Mike Driver
styofa doing anything
One Nice Bug Per Day
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Monterey Bay Aquarium

shark vs the universe
almost home

ellievsbear

izzy's playlists!
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Sweet Seals For You, Always

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Game of Thrones Daily
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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will byers stan first human second
Cosmic Funnies

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

Andulka

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@inked-memory
Play Pretend
I used to be so good at pretending. Every day I could smile; it didn't matter what was going on behind the scenes. Today something is wrong. Today it is obvious - even if I could smile no one would believe me. Everyone knows something is wrong. Everyone is afraid to ask. Do they think asking will make it worse. Like somehow asking is going to cause the thread that is holding me together to break. I am not a glass chandelier. I will not break if I fall. Do you not want to catch me? Is that why you are so afraid of to ask?
“Today is a day that I am in love. Yesterday was a day I was in love, and tomorrow will be one too. I’m in love with the same boy who I met years ago. I don’t even remember how or when we met, but I know that we were young and innocent. I still remember the glasses he wore in middle school, and how he still wears them sometimes, and how even through the pane of his glasses or the nakedness of his pure sight, his gaze is still the most penetrating I’ve ever encountered. His green eyes are like a sea of trees just barely touched by the chill of winter and I think of how when the snow falls, I want to create snow angels in them forever. I run down from his eyes to his lips, which create such deep lines in his cheeks when he smiles. I’ve never seen him fake a smile, and for that I’m glad. He has never felt the need to do such a thing. He always smiles with his teeth and grins with his lips, but either one sends me. From the curve of his mouth to his jaw, which is an impressive one. Not too sharp to cut my hands, but strong enough to clench just when he is sitting. Then down to his neck, that is somehow more defined than his face, and a place where I have had the privilege to kiss a few times over. His skin is always hot under me. I imagine if we were to embrace and not let go, we both would soon melt from the fire of each other. But he is a brighter flame than I. His chest and stomach are simple; toned and smooth and begging for my finger tips to trace along the muscles. It always would tickle him when I did so, but it made him laugh when I laughed. Along his arms are a dream; veins mapped out like the roots of an ancient oak, sure of their strength. Down to his hands is the touch of a ghost; so fleeting and soft despite the callouses he possesses. His hips and legs are slim and strong, built for conquering the waves of oceans and the hills of mountains with wheels beneath his feet. He is more graceful and dangerous than I could ever hope to be. The way he walks, and talks, and stands in the light of my open front door still floors me. All I can do is watch as he leans against the frame, a cigarette between his lips. I remember how I kissed him with his mouth full of smoke, and how the taste was bitter but just sweet enough to make me come back for more. That’s all I want to do, really. Touch my lips with his. And even though he doesn’t know what I think of him, and how badly he makes me yearn for him, I still do. I told him I was in love with him yesterday. He hasn’t said more than one sentence…"I wasn’t expecting that.” But I had expected it. That reaction of his. He is frightened by situations as I am, and so he went quiet. I asked him if he still didn’t have anything to say, if he was okay. Today is a day where I’m still waiting for what he has to say.“
Allie, writing prompt #67: write about an almost relationship, which broke your heart (via wordsnquotes)
People ask me why I wanna be a writer. C'mon, guys, nobody else can speak so loudly without having to say a single word.
winterylupun (via wordsnquotes)
The House on the Hill
“Clean faster or to the dungeon with you!” I yelled.
“I know, I know there are a thousand and one pieces of dust on my floor,” she replied.
I was appalled by her response and threatened to tie her up, slaves don’t talk back.
We are in the living room, three walls painted eggshell white, a painting of the halloween parade with Marisa front and center in her purple, princess costume on the right wall and windows adorning the left, the opening led to the dining room and kitchen and those led out into the backyard with the tree, perfect for climbing and bigger than the house itself.
Today we are playing Slave and Princess and I get to be the princess. I prance around in my purple flower skirt and white t-shirt with the black sparkly poodle on the chest while she sits on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor. The dizzying, but familiar smell of lemon scented floor cleaner not nearly diluted enough fills my lungs as I continue our charade. I grab the imaginary rope, rough in my hands and splintering from over-use, push Marisa on a chair and start to tie her up for disobedience.
These are the games we like to play: Slave and Princess, Monster Railroad, who can clean the floor or the bathroom tiles or any number of other places the best. These games, are our favorites to play and after a long day of endless play we sit in the red, rope, hammock that hangs between the tree larger than the house and its smaller counterpart. The hammock is rough between my toes as they get caught between the woven diamonds. We swing endlessly while we talk and watch the waves of the ocean crash against the shore. Some days we venture down to the bottom of the long, vertical driveway, distinguishable by the way nature is constantly trying to take it back, it’s the one with the cracks running up, blazing a trail for us to follow back up to the house on the hill. We sit at the bottom of that driveway with a little table and a sign “lemonade for sale to support affordable housing in Provincetown”, selling lemonade and granola bars for a dollar each. When we got older we sit my little sister out in front and call her the bait, our logic: people always buy from cute little kids.
This house is a beautiful work of love, built in the late 80’s early 90’s by her parents. Two floors sit on top of a hill, overlooking the ocean. The outside of the house is paneled with light brown shingles, surrounding the windows and the doors. On the left of the house their large red chimney erupts from the green grass surrounding three quarters of the house while their tenderly loved vegetable garden and sunflowers surround the last quarter. I love standing next to those sunflowers waiting for the day I’ll grow taller than them. Two more inches and I’ll outgrow the puny one. They are always the first thing I see as we walk back up the long driveway from our day’s adventures.
We walk up to her bedroom, walls decorated with theatre memorabilia - she’s going to grow up to be a famous actress, I almost hate her for it. We prepare for bed and I climb to the top bunk. I lay there in my fuzzy Tinkerbell pants and a t-shirt from the previous year’s Portuguese Festival that’s two sizes too big and stare at her illustrated, mouse, alphabet poster hanging behind my pillows, a is for apple, b for boy, c for cat all the way through the alphabet.
We wake up to Roger cooking us breakfast as he always does when I stay over. Roger is eighteen years older than Heidi and in their house it’s okay for both Marisa and I to call them by there first names. I feel weird calling them that. Mom would kill me if I called her Melissa. I don’t dare test this theory. When it is time for me to leave Marisa and I hide under her bed while her mother calls for us. She always says the same thing as we lay under the bed not wanting to part, “if you don’t come downstairs right this instance Angela can never sleep over again!” We hold out for a few minutes longer, if we stay here for five more minutes I won’t have to leave. The threat, nevertheless scares us into submission a minute later and we reluctantly gather my things and sludge down the narrow stairs with the salmon walls to the front door where her mom is always waiting for us.
We sit in the back of their maroon Subaru and as we drive down that long, vertical driveway I always stare back and watch the house on the hill disappear into the distance until the next time I walk its halls and clean its floors.
I only write when I’m angry or sad, so because that’s when I just have to write… If I’m having a good time and I’m happy and things are going really well, why would I want to stop what I’m doing to go and write?
Fiona Apple (via wnq-music)
Writing Long Essays
I ended my winter quarter with an 8-page essay for my Psych class. It seemed like an impossible task mostly because I’ve never done it before and I hated the subject. However, after playing around with the topics and scheduling, I think I figured out the most comfortable way of doing it. There is no quick & easy way to do this, so I just had to get over myself, sit down and do it.
~ I went to the library, opened up my email and started writing. Just whatever came to my mind concerning the subject, very disorganized, mostly bullet points. I didn’t open a Word Doc because I felt less pressured to do it in an email. One word of caution though: save the draft every once in a while. God forbid the internet stops working and things get deleted.
~ I did all the research before hand. It really helped with knowing the general idea and looked back at my notes as I was writing.
~ I picked the second, “full 1st draft” way of writing. Somehow I felt like the process was going super smoothly, so I just kept on going. Before I knew it, my single-spaced email turned into an 8-page essay. Winner!
If you are looking for writing tips, check out Jacqueline’s Nitty Gritty English.
Very useful tip on writing for those who are writing psych papers this term!
Wanted
I saw her face today. It’s not how I imagined it to be. I guess I figured she’d look more like me or I’d look more like her. I know she was dressed for bed, but she looked so plain. Her energy was stagnant, where was the love. Does her heart race every time she sees you or hears your name? Does your smile or your touch make her day better? It does for me - or well, it used to. Now I look at you and all I think is, “How could you hurt both me and her, so deeply and still be okay with yourself?” What was I to you? What am I to you? I was such an easy target. Young, naive me, right out of an abusive relationship, scared and alone at a brand new school. You took me under your wing and I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I felt like I could maybe be okay here, like someone maybe understood me for a change. You sure proved me wrong. If you understood me even a little bit you wouldn’t have let that happen. If you had just let it remain a friendship, had you not invited the idea of something more when that was never a real possibility in your mind, we’d be okay now - I’d be okay now, but I’m not okay - we’re not okay and I don’t know if we ever can be. I want to be able to let myself say and mean that this is the last time I let myself get involved with someone who’s already seeing someone else but I don’t know if that’s a real possibility for me right now - I just enjoy getting hurt too much. I love the pain. It keeps me humble or something like that. I guess it’s just nice to feel wanted even if it’s just for a day.
I want some time to breathe. I want long walks in empty parks. I want silence. I want a cold drink on a hot day. I want the sound of a train so far in the distance I can barely hear it. I want a good book and several quiet hours.
sarcolinedream (via wordsnquotes)
If you’re changing the world, you’re working on important things. You’re excited to get up in the morning.
Larry Page (via wordsnquotes)
April 8, 2015 [copyright a. martinez, 2015]
Put your thoughts to sleep, do not let them cast a shadow over the moon of your heart. Let go of thinking.
Rumi (via wordsnquotes)
rire dans sa barbe
(noun) This French, untranslatable phrase is the most relatable occurrence in human nature. Has anybody ever caught you laughing by yourself? Most likely they have and thought you were a little strange! This word describes this exact moment, to laugh at oneself quietly while remembering or retelling a past event in your mind. If you ask us, it is quite satisfying to know there is a word for this most delightful instance.
literally: to laugh in your beard
(via wordsnquotes)
We spoke endlessly about everything and nothing. Now, I cannot even remember the sound of your voice.
Michael Faudet, Dirty Pretty Things (via wordsnquotes)
I want to write to you, but I can’t seem to pick the right words, and even when I do they always seem to carry the wrong meanings, so wait for me till my wounds are cleaner and my words are clearer so I can tell you that I love you without pain polluting my words.
VàZaki Nada (via wordsnquotes)
Let yourself become living poetry.
Rumi (via wordsnquotes)
Yes, books are dangerous. They should be dangerous—they contain ideas.
Pete Hautman (via wordsnquotes)