shadzu:

ineffably-crowley:

myotpisgay:

ninjaboots:

gayyourlifemustbe:

cloakstone69:

president-vanellope:

wake up america

this is to educate my non-American followers. This really is how the US sees itself. (and yes, 95% of the time, Florida = WHAT?!)

In Florida the more North you go, the more “South” you get 

In Florida the central part pretends to be the south, the western part pretends to be the northeast and the south pretends to be the west I’m not even fucking kidding you 

… Please tell me you guys are kidding.  

Florida is like it’s own country I swear

As a half-time Floridian, I attest to this dialogue.

Florida doesn’t count as part of the South, except for Jacksonville

It has never been easy. When I was sixteen, I knew every potentially fatal thing in my house: Nail polish remover under the sink. Bottle of rubbing alcohol beside it. Hammer in the tool box. Forty foot bridge across the highway. Traffic outside my window.

I thought about slamming my own head against a counter until I lost feeling. I thought about punching myself in the face until I stopped breathing. I thought about running out into the street at two a.m. and waiting until a car came.

I never thought I’d make it to twenty-five. But I told myself to stay. Just for a little longer. Just to see.

So I did. I sat silent amongst my friends, searching for a way to speak. I stopped leaving my house. I swapped sleeping for staying up all night, staring at my bedroom walls. When someone came into my room to talk to me, I started crying. But I stayed. Because I thought, if I plan on dying in a few years anyway, what do I have to lose? And some days I didn’t feel like I was being swallowed whole. Some days I sat by my pool and sang until the sun set. Some days I kissed somebody on their parent’s couch and didn’t feel lonely when I got to my own bed. Some days I listened to a really great song and felt understood, if only for a second.

I stayed. And still I thought about bridges. And hammers to the head. And swallowing acetone to cleanse my insides. But slowly slowly slowly I began to understand that it was okay to cry, and shake, and feel anything but okay. I realized that there would still be days that my fist would rise to my cheek. And still, my face would sometimes resemble a bruised peach.

But now I tear up my lists of potentially ways to die before I complete them. I replace prescription: pills, rubbing alcohol, and razors with memories of the good days. Of holding your hand through the entire state of Oregon. Of running half-naked down a snowy street three New Year’s ago. Of riding go-carts in the Canadian wilderness. Of smoking cigarettes on the beach in San Francisco with someone I met six months ago. If I had left, we would not know each other.

If you feel the same way, stay. For the good days. And the sunsets. And the people out there who understand. Stay because being submerged in black water does not mean you have to drown. Stay. Just for a little longer. Just to see.


Stay | Lora Mathis 

Erase the stigma behind mental illness. Being alive isn’t easy. We all have to help each other out. Losing Robin Williams to depression was a tragedy. Reach out to those around you and always offer help. 

(via lora-mathis)

kittens-jaw:

I can’t wait to stumble across the person who’s going to care, who’s not going to leave because it gets too hard, who’s not going to toy with me, who’s going to love me the way I am regardless of my flaws and imperfections. Someone who’s not going to fuck me or have sex with me, they’re going to make love to me. When I meet that person I’ll never let them go unless they let me go.ttens-jaw.tumblr

peniscruncher:

dusknoirs:

who was the asshole that decided tattoos looked unprofessional 

the generation that did is dying out so don’t worry

(Source: daftvunk)

caseyanthonyofficial:

When your girlfriend tries to hold your hand before marriage

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