what ? a padmé amidala blog ? listen, i know what you’re thinking: that bitch hasn’t been relevant sincemay 19th, 2005, when the entire galaxy all collectively suffered critical amnesia and all forgotshe existed all at once, like a million voices were all screaming her praises, and then suddenlysilenced. i know you’re thinking there’s no place in tumblr rp for this extra Aesthetic Ho™who owns more articles of clothing than any well adjusted human being has a right to ownand has very questionable taste in sugar babies, but ! consider: i have murdered georgewalton lucas jr. with my own two hands. i strangled that little bitch on mustafar until he lost thewill to live and then spirited padmé amidala naberrie skywalker away to the love and safetyof my own two arms. i fed her like a baby bird and nurtured her like my own child, and from this,the true queen and senator and wife and mother was born. i made her. she’s mine. i birthed herfrom my own womb and raised her with my own two hands. suck my ass. god. anyway like / reblog this if you’d be interested in roleplaying with an independent and selective padmé amidala.
George Harrison and Pattie Boyd on 18 March 1969 (photos 1 and 2), the date on which the first hearing for the drug bust took place, at Esher and Walton Magistrates Court. He and Pattie were on bail until 31 March 1969 (photo), the date of the trial.
Photos: AP; Alamy; Corbis
“I’m a tidy man. I keep my socks in the sock drawer and stash in the stash box. It’s not mine.” - George Harrison, 1969
“Darling, you can’t let everything seem so dark blue. Oh, what can I do?”
—“Black Beauty,” Lana Del Rey
The summer I was 16 and cripplingly awkward, my father’s job moved our family from Toronto to the southern U.S. After spending my whole young life in Canada, I started my first day of 10th grade at George Walton High School in East Cobb County, Georgia, and the ensuing culture shock was about as harrowing as you can imagine for an already uneasy teenage girl.
The high school of nearly 2,700 students was primarily white and Baptist, complete with daily prayer around the flagpole, pancake breakfasts for Jesus, and a Friday Night Lights–style football obsession. On game days, fully suited football players brought roses to their assigned cheerleaders, while the girls, clad in their freshly pressed red-white-and-blue uniforms, provided players with baked goods and breakfast sandwiches from Chik-fil-A. The town was famed for a 56-foot-tall steel-sided chicken statue, and for being an early adopter of evolution is just a theory stickers for its science textbooks. In one memorable round of bullying, a few other students decided I was a weirdo and a freak and threw food at me in the cafeteria while gleefully chanting insults.
The only way to suffer through 18 months in the slo-mo sport-movie montage of southern teen culture was to fetishize Americana—protests in Marietta Square and peach pies cooling on windowsills, buttery Waffle House grits and chain-smoked Marlboro Reds with bottomless diner coffee, and the appealing façade of southern hospitality. It was a bright-side approach to darkness, a juvenile fascination with the great American road trip, with drug-fueled binges for the sake of poetry and art, with Hollywood glamour and revolution and the blinking lights of Vegas—a false frontier mentality that made America seem majestic rather than menacing. Deluding myself into survival, I found something to love where there was nothing. And decades later, I’ve found that Lana Del Rey that sounds exactly like that glorious pretense. Her songs, are in essence, nostalgia for an old lie.