mo ti

Kur njihesh me nje femer e kalon disa koh me te fillon te ndjesh dicka e te ndjej , me pak fjal ja kaloni shum mir sa ngriheni aq lart sa ska rendesi por situatat ju ulin prap posht e per ty ska me rendesi edhe sikur asaj femre mos ti bej pershtypje me ben mua dhe te them Mirupafshim atje ku te gjeta 😉

Make some fun

Don’t leave,
Shut your mind off and let your heart breath.
You don’t need to be worried.
I may not ever get my shit togheter,
But ain’t nobody gonna love you better.

anonymous asked:

Bread fathers guide to comedy: 1. Draw a pic 2. Add motion blur 3. Reduse the quality 4. There is no step 4 5. Ur done

Fike cigaren mbi doren time?
-Cfare?
-Fike cigaren te dora ime. Dua te me mbese nje shenje nga ti.
-Mos u cmende gje? Te dhemb.
-Jo, ta them un cfare dhemb.
Dhemb te presesh nje mesazh cdo dite, qe nuk vjen kurre. Ti fiksosh syte per ore te tera te celulari qe nuk bie. Dhemb te shkoj te fle duke menduar se cfare do jesh duke bere ti. Dhemb kur mendoj qe mund te flasesh me nje vajze tjeter, qe eshte me e bukur se une. Dhemb kur di qe s'do jesh me mua gjithmone. Do me dhembi e do me beje keq me shume kur te jete ftohte dhe nuk do mund te te perqafoj, kur te jem e lumtur dhe nuk mund te ta them arsyen pse, kur te kem nevoj te rri me ty dhe atehere mes lotesh do filloj te shoh fotografite tona. Do me beje keq edhe kur ne nje nate vere te shoh qiellin plot me yje dhe do me duket sikur te kam prane meje. E di, e di qe me ke bere keq dhe do vazhdosh te me besh akoma, prandaj fike ate cigare mbi doren time sepse dua te te kujtoj gjithmone, qe pavarsisht gjithe dhimbjes qe ndjej, une te kam dashur, te dua.
Pavarsisht gjithckaje.. ja vlejte Zemer. ..

anonymous asked:

you literally make my day whenever ya post shit, you beautiful baguette.

c  R I E  S  I N TE  N SE L  Y  

I M    G   L    A   D   A N D I  M L O    V   U     

A A A A A AA AA A A A A  A  A  A A A DFKLBVXSDHVCXBCKLMCKJCXVHXCBKVSKDHVCBXKLZCXCMVLKDSBVCKLHCBKXC

Beyoncé è un galbanino?

Scrivo questo post da una località segreta dell’Umbria settentrionale. I servizi segreti gay di Milano hanno ritenuto opportuno inserirmi nel programma protezione perché questo pezzo potrebbe portarmi dei problemi con la mafia gay meneghina. Ho dovuto cambiare identità, colore di capelli e gusti culinari (ora non mi piace più il pesto - sono stato costretto). 

Ebbene. Basta con Beyoncé. Io sono stufo di Beyoncé ha inventato le gravidanze, B. ha inventato i fiori. In particolare questa storia dei fiori è stata la goccia. Toccatemi tutto, ma non la flora. Beyoncé, lascia stare i fiori perché io vengo dove stai tu mo mo nel giardino e ti piglio per la corona che ti sei messa sulla testa e ci buttiamo tutti e due nella piscina e ti rovino la pettinatura e la tua pettineuse viene pure lei nella piscina con un asciugacapelli attaccato perché se vede rovinata la sua opera d’arte allora non vuole campare più e noi con lei.

B. è sopravvalutata.

Ha costruito ben benino il suo personaggio. Dice ma lo fanno tutte le popstar. Certo, ma lei in più ha messo questa cosa che è intoccabile, che tutto quello che fa è perfetto, iconico, top of the pops, my secret diary. Quando invece non è così. Quella era Aaliyah.

Prima di tutto io ancora mi ricordo quando stava nelle Destiny’s child e disse in un’intervista che loro non si sarebbero mai separate. Io ricordo e so bene quanto ora sta soffrendo Michelle, perché Chellirola si è aperta un chiosco di pane e panelle e c’ha il carattere che si riprende, però Michelle non ce l’ha fatta a superare il trauma e io Michelle la conosco: lei è il tipo orgoglioso di chi dice che non sta soffrendo e invece la sera mette la testa nella federa del cuscino e respira piume e fallimento. Io una volta ho visto Michelle al Simply che chiedeva al commesso ma come fanno a mettere il tonno in queste scatolette piccole piccole

Beyoncé ormai pensa di essere il massimo dello show business, un po’ come il galbanino è il punto più alto della categoria formaggi. Però il galbanino è VERAMENTE il formaggio più appetitoso e ricercato e invece Bey cara è solo una cantante come mille che ora va nel giardino della clinica a farsi le foto e l’infermiera le dice vieni qua tu sei una scriteriata

Ho un diavolo per capello oggi dopo aver visto quella foto. B, sei il servizio fotografico che si fanno gli sposi dopo la cerimonia e gli ospiti li aspettano i minuti interi e non si può aprire il buffet e gli ospiti stanno morendo di fame e ne dicono di ogni e poi quando arriva la sposa come stai bella

Enough. -Sonas/Happiness pt 8

Hi guys, her is the next installment. I hope you all enjoy some Friday Fluff and thank you so much for all your encouragement so far :) Han xxx

Jamie arrived at Lallybroch at around midnight after four weeks away, saddle sore, dirty and unshaven. He settled Blane in the stables, brushed him down and offered him a couple of handfuls of oats before shutting the stall door and turning his attention to himself.

He didn’t have a razor handy so the stubble on his jaw would have to stay until morning but he was sure he could probably make a half-way decent job of cleaning himself up a bit before going inside to see Claire. It was not that he thought she would mind the road-dirt, but he wanted to try to look the best he could for her.

The bucket of water beside the door looked new enough, likely ready to freshen the drinking trough come morning, and after plucking a few strands of hay out of it, Jamie decided it would do nicely.

He groaned in pleasure as he stripped off the damp jacket and sweaty shirt that he had worn for the last forty-eight hours and plunged his arms into the freezing water.

“Ah dhia!”

His teeth began to chatter but without hesitation, he splashed handfuls over his back and chest, washing his armpits with a series of small squeaks as the water trickled down his ribs.

He rubbed his hands together roughly; dislodging most of the grime picked up along the road, and finally splashed his face and rubbed it vigorously with the cleanest patch of shirt he could find.

He dug through his bag and came up with a halfway decent linen shirt that was only a little musty and tugged it over his head before running his fingers through his hair and carefully dislodging most of the knots. He had managed to lose his ribbon somewhere on the journey so left his hair loose around his shoulders, curling slightly as it dried.

Preparations complete, Jamie draped his jacket over his arm and made his way to the house. The dogs greeted him with quiet excitement and although the house was dark, Jamie moved with practiced ease, dodging the familiar furniture and creaking stares without thought, his mind entirely focussed on seeing his wife.

The laird’s chamber door was slightly open and he eased it shut with a gentle thump, the solid wood settling into place silently behind him. He lit a couple of candles, striking the flint successfully on the first try, and the room became illuminated in soft, yellow light.

Claire was asleep in the armchair beside the window, her most recent failed attempt at knitting the baby a shawl crumpled across her lap and a plate of cheese and walnuts, her latest craving, mostly untouched on the table beside her.

Jamie smiled and crossed the room, dropping to a crouch beside her. He hated to wake her but knew that she would be cross come morning if he did not announce himself.

“Mo graidh? Tis me. I’m home Sassenach.”

Her eyes fluttered and for a moment her gaze was unfocused but then their eyes met and she sat upright, throwing her arms around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his cheek before burying her face in his neck.

“I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too.”

They stayed that way for perhaps a full minute before Claire pulled back and cupped his face in her hands

“Jamie, I have to tell you something, something wonderful but well… it’s a little shocking so …”

“Whatever it is Sassenach, can it wait until morning? I’m bone tired …”

Jamie yawned reflexively, his jaw cracking with the force of it.

“Well, no I don’t think it should wait.”

Claire’s eyes were sparkling in the candle light, almost feverish with glee and Jamie nodded with a rueful smile

“Alright, what is it then?”

“Jamie … Brianna is here.”

“What? How?”

Jamie’s jaw slackened with shock and Claire laughed despite herself

“She came through the stones to warn us about a fire that happened … that will happen, I mean, in America and apparently we’re in it but that’s years away yet and …”

“Our Brianna? Our daughter? Is here in this very house?”

Jamie shook his head to clear the buzzing that filled his ears and tried to slow his pounding heart. He had a horrible feeling that he was about to either faint or vomit.

“Yes. She’s asleep in Ian’s room, Ian is in with Michael.”

Claire beamed at him and Jamie nodded as if this was the most natural information in the world but his fingers were trembling fiercely. Claire caught hold of his hand and squeezed.

“You’ll meet her in the morning.”

Jamie nodded again. He had so many questions but none of them seemed to form coherently enough to ask and really, what did the answers matter? All that mattered was that his daughter was here.

“Can I see her now? I dinna mean to wake her but … I would verra much like to see her.”

Jamie licked his lips and Claire realised with a shock that he was afraid.

“Of course you can. Are you alright?”

She held out her hand and Jamie helped her to her feet

“Och aye … tis only that, well I didna expect to ever … it was enough to ken that she was but now … to have the chance to ken that she is …”

Jamie’s chest swelled with a deep breath. In his eyes Claire could see his hope, his fear and something else, something deeper shining back at her from the sapphire depths. For a moment Claire did not recognise it, but then she saw it clearly, it was the look of a parent contemplating the enormity of their child, of the new life they had produced and the wonder of creation.

“I know. I didn’t think I would ever …”

Claire bit the words off. She had not allowed herself to say that she feared she would never see her daughter again. It was a thought too painful to articulate and too raw to dwell on privately.

“But she is here and you should see her, Jamie.”

Jamie nodded and took hold of Claire’s hand, following as she led the way down the hall, a candle held out before her like a beacon.

Claire entered Ian’s room without hesitation but Jamie lingered a moment. His heart was beating so loudly he was sure it would wake the lass and if it did, if she woke and saw him, would she recoil? Would she want anything to do with him at all? Fear once again coiled around his hear and Jamie shuddered.

“Jamie?”

Claire stepped back into the hall and he shook his head wordlessly.

“What if I’m no’ enough Claire? She has come so far and risked so much.”

Claire placed her hands on his shoulders, warm and solid through the fabric of his shirt, gripping him hard enough to still his tremors and focus his attention on her.

“Listen to me James Fraser, you have always been and you will always be enough. You are ours and we are yours and the rest we will figure out.”

“She’s a woman grown though, aye? I dinna ken what she’ll need of me.”

“You. Just as you are. That’s all anyone can ever need of another person really.”

Jamie swallowed but nodded his head in acceptance of the truth of her words and allowed Claire to take his hand once again and gently lead him into the small room.

The candle light threw shadows up the wall, making the room seem deeper than it truly was. Brianna was curled on her side, the same position Claire favoured in sleep, softly muffled snores coming from beneath a veil of tussled russet curls, her hand curled delicately beside her chin. Claire gently moved the red hair back from her face and Jamie whimpered beside her. It was a very small sound, almost lost in the quiet of the room.

He slowly sank to a crouch, his eyes fixed on his daughter with the sort of devotion Claire imagined a antique dealer might have when gazing upon a fabled gem. Something precious and almost mythical which they had scarcely dared believe existed but was now right before them and every bit as glorious as they had ever dared to hope.

He reached out and ever so gently touched a red curl beside her hand and a single tear slid down the side of his nose, skirting his lips as he whispered

“Mo maise, mo nighean ruaidh. Brianna.”

His voice rose the hairs on Claire’s arms, the longing and love contained within the three syllables of their daughters name as it fell from his lips was almost too much to bear.

Jamie stood suddenly and caught Claire’s wrist in his hand, towing her from the room without uttering a word. He made it perhaps ten feet before turning to her and pressing his forehead to hers, his eyes closed and mouth pressed into a grim line to prevent his lip quivering.

“Thank ye, Claire. Thank ye for my daughter.”

Claire didn’t have time to respond before he kissed her, a gentle kiss at first, almost chaste, but as was so often the case between them, a tiny flame grew into an inferno and they broke apart, lips bruised and breathless.

“We should try and get some sleep.”

“Aye, though I dinna ken that I will manage to do so.”

Jamie smiled and Claire noticed the trembling had returned to his fingers.

“You will and in the morning you will meet your daughter and you will be astounded by what a wonderful person you created.”

She smiled, hugging him as tightly as she could around the swell of her pregnancy.

“We created.”

Jamie corrected softly, resting his cheek atop his wife’s head.

“Loving me may not have always been a bed of roses for ye, Sassenach, but my God, if ever anyone should need proof of the wisdom of it, there it is. She is worth everything.”

“She is.”

Claire smiled and together, they made their way back to bed, to await everything the morning would bring.

Stasera cercavo di spiegare il motivo per il quale io a Monopoli sono una merda. Ma non merda del tipo che gli altri giocatori sono contenti perchè c’è l’allocco al tavolo a cui rubare le stazioni sud, nord, est e ovest (non c’era bisogno di elencarle tutte, ma nella mia testa risuonavano come nord-sud-ovest-est e sentivo intimamente il bisogno di ribellarmi a Max Pezzali) (ho dovuto rileggere dal capoverso perchè già m’ero persa), io dico Merda che proprio risulta inutile ai fini del gioco, che a un certo punto diventa un fantasma e che se c’è o non c’è non cambia niente. Però questo fatto di dare Viale della Vittoria in cambio di un fucsia, che per chi non lo sapesse il fucsia fa schifo al cazzo da almeno ventisette generazioni di giocatori di monopoli, dicevo questo fatto che faccio fare a tutti dei grandi affari e mi spoglio di ogni mia proprietà in cambio di passare gratuitamente sui loro terreni non l’ha capito mai nessuno, sono sempre stata accusata di boicottaggio.
PREMESSO che non ci sarà nessuna metafora buonista in questa storia, sono solo io che ho fumato dopo una vita che non fumavo e credevo che prendere il pc  alle 02.41 del mattino per scrivere questa stronzata del monopoli sarebbe stato interessante, irrinunciabile quasi, giuro che a un certo punto mi è sembrata la cosa più geniale del mondo e invece mi sono persa di nuovo.
Sarà che sto rileggendo Calvino adesso che sono di nuovo disoccupata e non ho niente da fare e Calvino per me è un genio e tutto quello che scrive e come lo scrive mi fa sempre sentire piccola come quando avevo letto Il Barone Rampante sul pavimento della mia cameretta, ma adesso non attaccherò un pippone gigante su Italo Calvino, volevo solo raccontare quel fatto del monopoli.
Insomma alla fine io non ho più nessuna proprietà, se riesco mi raccatto (spesso ad un prezzo esorbitante) l’acqua potabile (ma mai l’elettricità, mai, mai, sventura e guai a chi si prende la carta dell’elettricità) (non so perchè sto mettendo tutte queste parentesi) (le parentesi sembrano messe per consolare le persone come a dire non ti preoccupare, questa digressione senza senso dura pochissimo, mo ti torno a dire del fottuto monopoli.)
allora alla fine della partita in quei momenti in cui vige il TERRORE CIECO sul tavolo quando chiunque preferisce stare in prigione piuttosto che passare su Via Marco Polo perchè ci hanno costruito due alberghi e tre casette verdi, e che se tiri 6 e finisci su un Viola sono cazzi tuoi e sono subito mani nei capelli e ti devi ipotecare pure tua madre che ancora aveva 30 anni quando era iniziata la partita.. ecco, in quei momenti io vado in giro per il tabellone come un pedone tranquillo a cui tutto è concesso. Mii sono comprata il diritto di passare ovunque senza pagare in cambio di tutte le mie proprietà, è vero non ho niente, mi so’ venduta pure i fucsia, però non ho perdite, non pago niente. Passo dal VIA e ogni volta prendo 20milalire e alla fine loro si scanneranno e io metterò su un enorme patrimonio e me ne vado alle Bahamas e non pagherò manco le tasse.
Vorrei mettere come titolo a questi post ‘l’economia applicata a rossella’, ma mi scoccia ritornare su con la freccetta e quindi non lo faccio.

Non-ce-la-faccio (e invece sì)

L’orgoglio secondo Angelo è il mio più grande difetto. Lui lo dice perché ogni volta che giochiamo a biliardo finisco sempre per arrischiarmi in sponde impossibili con la presunzione di riuscire laddove potrei accontentarmi di perder solo un punto. “È impossibile, non puoi farcela” “Tsk, ce la faccio” e puntualmente non ce la faccio. Ma la verità è che l’incapacità di pronunciare quelle quattro parole, fermarmi, chiedere aiuto, consiglio, la resa, mi trattiene piccolo nel mondo e sarà sempre gioia delle mie rovine. Non so la disfatta all’ombra d’un’umiltà che non possiedo, ho buttato relazioni incrinate per non doverne accettare le crepe, e ho curato con lo stesso accanimento relazioni incurabili per non doverne accettare la morte. Angelo mi sghigna un “Prendila mo” ed io non so se a pungermi è lo stesso demonio sdentato che morsicava Marty McFly con la faccina stronza di Flea, ma non esiste che io m’arrenda, no no non m’arrendo, io ce la faccio io, mo ti faccio vedere, mo vi faccio vedere io a tutti, quanto sono coglione.