Darken My Door

[swdyw-deactivated20131130]

Don’t invite me to your wedding i will look better than you and it will be embarrassing for us both

[fab5queereye]

Jonathan is that you

[gaymingvideos]

my competitive ass

[hotblugger]

have you ever been so wildly attracted to someone you can actually feel it driving you insane

[threebigolsausages-deactivated2]

starbucks barista: ive got a caffe mocha for… “russian spy”?

everybody: [remains seated and eyes each other suspiciously]

barista [throwing his CIA badge at the floor in defeat]: dammit i thought for sure that would work

[feuilletoniste]

#pretty sure america tried this during the Cold War

[daisyflorbonita]

[thosepapertowns]

“We often want it so badly that we ruin it before it begins. Overthinking. Fantasizing. Imagining. Expecting. Worrying. Doubting. Just let it naturally evolve.”

— Anonymous  (via odaro)

[lohver]

the older i get the more i realize i just don’t want certain types of people around me anymore. some people just stunt your personal growth

[kellmichele]

the universe has a crazy way of working out and right now i need to just trust that

[secretlyavenue-blog]

It’s kinda hot when someone can reply to your sarcasm with sarcasm instead of just getting offended

[friendly-animals]

Follow me for more cute animals! (:

[fiveseatisthepowerhouse]

The geese have built a nest by the dock. They are very aggressive. Never has there been a grater incentive to get on and off the dock fast. 
Today we were trying to dock and geese were hissing and the Cox was struggling to get us close enough. We couldn’t reach the dock and no one would come pull us in. After a new minutes of trying to wiggle ourselves in, our stroke said, “Screw it. Hold my oar.” She passed her oar to seven seat, stood up in the boat, and jumped a solid couple feet to the dock. The geese were pissed and coming for blood at that point. Our stroke seat proceeded to chase the geese down the dock screaming, “get out of here you fuckers!” The geese fled and Stroke pulled us in.

Tldr; Stroke seat jumped out of the boat to battle geese so we wouldn’t be late to our 8:30 classes because she is a badass.

(4/14/17)

[eat-sleep-row-repeat]

When the conditions on the water are tough

Me

My coach

[adventurero-deactivated20230117]

I’m the type of girl your mother hopes you fall in love with

[thother]

[doublehoseven-deactivated201812]

[crew2kelbywoo]

When it's been calm water all day at the regatta and the wind starts up before your race

[thefortysecondolive]

Rowing Gothic

‘Last piece,’ the coaches say. They have said this before every piece. You do not know how many pieces you have done, only that they have all been the last piece. You don’t know if they will ever end. 

A rigger screams with every stroke. No one knows whose rigger it is. It could be yours. It could be three-seat’s. The coxswain doesn’t seem to notice. No one seems to notice. Except you: you notice, and you wonder if the rigger is screaming at you.

A wake comes from your side of the boat. Nothing made it. It just appeared off the flat surface of the water. It catches your oarlocks and washes onto the deck. ‘There’s a wake,’ the coxswain says. You knew there was a wake. There is always a wake. 

You are in bow seat. You do not know if you are supposed to be rowing. You ask two-seat, and two-seat doesn’t know either. Neither of you row. The coxswain’s voice is crackly and indistinct, and you don’t know what it is saying. It is possible that you should be rowing. It is possible that you should never have stopped.

‘Ten more strokes,’ the coxswain says, and begins to count. Ten strokes go by. Then twenty. Then thirty-four. You have not yet crossed the finish line. You are no longer sure there is a finish line to cross. The coxswain keeps counting. 

‘Is that like canoeing?’ someone asks. You cannot tell them apart from the others who have asked you. You think this face is different, but perhaps it is the same face again, and only the passage of time makes you believe it is different. ‘No,’ you tell the face. ‘It’s not like canoeing at all.’

There are not enough wrenches. There are never enough wrenches. Some days it seems as if there might be enough wrenches, but they disappear when you open the toolbox. Someone asks you for one. You have nothing to offer but a shrug and a handful of washers. 

The shoes in the women’s boats are too big. The shoes in every other boat are even bigger. The men say they are too small, but you do not see how that could be the case. None of them fit you. Some of them are adjustable. They cannot be adjusted to fit. Some of them rub blisters into your heels. You pretend not to notice.