MAYA

Vassar College 2016 "Life's a game made for everyone and love is the prize." Student studying psychology. Feminist. Rowing-Coxswain. Camp friends are for life.

[ewokk]

kissing is great

but wow when you get to kiss someone you have feelings for and you’ve wanted to kiss them for the longest time and you get to stroke their face and you’re so aware of their body and how nice their lips feel

[vicforprez]

[mtvstyle]

J.Lo’s American Idol performance dress (and make up) literally has left me speechless

[little-chunk]

Damn jlo

[bambietta666-deactivated2015090]

Magical 

[nevver]

[sundriedaisy-deactivated2015102]

A Perfect Day for Bananafish, Ákos Major

[sasaq]

秋田犬・豆柴 薩摩日登美犬舎

[fiumebluecielonero-blog]

[floralls]

[heartshop]

This makes me feel like everything will be ok

[boredbooty]

^^

[kingdomheartstwo-deactivated201]

im honestly losing my shit at this like….she has stray hairs. her hair practically looks real. she has freckles. u can see every pattern of her iris. she has those tiny stray hairs you get around your eyebrows?????? you can even see the visual reflections in her PUPIL.

this is fucking incredible dreamworks is so meticulous it blows my mind

[kwright-us-deactivated20170818]

Globally, a woman’s period is perceived as more disgusting than rape. Society deems a natural, female bodily function as vile and even punishable in different cultures. We are expected to cover up, hide, and be ashamed for an uncontrollable, anatomical expectation of our bodies. And just…why? Why have women been brainwashed to accept and adopt this misconception? It’s time we make it known that this twisted standard of women is a bloody obvious mistake. Women bleed. Get over it.

[proxymoore-deactivated20150320]

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU.

[marcushyde]

Iphone snaps Marcus Hyde

[kushandwizdom]

[suesemily]

GLEE (2009 - 2015)

[chriscolfernews]

Harry Shum Jr. Gift for all you Gleeks. Watch as we try our hardest to dance to the speed of our final group number. This is my second to last take on Glee. We look crazy and wouldn’t have it any other way…

[wanda-maxlmoff]

Rachel Berry’s first and last lines

[andren]

[rulesofthirds]

[irynka]

A part of your soul will wonder. About the skin, about the fire, about the tongue. You are thirty-two, eating rosemary soufflé, the air smelling oddly of sage and champagne, your wrists stung with wasps, as you carry on a conversation about love that feels like boiled water in your mouth. It will burn even your teeth. Your husband will look up from the morning paper, his eyes the color of a fish’s belly, as he asks, “Can you pass the salt?”  He’s eating an omelet you’ve prepared for him, only this morning you’ve accidentally burnt the outer layer and so the usual yolk has turned to rust. He hasn’t noticed. "Honey, can you?" "I just don’t understand," You’ll say, "I just don’t understand why after all this time you’ve never mentioned her." "It’s really no big deal. She was just my high school sweetheart." "Did you think you were going to marry her? Did you think you were going to, you know, have a future?" "Look," He says, glancing back at the paper, back at the crusty small letters of the obituaries. You imagine his eyes, back when he was eighteen, you imagine how they must have looked like two crystals, you imagine him looking up at the sun for just a heartbeat too long, letting the sun’s yellow leak into them, a canvas of honey and blue  and something else, something cold and small and dark. "It wasn’t anything like that. She was my first love, but it wasn’t electricity. It’s not like we — It’s not like we were right for each other. She left for college, wrote poetry about sauces and the universe, I was making money selling pot and smoking hash." "But she died from an overdose. Was she suicidal, I mean, was she-" And this is when he looks at you, his complexion an aroma of stop and fuck off and leave me alone for God’s sake. But you push, you pick at your wrists with your bitten fingernails, chew on your bottom lip, press your ankles into the carpet. You want to know.  "It’s not like she was this fucked-up barbie doll, okay?" He exhales. He’s angry. "She was different, okay? She was always goddamn different. She was music. God, that sounds stupid, doesn’t’ it? But she was. She was an orchestra of color. It’s like every time she opened her God damn mouth you’d want to listen. She spoke about everything backwards. Fuck," He says slowly, his eyes dying down into a hue of soft reds, "Fuck, she was like this backwards carnival ride you’re afraid of. Only you’re not, because once you’re on it, you realize how much you’ve been missing out. And it was always like this. She’d be asking you to tell her about the first time you learned to ride a bike or what you would do if you’d win the lottery and you’d realize you hadn’t even thought of these questions. And why hadn’t you thought of them? Because you were so goddamn fucking busy thinking about shit that didn’t matter. She made you look at a garden of fire and tell you how the flames were escaping into space, how they were churning into stars and then burning up and bouncing back into earth." He swallows, "Fucking Christ, she had this theory that she was Shakespeare reincarnated. She wanted to a be a writer. Can you believe that? She wanted to write novellas and name her daughter Lolita. How fucked up is that?" "Did you love her?" Your voice is soft but the words are swollen. You’ve never heard him speak like this before. At your wedding day, you remember how the rain pressed against the air like glass and even then when you had said your vows, his were half empty, half stolen from poetry. "She was the greatest love of my life." And then you know it. He starts  apologizing right away. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I was caught up in the moment. Of course you’re the greatest love of my life.  You smile. Pat his hand, pass him the salt. But there’s something in your liver that is unsettling. You ask if he’s going to go to the funeral. He says no. But he hesitates.  "I think you should go." You say. He bows his head. Passing him the salt, you look at his frame one more time. Each day it gets harder and harder to imagine him young. His body is shriveled now, gray hairs eat his scalp like roaches, his fingers have dirt sewn under them.  You draw yourself a bath, close the musty curtains so that only the small tub is illuminated with a crimson-like light. Shaving your legs, you scratch your upper right thigh; watch the blood trickle down into the hot water until it swirls into a cotton-candy pink. You wonder if she hadn’t left him, if something made them cross paths again, would he have left her? If she came knocking on your door right now and he answered, would he? You can almost imagine, her light perfume, his dark eyes - how they would caress her body, how he would talk to her. You will wonder this for the rest of your life. Wonder if this is love you feel, wonder if perhaps, it’s been lust all along.

Because We Wonder  (via

irynka

)