing. '
One day Alice came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree. "Which road do I take?" she asked. "Where do you want to go?" was his response. "I don't know." Alice answered. "Then", said the cat, "it doesn't matter."
Is there somebody    who still believes in love?
I know you're out there    I search around the worldÂ
But I can't seem to . . . . . [[find somebody to love]]. . . . .Â
It's in the blood- ♫
I met my love     before I was born.
He wanted love- ♬
He bit my lip     and drank my warmth
you’re the one who can make me stay you’re the only one who makes me feel this way you’re the one that’s been stealing stars your golden arrow went through my heart you’re the one that can turn the page you’re the one who came along and unlocked the cage now, i’m dancing in the dark
i’m think i’m losing where you end and i begin
/whispers do you take requests?
Yeah. When you have a request, just send an ask and we'll post it and hey, maybe people will be inspired!!!
tiffanybw:
/wiggles eyebrows/
But standing  Â
intangible, my lust a worked anger
a sweating close covering,
for the crudely salty soul.
The beautiful heart that lies within the beautiful sole. That heart that beats for love She can save him from himself. She can calm him with her kiss She can love him, For she is Beauty, tamer of the Beast.Â
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
He’s a ghost, she thinks one time, diaphanous skin, limbs and bones that she can clearly see, his inky eyes that stare at hers and ones that she can usually understand because it’s their language, language of loops and swirls, pastel blues and bright yellows,
she has a penchant for their language.
to me, taking you until we’re spent
and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss
the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until
you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists
or turns to pain between us, they will still
be there.