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What If?

timelady-of-221b:

joeeatspeople:

yesidolikecoatsbigtime:

Types of people who romanticize small town life:

  1. People who didn’t grow up in small towns

#THE LOCALS AREN’T QUIRKY#THEY’RE RACIST

#THERE’S NOTHING TO DO
#EVERYONE’S ON DRUGS

theonlymagicleftisart:

Digital Illustrations by Artem Rhad Cheboha

Our Quarterly boxes are now $50 $30. The next box will include a hardcover photobook of Brandon C. Long's Polaroid photography and one lucky subscriber will receive a Polaroid camera and a pack of Impossible film: quarterly.co/art 

humansofnewyork:

"A few days before she died, my mom called us all together and told us that she’d had a dream. She said that she dreamed she had died, and that she met my dad in heaven. She begged my dad to let her stay with him, but he told her: ‘You have to go back. Or there will be nobody to raise our kids.’ Three days later she got a very bad ache in her stomach, and we rushed her to the hospital. She lived for about a week, but she was unconscious the entire time. It was Christmas time, so on Christmas Eve I went and sat by her bed. At one point she sat up, opened her eyes, and looked right at me. I said: ‘Mom! Mom! Mom!’ But she laid back down, closed her eyes, and never opened them again.”(Jinja, Uganda)

humansofnewyork:

"A few days before she died, my mom called us all together and told us that she’d had a dream. She said that she dreamed she had died, and that she met my dad in heaven. She begged my dad to let her stay with him, but he told her: ‘You have to go back. Or there will be nobody to raise our kids.’ Three days later she got a very bad ache in her stomach, and we rushed her to the hospital. She lived for about a week, but she was unconscious the entire time. It was Christmas time, so on Christmas Eve I went and sat by her bed. At one point she sat up, opened her eyes, and looked right at me. I said: ‘Mom! Mom! Mom!’ But she laid back down, closed her eyes, and never opened them again.”

(Jinja, Uganda)

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.
Anaïs Nin (via feellng)

slayboybunny:

alright now i used to hate pitbull because it seemed like the right thing to do but you know what i never hear him doing fucked up shit. as far as i know he is really just out there living life ,enjoying himself, visiting walmarts, and spreading the cubano party into the hearts of everyone around the world, he is mr. world wide and hes having a blast and i respect and love that pitbull. pitbull if youre reading this thank you and im sorry   

You were my cup of tea, I drink coffee now.
10 word story #2 by E.K. (via passingfox)

icorly:

mike wazowski opens up a tattoo shop called Monsters Ink

striderdaves:

teenagebillionaire:

Drake’s probably still in that chair

for a sec i thought this meant the wheelchair from degrassi

kchapp:

bbbeecky:

blueeyedmenace:

The walking dead// Rick Grimes dad jokes

I’m laughing in public

I will never get tired of these jokes!

trippiest:

what a beautiful day to not be in high school

My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to find peace with exactly who and what I am. To take pride in my thoughts, my appearance, my talents, my flaws and to stop this incessant worrying that I can’t be loved as I am.
Anais Nin
(via theglasschild)
What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are — underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.

Sandra Cisneros (via commanderspock)

on today my 20th birthday

(via ayarritu)