boys in chinos


People finding out Chino was older than Sasuke was the best part of the new episode.


No tiene nada que ver, pero esta mañana la escuche en mi tono de llamada (si, allí lo tengo) y me quede como: AAH WEEEE, MI ROLON
Y pos me puse a escucharla (como lo hacía antes) y ahora no puedo quitarmela (otra vez) de la cabeza.
Pd: Me gusta mucho la primera imagen ❤

Now you tell me who won? I see them, they run. They don’t want to see us. Whole junior mafia click dressing up trying to be us. How the fuck they gonna be the mob,when we always on our job. We millionaires. Killing ain’t fair, but somebody gotta do it. Oh yeah, Mob Deep. You wanna fuck with us? You little young ass muthafuckas, don’t one of you niggas got sickle cell or something? You fucking with me nigga, you fuck around and have a seizure or heart attack. You better BACK the fuck up before you get SMACKED the fuck up.This how we do it on our side. Any of you niggas from new york that wanna bring it, bring it.But we ain’t singing, we bring drama.Fuck you and your muthafuckin mama.We gonna kill all you muthafuckas.Now, when I came out I told you all it was just about Biggie.But everybody had to open their mouth with a muthafuckin opinion.Well this is how we gonna do this: Fuck mob deep, fuck biggie, fuck bad boy (as a staff, record label and as a muthafuckin crew). And if you wanna be down with bad boy, then fuck you too. Chino XL, fuck you too. All you muthafuckas, fuck you too.All you muthafuckas, you die slow muthafuckas.My 44 will make sure ALL your kids don’t grow. You muthafuckas can’t be us or see us. We muthafucking thug life riders, WEST SIDE til we die.Out here in california,nigga we warned you, we will BOMB on you muthafuckas. We do our job. You think you the mob, nigga we the muthafuckin mob.Ain’t nothing but killers and the real niggas, all you muthafuckas are fillers. Our shit go triple and four quadruple. You niggas laugh? Cause our staff got guns in they muthafuckin belts.You know how it is, when we drop records they felt. You niggas can’t feel it. We the realest. Fuck em, we bad boy killin.
—  Tupac Shakur (His angry rant (that rhymed) at the end of the Hit em’ up diss track)
Acojo en mi hogar palabras que he encontrado abandonadas en mi palabrera.
Examino cada jaula y allí, ladrando, vocales y consonantes;
Encuentro sucios verbos que lloran después de ser abandonados por un sujeto que un día fue su amo;
y de tan creído que era prescindió del predicado.
Esta misma semana han encontrado a un par adjetivos transtornados,
a tres adverbios muertos de frío,
y otros tantos de la raza pronombre que sueñan en sus jaulas con ser la sombra de un niño.
Señalo entonces las palabras que llevan más días abandonadas y me las llevo a casa,
las vacuno de la rabia y las peino a mi manera, como si fueran hijas únicas,
porque en verdad todas son únicas.
Acto seguido y antes de integrarlas en un parvulario de relatos o canciones
les doy un beso de tinta y les digo que si quieres ganarte el respeto
nunca hay que olvidarse los acentos en el patio,
A veces les pongo a mis palabras diéresis de colores imitando diademas
y yo sólo observo cómo juegan en el patio de un poema.
Casi siempre te abandonan demasiado pronto y las escuchas en bocas ajenas
y te alegras y te enojas contigo mismo como con todo lo que amamos con cierto egoísmo.
Y uno se queda en casa, inerte y algo vacío, acariciando aquél vocablo mudo llamado silencio,
siempre fiel, siempre contigo.
Pero todo es ley de vida, como un día me dijo el Poeta Halley:
“Si las palabras se atraen que se unan entre ellas.
Y a brillar que son dos sílabas
—  Poeta Halley

I usually don’t appreciate people taking pics of me while I’m asleep, but i guess this time I’ll post it cuz i like it being as it shows off how my boy Chino is the best pillow in the house. My homegirl dubbed this pic with the name “Sleepy Samurai” Iol

Essays in Existentialism: Masquerade

masquerade ball au clarke is from a well to do family but she doesn’t give a shit about that she just wants the girl with green eyes and harsh but oh so gentle hands that make her feel like they are up up in the atmosphere in space with stars all around when they dance and she is going to find her.

The ballroom was brimming, dimly lit and that pure kind of magic that comes from shadows and masks, with people in their finest attire, fitted with tuxedos and gowns and jewelry that even just one could buy everything the out-of-place guest owned a few times over. The heavy drapes were pulled back, the fountains spitting and slushing throughout the gardens, so that the bushes and flowers were lit up with tiny lights that extended like golden galaxies outside until they blended into the glow of the lights on twinkling against the lake. Never before had Lexa been to something like that, and never before had she been so mystified by the pure grandeur of the Club.

The traditional beginning of summer Masquerade Ball was in full swing by the time the hand arrived in a borrowed gown and mask. The thick heat of the early summer made the grass grow lush and the wild onions out in the pastures sweet in the cool breeze from the lake. Lexa could count on one hand the number of times she’d been in the big house since she started working in the stables two years ago. The dancing and swishing gowns, the frivolity that came with the open bar and white-coated waiters and their silver trays of bubbling constellations, the gloves up to elbows and neatly craft hair-do’s were so ostentatious she could barely believe their realness. 

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