Samantha

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

[rosamundpike]

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[tkim90]

[andrewbreitel]

:)

[coachela]

this is the best ever

[arkzhar]

[princebiebers-deactivated201303]

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He is so sexy!

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cats are wonderful creatures

[hauteinnocence]

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lmfao

[kitschhousewife-deactivated2014]

After killing six young women, the six-foot-nine giant turned his anger against his ultimate target: his mother. While most experts later claim that his killing was really about symbolic rehearsal for killing his mother, and once he’d dispatched her, he no longer needed to kill, Kemper’s explanation is quite different. He indicated in an interview that he had sensed the cops closing in after Sergeant Aluffi had paid him a call about his gun and he wanted to spare his mother the embarrassment of learning that he was the “Coed Butcher.” However, his treatment of her corpse tells another story.

Kemper also said that he feared that his mother had found the items he had taken from the women he’d killed. He wondered if he should flee or kill her. “I can’t get away from her…She knows all my buttons and I dance like a puppet.” He knew that he would now kill her, but he waited for the opportune moment. She went out with friends one evening and came home tipsy from alcohol (although some accounts say nothing about her inebriated state).

Kemper went into her room, and according to him, she said, “I suppose you want to talk now.” He told her no. In his 1978 interview, he said he then started to cry and put his hand to his mouth. It was the first time he had broken his composure. He’d spoken about the other murders with no show of guilt, compassion or remorse, but his mother’s death was another matter.

He waited for her to go to bed, he said, and then went into her room with a claw hammer. “It was so hard.” He admitted that to remember it hurt him. “I cut off her head, and I humiliated her, of course. She was dead, because of the way she raised her son.” But later he said he’d wished she’d stayed up and talked to him. He put her head on the mantel and said what he wanted to say. He also threw darts. For the first time, she did not argue with him. That felt satisfying, but he also knew it was over for him. He would undoubtedly be linked to this crime. He penned a brief note, quoted in Cheney’s book: “Appx. 5:15 A.M. Saturday. No need for her to suffer anymore at the hands of this horrible ‘murderous butcher.’ It was quick, sleep, the way I wanted it.”

[m-i-s-m-a-g-i-u-s]

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He will always be Spencer Reid in my mind

[theworldsmellslikeshit]

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"Nothing stopped me from destroying myself; in fact, I felt society was encouraging it."

The leap of faith is this: You have to believe, or at least pretend you believe until you really believe it, that you are strong enough to take life face on. Eating disorders, on any level, are a crutch. They are also an addiction and illness, but there is no question at all that they are quite simply a way of avoiding the banal, daily, itchy pain of life. Eating disorders provide a little drama, they feed into the desire for constant excitement, everything becomes life-or-death, everything is terribly grand and crashing, very Sturm and Drang. And they are distracting. You don't have to think about any of the nasty minutiae of the real world, you don't get caught up in that awful boring thing called regular life, with its bills and its breakups and its dishes and laundry and groceries and arguments over whose turn it is to change the litter box and bedtimes and bad sex and all that, because you are having a real drama, not a sitcom but a GRAND EPIC, all by yourself, and why would you bother with those foolish mortals when you could spend hours and hours with the mirror, when you are having the most interesting sado-machistic affair with your own image? It's never over. Not really. Not when you stay down there as long as I did, not when you've lived in the netherworld longer than you've lived in this material one, where things are very bright and large and make such strange noises. You never come back, not all the way. Always, there is an odd distance between you and the people you love and the people you meet, a barrier, thin as the glass of a mirror. You never come all the way out of the mirror; you stand, for the rest of your life, with one foot in this world and one in another, where everything is upside down and backward and sad.It is the distance of marred memory, of a twisted and shape-shifting past. When people talk about their childhood, their adolescence, their college days, I laugh along and try not to think: that was when I was throwing up in my elementary school bathroom, that was when I was sleeping with strangers to show off the sharp tips of my bones, that was when I lost sight of my soul and died. And it is the distance of the present, as well - the distance that lies between people in general because of the different lives we have lived. I don't know who I would be, now, if I had not lived the life I have, and so I cannot alter my need for distance - nor can I lessen the low and omnipresent pain that that distance creates. The entirety of my life is overshadowed by one singular and near-fatal obsession.

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:*) 

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she's perfect