Kiss her. Slowly, take your time, there’s no place you’d rather be. Kiss her but not like you’re waiting for something else, like your hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. Nothing like that. Kiss her like you’ve forgotten any other mouth that your mouth has ever touched. Kiss her with a curious childish delight. Laugh into her mouth, inhale her sighs. Kiss her until she moans. Kiss her with her face in your hands. Or your hands in her hair. Or pulling her closer at the waist. Kiss her like you want to take her dancing. Like you want to spin her into an open arena and watch her look at you like you’re the brightest thing she’s ever seen. Kiss her like she’s the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. Take your time. Kiss her like the first and only piece of chocolate you’re ever going to taste. Kiss her until she forgets how to count. Kiss her stupid. Kiss her silent. Come away, ask her what 2+2 is and listen to her say your name in answer.
THERE IS SO MUCH GOOD FANFICTION IN THIS WORLD
SO GOD DAMN MUCH
SO MANY FICS THAT I WOULD CUT OFF MY LEFT ARM TO SEE PLAYED OUT
AND PEOPLE CHOSE FIFTY SHADES OF GREY
I love how the whole harry potter fandom just calls harry an idiot for naming his kid albus severus and says ginny should’ve named the kids so they would survive childhood
like you do realize this is the girl who named an owl pigwidgeon right
"Hedwig Pigwidgeon Potter, you are named after two owls."
I think it’s weird that teenage girls know more about giving blowjobs than they do about masturbation. It makes me sick to my stomach that so many young girls think sex is just about a guy finishing.
Do you sing? What color are your eyes? What do stars taste like? How quiet was it before you made us? I just want to get to know you better. This can be like a speed-dating round, you know, except I’ll do all the talking, I guess. I’m eating Wendy’s right now and sitting in a parking lot. I just figured, if I was gonna talk to myself, I’d talk to you, too. Are you lonely? I know there are over six billion of us to talk to, but are you lonely? I listen for you, sometimes, to see if you’re asking for anyone, but I can’t hear anything. Maybe you’re just not talking to me. That’s okay.
I have some theories about your son. I wonder where he is, and why he hasn’t come back. My first theory is because you still haven’t forgiven yourself for what happened to him, so you’ve devoted your eternity to tending to his wounds. That’s beautiful, if so. I hope you two are happy. My second theory, is that he’s been here all along, in different bodies and different parts of the world. Maybe he’s got a garden in London somewhere, and he doesn’t have a lot of friends, except for a few, who notice the pure white light in his eyes, but shrug it off and blame it on the sun. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve met him by accident. Maybe I brushed past him on the bus, or pressed my hand into his back while trying to squeeze through a crowd. I don’t think so, though. I think I would have felt that kind of heaven in my hands. I think I would have noticed.
Are you scared of us? Are you ashamed? I’m not accusing, I’m just curious. Did you plan for this? I mean, some of us are terrible. Some of us are just wicked to the core, and I don’t understand how you can love them like you love everyone. I think about how your son turned his cheek for angry hands, and I can’t imagine. I am shaking with rage at the thought of letting someone do that to me. Forgiveness is powerful, I know that, but so is smashing things and setting people straight. I’m just so angry, sometimes. I don’t know what to do with the hate, because it tastes so bad, but it burns if I spit it out. Do you feel anger? You must. I mean, you have to. There are so many of us who have destroyed you, used you, manipulated you, forged your face and worn your clothes. What do you do with it? Lightning? Are you the thunder? I guess it isn’t angels bowling, but wouldn’t that be cool. My memories of you smell like old wood and the smoke from candles. I looked for you in church on Sundays, and briefly wondered if that was your light in the stained glass windows. Can I be honest? I only believe in you sometimes. One time, I was on the verge of a panic attack and crying into my pillow, so I started talking (praying) to you. I don’t remember what I said, but when I was finished, the bees left my stomach, and I felt clean. I fell asleep sighing. I believed in you then, I really did. I could almost feel you.
Some days, you’re all I look for. Some days, I can’t conjure your name for the life of me. Please don’t be mad, I’m just being honest.
I think I miss you. I think people have ruined you. I think I’m a little afraid of you. I think you’ll forgive me.
i’m thankful my childhood was filled with imagination and bruises from playing outside, instead of apps and how many damn likes you get on a picture
50 shades of shut the fuck up about this book i’ve read better smut written by virgin teenagers for free
Happy 30th Birthday Ali Krieger - 28th July 2014
A wild Ashlyn Harris appears. - 5.26.14
Checkout the rest here.
Adventureland (Greg Mottola, 2009)
im ok w spending $40 on food but wont buy a $40 shirt