Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.) And yet: Don’t land me in one of those relationships where we’re always pecking at each other, disguising insults as jokes, rolling our eyes and ‘playfully’ scrapping in front of our friends, hoping to lure them to our side of an argument they could not care less about. Those awful if only relationships: This marriage would be great if only… and you sense the if only list is a lot longer than either of them realises.

So I know I am right not to settle, but it doesn’t make me feel better as my friends pair off and I stay home on Friday night with a bottle of wine and make myself an extravagant meal and tell myself, This is perfect, as if I’m the one dating me. As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. I go on dates with men who are nice and good-looking and smart – perfect-on-paper men who make me feel like I’m in a foreign land, trying to explain myself, trying to make myself known. Because isn’t that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn’t that the simple magic phrase?
—  GIllian Flynn, Gone Girl
You and I had a story that could easily be made into lyrics. We had the kind of love everyone dreams they could have. I truly felt like you were the one, but life got in the way. We were left standing there starring at each other as the ground spilt between us. We both stood on opposite sides, a smile lining our lips, but tears in our eyes. We had a good run, but neither of us really wanted it to end..
—  Late Night Thoughts

I wonder what happens,
When I finally let you in, 
To take all of me and run,
Or to tread here through thick and thin.

I have my eye out,
For a new kind of medicine.
Try to eliminate the self-doubt,
Take’ you on as my prescription.

But what if the side effects,
Are too much to take?

What if you get me high,
Only to watch me break?

—  Belle Jar

noah tagged me in an abt me post so here ye go aye thanks mate
1. height: 5’ 8"
2. hairstyle an color: dirty blonde, shaved sides and long top
3. eye color: hazel
4. glasses?: aye, red circle rims
5. braces?: nope, teeth es straight as n arrow
6. fashion sense: paint covered punk clothes
7. siblings: aye, 4 older siblins
8. what kind of student: a naturally excel
9. favorite subjects: religion, econ, history
10. fav tv shows: iasip is the only a watch
11. fav books: Siddhartha, Alchemist, One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest
12. fav pastime: meditate, write
13. regrets: eh no really nothin that big
14. dream job: buddhist monk
15. wanna get married: doubt it, probly die too young for et
16. want kids: no way
17. visited countries? aye 2

ill tag @keithmoon666 @goruma an @serioussamthefirstencounter


LWD & SKOP CHALLENGE » day 5 | Connor and Rose’s day

     Our lifetimes of combatting one another seemed to flip over like a spinning coin that fell to one side.
     His lips an inch from mine, he whispered something, not a quote. Not in French. Connor Cobalt murmured, “What’s inside this feeling that screams at me?” His eyes spoke of battles and wins and years positioned right across from me. “Devotion.” He neared. “Fealty.”
     His lips touched mine. Our very first kiss. My rigid body stayed erect, but I heated like a thousand burning stars. He deepened the kiss, in control so I wouldn’t have to think.
     I was thinking.
     I thought about how my mind sparked and blistered. I thought about how his hands commanded the moment as much as his lips. I thought about how he held me like I’d always been in his possession, as he’d always been in mine.

I saw you today. With her.
She seems really kind, but I’m sure you already know that. She’s beautiful too; I found myself admiring her long, wavy hair and golden-brown eyes.
You looked good.
I saw the way she made you laugh– how your eyes crinkled up around the outer edges like they always have. How the right side of your lip curls up a little higher than your left when you do that cute laugh-smile. I have to wonder if she notices those things about you.
I close my eyes, and almost outline your smile.
It had been a while since I’d last seen you that happy; It’s good to see you happy. I’m happy for you.

Then there was Nico di Angelo. Dang, that kid gave Leo the freaky-deakies. He sat back in his leather aviator jacket, his black T-shirt and jeans, that wicked silver skull ring on his finger, and the Stygian sword at his side. His tufts of black hair struck up in curls like baby bat wings. His eyes were sad and kind of empty, as if he’d stared into the depths of Tartarus—which he had.

I made another one but this time for valdangelo. Artist credit in the quote!


Speech time!

Obviously, I started this blog to get attention. I thought pairing Doctor Who with Futurama quotes would be hilarious, and the more people I could reach with that idea the better. I’m the kind of egomaniac who loves keeping an eye on how many notes individual posts get, and then basing my entire self-worth on that fickle number. It’s how I roll.

But. There is no way in earth, in THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE, I could have predicted how many notes a Kamelion shitpost would get. A friend I was sharing the cake with was like, “yeah, it’s kind of aesthetic, I can see that side of tumblr latching on to it” and I was like “hwaah?” because when making the post all I saw was the shittiest, least loved, most obscure televised Doctor Who companion ever making dumb robot jokes in Bender’s voice. I laughed for a while, posted it, it got a pleasant number of notes, and after a few months it died. End of story. And then, AN ENTIRE YEAR after originally posted, it picked up again. Out of nowhere. Out of the (TARDIS) blue. And then it picked up a lot.

I really don’t deserve this. Like. At all. I can’t stress how much none of this was under any of my control, and yet I’m the one buying a tumblr post anniversary cake like it’s my fucking birthday. This blog is for my small tumblr fandom, because Classic Who is where I’ve found my friends and family, its where I feel most accepted. I’m so glad two (TWO!) tumblr celebrities deemed it worthy of a reblog, skyrocketing the notes up by 20k overnight multiple times. I’m so glad more people got to see it, that in the future what might identify Classic Who as Classic Who, what might become a signature mascot, is this prop robot that doesn’t fucking work and in my very educated opinion is legitimately cursed. I’m so glad this post did so well, partially because of my egomania and partially because I’m glad I inadvertently made something that so many people have enjoyed, even for half a second.

But what’s super important, and what I’m most glad about, is that Doctor Who fans (seemingly) enjoy the blog, and continue to follow the blog, even though I update once every millennia. Thank you. Thank you so much. This cake is, symbolically, for all of you. 

But, not symbolically, it’s all mine, and it’s really freakin’ delicious.

We’re not allowed to be scared. If we point out attacks in France, attacks in MENA, rising right-wing rhetoric, then we need to calm down. It isn’t the thirties any more, after all- all that kind of thing’s over. And goyim quote Never Again and are so smug, so confident if they were around back then they’d be on the right side of history, and close their eyes to everything that’s happening around them.

On another occasion, George heard that it was the birthday of Dot Mitchell, then the landlady at The Row Barge, his local public house [in Henley-on-Thames]. He called her to one side and, teasingly, told her to hold out her hand and close her eyes. Then, he dropped three perfect, impossibly valuable rubies into her hand. ‘Have a nice birthday,’ he told her.
—  Eric Idle on George Harrison