no time to look it up


Everyone creates the thing they fear…

☯☯☯☯☯❂☽ ☾❂


i actually inked it bc i’m a fucking waste of space 

the panels are all screwed up cos i went through the trouble of re-arranging them as a complete page, wth

Why can’t you let go? Like a bird in the snow. This is no place to build your home.
—  lyrics from Friction by Imagine Dragons

the fabric on my top is stunning

Big toys, little custom.

F I G U R E M Y. H E A R T. O U T.

36/29/41 last time I checked. It’s been a while since then, and I think those numbers may have changed. 

I’ve never been a thin girl. My weight has yo-yoed in the past couple of years between 145 and 186. I’m somewhere in the middle right now and I still struggle to be comfortable in my body. I remind myself that even at my lowest weight, I was still uncomfortable. It has never actually been about the weight, or the size of my body. Times when I feel happiest with my appearance are times when I have dressed up, times when I am feeling busy and accomplished, times when I am giving myself the love and attention I deserve. 

I’ve found lately that I get curve envy more than anything. I’ll look at Laura Catterall, my one time measurement twin, and wish that my waist was still that defined. Or I’ll look at curvy pop culture icons and wish for their flat, toned stomachs and strong thighs. I think that this is still progress. Sure, it is a level of dissatisfaction with my appearance, something I still have to work through, but no longer wanting to be thin, and instead hoping to be healthy and curvy is progress. I’ve replaced my thin icons with curvy ones, girls that look more like me. I want to keep my thick thighs, and my round tush, but I want to be healthy in ways that mean I can rock climb and backpack easily again. How i look and what I weigh are not an indication of how healthy I am. Feeling strong, and being able to do the things that I want? That is what I’m after. 


Well Roman’s gonna have a fun time explaining to Neo why he never once tried to contact her in three years to tell her he was still alive. 

Good luck, Roman. 
(more P&P plot)


He’s going to be a great father.

When your jam comes on, but ya squad ain’t there

Fic: Got Your Number

prompted: “I’m minding my own business, driving down the freeway, when I look over and see you sitting in the passenger seat of a tow truck cab in time to see you give me this woeful I’M-SO-MISERABLE look so now I’m writing down my number and holding it up to the window so you can talk to me instead of the truck driver” AU.

~1200 words, PG.

Kurt was about four seconds from beating himself to death on the car window. Somehow he’d been stuck in the backseat after Santana called driver (which he would allow, since it was her car) and Rachel called shotgun (which was less acceptable, because he knew her motion sickness excuse was totally fabricated), meaning he either had no leg room or had to deal with the spare buckles digging into his thighs if he tried to stretch along the bench. Even more annoying than that, though, was the fact that Santana and Rachel had been arguing over who should have control of the radio for the past twenty-five miles, getting shriller and shriller as the miles passed with no resolution.

Oh, great, and we’re slowing down! Kurt thought, noting brake lights all around them. Just what I needed to improve my mood.

Thankfully, the crush of traffic trying to merge into their lane made Santana have to stop arguing and focus on the road, a small mercy for Kurt. He looked out his window idly as they neared the source of the bottleneck: a tow truck along the right shoulder picking up an older sedan, orange lights flashing away.

He had to double-take when he saw the guy leaning against the cab of the truck.

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