Xuebing Du

blake kathryn
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cherry valley forever
Three Goblin Art
will byers stan first human second
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

JVL
Monterey Bay Aquarium
hello vonnie
i don't do bad sauce passes
tumblr dot com
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Cosimo Galluzzi

@theartofmadeline
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Kiana Khansmith
Today's Document
One Nice Bug Per Day
seen from France
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@fengorias
“The best kind.” {The STrain, Last Rites}
MAKE YOUR MUSE.
tagged by : literally none of you, but as such–all of you. tagging : anyone left !! i’m late to the game.
“I believe the answer to that question, like the answer to most questions, is fuck you.”
cattink:
every time i say something witty: please don’t think i’m flirting. i just want to establish myself as the funniest one here.
@chloebennet: Sexy as fuhhhh. (x)
“Forming” | Germs
I am troubled and harsh and hopeless. Though I have love inside me. But I don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it scratches like barbs.
Clarice Lispector, tr. by Elizabeth Lowe, from Água Viva / The Stream of Life (via violentwavesofemotion)
She was a lion’s roar, broken glass, and a thousand tiny paper cuts: frightening, beautiful, and very, very cruel.
Loose Ends I, A.M. (via edwardtonks)
easily six drinks into the night, nadja was feeling angry. angry at herself for fucking everything up and leaving her marooned in some many horse town just to sit and decay, waiting for the heat to die down in hopes of finally seeing her grandmother again. angry at her mother for choosing some adulterous peacock of a man over her own daughter. angry at her situation and at boot hill for being nothing more than a soul-sucking cowboy town--the antithesis of nadja feng. it’s easy to be angry. nadja’s been more comfortable with anger than peace since she could walk. usually, she’s more plucky than angry after her share of drinks, but an occasional dark mood can really fuck up a night. like a storm rolling in, she feels more electric with each drink. it’s nights like these that she can feel her mood in her bones like rain and she opts to spend them at one of the other bars, lest she risk angering her boss and getting canned over a few choice words or, worse--like tonight--a bar fight. that’s what make the olive branch bar so perfect. unlike the bucking horse where, at least, the freckle faced kid has a sense of humor, she doesn’t give a fuck about being 86′d from. it’s the kind of bar where the servers where black slacks and dress shirts.
too many drinks and that anger turns into self-loathing. self-loathing begets self-destruction and the whole cycle seems to end with broken bottles or noses. in this case, probably her own on both counts. as usual, instead of the violence pushing her deeper into a darker mood, she feels somehow satiated by the stars in her eyes as well as the public demonstration and validation that she is, in fact, as big of a mess as her mother always said she was. there is such primal validation in blood. “ha !” she shouts in surprise, after getting popped with what she’d deem as a weak right hook. grabbing her nose as it starts to bleed and she stumbles backwards into the brick wall behind her. “i probably--definitely--deserved that, but you still look like a fucking viagra commercial, so who’s the real loser?”
pinching the bridge of her nose, nadja shoots an amused glance at the bystander nearest her as the chode in an izod shirt ( they still make those ? ) storms back into the bar. “what? did i say something to piss you off too?” her free hand reaches into her jacket and gropes blindly for the soft pack of lucky strikes ( is boot hill the only place in the world that somehow seems to still have filtered luckys? ). “if you’re gonna stare, can you at least help me out with a light?” she speaks around the cigarette, lips curled into a smirk that is not entirely unfriendly considering the circumstances. ( @boothillstarters ).
nadja & mitch, mitcheovaldi.
Some days, it was easy to forget he came from anywhere else; some days, it felt like he’d been living in Boot Hill all his life. Other days… well, other days Mitch would be channel flipping and find the all too familiar image of his home town in a movie on the television. Today was one of those days. He paused on the channel, trying to figure out what about Sitka, Alaska seemed so damned familiar, but then there was that one shot, and there was no denying the pang he felt in his chest; that was home, and it sure as hell wasn’t Sitka, Alaska. Mitch quickly powered off the TV with a shake of his head, a physical manifestation of his need to clear his head, before getting up and heading out.
It wasn’t long before he was at Coyote’s, a beer and an empty shot glass sitting in front of him. Leaving his shot glass behind, he took his beer with him as he went to peruse the jukebox in the corner. He couldn’t begin to estimate the number of quarters he’d dumped into the machine since his arrival, over a year ago. “So what are we feeling? The Cars? Boston? J. Geils Band?” he questioned the person nearest him him as he loaded several quarters into the machine, punching in a few different codes, and then waiting for the other’s opinion as his fingers hovered over the buttons. “I have to admit, though, you look like an ‘Aerosmith is the best Boston classic rock’ type, and I hate to break it to you, you’re wrong,” he remarked, his face and tone taking on more serious notes, though he was hardly being too serious (even if Aerosmith wasn’t exactly his jam). (@boothillstarters)
yote’s wasn’t quite like home. sure, it was rougher around the edges than any other bar in town, but it had a whole different vibe than scavengers had. even nadja knew it was far too much to ask for a decent music scene in a town as small as boot hill. hell, it’d sometimes been to much to ask for a fucking decent scene in vancouver. still, she missed the smell of her old bar. she missed the bathroom walls, which were covered in stickers from all of the punk bands that’d played there--and the few metal bands that weren’t creepily obsessed with norse mythology and thinly veiled racism. she missed the alley behind it where she’d first met that skeeze of a boyfriend who’d cheated on her the month before she’d left. she missed her shitty basement level apartment too.
yote’s wasn’t home, that was true, but at least it was something. and on slow days when she was the only bartender, she could usually get away with bringing along grandpa, the blue heeler she’s sworn she wouldn’t keep. a lazy guy, more bonded with her than his rightful owners, he slept behind the bar at her feet while she watched movies on her phone until business picked up. that is, on the rare occasion the wifi in this town worked for more than two goddamn minutes. gaze following the guy as he headed to the jukebox, she raised a brow. “jesus christ, what are you? the reincarnation of someone’s sad dad?” despite the venom in her words, nadja’s expression was relaxed and she let out a breathy chuckle. “i’m having nightmares where i have to listen to journey on repeat thanks to this place. as he continued to talk classic rock, nadja pulled a face--half disgust and half amusement, crossing her arms over her chest and coming out from behind the bar to check out the selections so he wouldn’t play anything stupid. “aerosmith? you’ve got to be fucking kidding me !” she laughed, waking the dog who came out to see what the fuss was about. “listen, jukebox hero--if you’re going to subject me to your selections, you can’t force me to actually listen to or even discuss aerosmith.”