personalized from me to you

If I could, I would write him a letter. I’d write to him something that would let me tell him how sorry I am for what I did to him, but mostly for what I did to us. I’d tell him that there was never a moment when he wasn’t enough for me, and that he shouldn’t ever let himself think so. I’d tell him that he never failed me, and that instead I failed him. Over and over again. I’d tell him that he shouldn’t have been charged with the weight of two people when he was already so much in one person, and that I truly wouldn’t mind if there were times when he just genuinely hated me. I’d have hated me too. As a matter fact, I really do hate the person I was. I hate how little control I had over myself. I hate how little control I have over myself, right now in this moment and at this time. I hate that I lost him, and I’d tell him that I’ve hated every single day since the moment when I realized that he and I would never be the same ever again. Because I lost something that meant more to me than I’ve been aware of. And even though we can sit beside each other without being as awkward as we used to be, I miss knowing the things that went on in his head. I miss knowing him. But maybe I needed this, you know? Maybe I needed to face all of this so that I could come out a new person. Maybe there will come a day in the future when I can be the person that he makes me want to be. And maybe that’ll be with him. But still…maybe not.
—  🖤

Adulthood is literally just a cycle of spending every waking minute wishing you could go to bed until it’s actually time for bed and then it becomes the absolute LAST thing you want to do because going to bed is the thing that makes tomorrow happen and then you have to do it all over again

anonymous asked:

Yahaba's little pink ribbon is goals

thank you, he appreciates it!! 

Okay so I found my dead grandfather’s journal from 56 years ago. This is some old stuff, okay, and I was like yeah I’m gonna read a page or two. 

Basically he wrote down this road trip he did with a friend of his (name is Giulio) but at some point it gets so weird.

I’ll try my best to translate it from italian to english (english is not my first language) and well, I’m also having a hard time trying to read my gandpa’s writing cause he wrote like a drunk snail.

Now, beware, my grandfather was an italian man dedicated to work, church, work and work, who believed in the traditional family and all that Jazz. But at some point I reach this part where he writes: “yesterday me and Giulio slept in the same tent as mine was stolen at the gas station. As it was really cold, we slept close. In the middle of the night I realized that the warmth next to me did not belong to my Nadia (his fiancé at the time, my grandmother). It was the most intense feeling I’ve ever felt”.

And I was like allright that’s some weird no homo bullshit but who cares.

BUT THEN IT JUST GETS WORSE.

“I was having a cigarette whilst Giulio was asleep in the car, having a nap before we hit the road again. In the midst of the smoke of my tobacco, I saw his face and thought that the woman who is going to marry him will be lucky”.

Grandpa, what the hell? 

BUT OH NO IT JUST GETS BETTER.

“We shared a bed. Old motel did not have spare rooms, it was awkward at first. Then I started thinking that the warmth of Giulio’s body is somehow becoming more familiar to me then Nadia’s.”

Now, I have like seventy more pages of this goddamn journal but I am pretty fucking sure my gandfather had the worst crush over his best friend.


The complete post X

Lonely hearts have a tendency to stick their veins out, in hope of connecting to someone else’s blood vessels. The only problem is that the bearers of those hearts have reached a point where they feel like they don’t know how to do that anymore. They’ve been put down too many times, told that they’re abnormal so often, to the point of nearly believing it themselves. They tell themselves that they just aren’t meant to be around anyone else, that they were born to love infinitely and to never be loved the same.
—  🖤

Killian Jones, the person who knows and understands Emma Swan better than ANYBODY ELSE, knew she would react the exact way that she did. He understands what his ‘leaving’ would do to her. How it would hit her and what she would do (remember how he asked her not to put her armor back on when she was leaving him in the Underworld? He KNOWS her).

Killian Jones isn’t thinking less of Emma, and I don’t think it’s fair for anybody else to do so either.

Your Move

The nine times Simon and Baz prank each other and the one time they don’t

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Epilogue

April 2

Simon

Waking up in Baz’s bed is too soft to describe.  Technically, I’m sure his bed is no softer than my own, but now there’s another level of soft, one that goes beyond a physical body-soft.  Soft like my entire soul is encased in cotton fluff. Heart-soft.

“Baz?”

He doesn’t open his eyes, just smiles a little, and his sleepy smile has my heart skipping.  “Simon?”

Crowley, just hearing him say my name, and in a voice still heavy with sleep, is enough to have me swooning a little.

           “It’s April second.”

           “Yes it is.”

           “Do you still love me?”

           Baz pulls me closer and when he speaks his lips brush my forehead.  “Today, tomorrow, every day after that.”

           His shirt is my new favourite smell and I bury my nose in it.  “It’s funny, if you think about it?”

           “Hm?”

           “We both told the truth yesterday,” I muse.  “We pranked each other every day except April Fool’s Day.”

           He chuckles deep within his throat.  “We really are pathetic.”

           “Guess that makes us both April Fools, huh?”

           “Speak for yourself, love,” he laughs, and I’m so gone.

Baz

“So,” Simon murmurs after a few more moments of silent heaven, “is the game over?”

           I shrug with one shoulder.  “Who won?”

           “Me.”

           “Really?” I raise an eyebrow.  “How?”

           “I’ve got you wrapped in my wings, Baz, it doesn’t get much better than this.”

           “I dunno,” I grin, “I think I definitely won.”

           Simon scoffs.  “As if.”

           “I’m wrapped in your wings.”

           “Well, I finally get to touch your hair.”

           “I can make you blush without even trying.”

           “I can shut you up by kissing you.”

           “Oh yeah?” I pull back far enough to meet his eye. “Care to demonstrate?”

           He’s laughing as he obliges me, kissing me gently like his lips are still sore from the seemingly endless kissing last night. I don’t remember having the strength to pull away long enough to climb back inside the room, or to change into our nightclothes, but at some point it must have happened.  Between toothpaste kisses and disbelieving grins.  I’d been a little afraid to suggest sharing a bed (I thought it might scare him away), but he’d climbed in beside me like he fit there, like the spot had been meant for him all along.  I don’t think we ever stopped kissing, just fell into place and stayed there until the dizziness turned into dreams.

           “Crowley,” I mumble against his lips, soft like rose petals.

           “What?”

           “Aleister Crowley.”

           He giggles.  “What, Baz?”

           “Do you still love me?”

           His eyes are a different blue every time I look at them, like the sky.  Right now they’re the horizon just after the orange leaks out of the sunrise.

           Simon kisses my forehead.  “Today…”

           Kisses my nose.  “Tomorrow…”

           Kisses my mouth, deep and long.  “Every day after that.”

           I’m so gone.

           “I’m living a charmed life.”

anonymous asked:

i'm kinda confused about your description of cubans in cuba because i went there on vacation and everyone seemed really happy and it was so wonderful there so yeah i'm just confused by why you call it a 3rd world country (i'm white btw)

i’m going to tell you the story of my grandmother. (it’s gonna get long) 

In 1962, three years after the Cuban Revolution, my grandfather escaped from Cuba on a boat with 5 other men. After almost dying on the trip, they made it the 90 miles to Florida and touched the Floridian sand and were granted refugee status. Almost immediately, he put in the paperwork for his wife (my grandmother), and my mom (who was a newborn at the time), and her grandmother, to come into America legally. 

Having now put in the official documents for his family to join him in the US, this led to my mother, and my grandmother, and my great grandmother losing all government assistance that comes with living in a communist regime. They lost their food ration booklet, their jobs, and their government appointed housing. Everything. My great grandmother had to go around collecting cigarettes from sailors to sell them to get money to buy ingredients to make tamales and sell those so that my grandmother and mom would have money buy food to eat. For 3 years that had to survive like that.   

Now, the unrest in post-revolution Cuba was reaching a frenzied point, so much so that Fidel Castro told the people “if you want to leave, just leave”, leading to a mass exodus of people leaving the island for whatever country would take them. President LBJ allowed for a program called the Freedom Flights, which liberated Cubans and brought them to the US. And in 1965, my grandmother was able to secure 3 seats on one of the first flights out of Cuba. 

They were told they were only allowed to bring one bag of things. A representative from the government came into their home, inventoried their things and told them that anything of real value such as jewelry, family heirlooms, expensive items, those all now belonged to the government and would be taken as soon as they left. My grandmother was able to bring whatever clothes she could fit into one small suitcase that she shared with my mother, with a handful of family photos that she could stuff into it. My mother was 3 at the time and was only able to take the clothes on her back and a doll. 

On March 18th, their tickets were theirs and they were definitely leaving the island, but the three of them ran the length of the tarmac up to the plane. They landed in Florida only about half an hour later, being told they were going to be sent to Union City, New Jersey. My mom, who had just come from a caribbean climate was given a coat—the first coat she’d ever had— by the Red Cross so that she wouldn’t freeze in the cold March weather in New Jersey. 

Once the reunited with my grandfather, they all stuffed themselves into a 4th floor walk up, living 5 in a 2 person apartment. Since none of them spoke english, the only work they could all find were in factories where they were paid $0.10 per piece in embroidery factories. And though they were barely making enough money to live off of, they still scraped and saved money and bought clothing and utilities to send back to their family that was back in Cuba that wasn’t so fortunate to have escaped. 

Now eventually, a few years later, my grandmother had the opportunity to go back to Cuba to visit her family that were still stuck living there. It took months to get all the proper paperwork and when she finally arrived in Havana it was like she was seeing a different country. 

The tourist side of the island was beautiful, everything was colorful and bright and idyllic and it was the tropical paradise she remembered from her youth before the revolution. But her family didn’t live in the beautifully tropical paradise of tourist Havana; no they lived an hour’s drive away in Santa Clara. 

My grandmother hired a cab to drive her from Havana to Santa Clara for the week, a man whose sole job was to drive tourists to and from one idyllic tropical government approved vacation spot to the next. But she told him that she was there visiting family and to please take her to the locals section. he obliged. 

On the drive to my grandmother’s cousin’s house they passed by a diner; it was a triumphant expression of Cuba’s trademark Art Deco style and it was packed with people. My grandmother asked the cabbie if he’d ever eaten there, he told her he wasn’t allowed to eat there because it was for tourists only. So she went inside and bought a sandwich, and brought it back out and they shared it in the car. 

Later when she’d arrived at her cousin’s house, they welcomed her into the home, showing her all the things they’d bought with the money she’d sent them and they all were wearing the clothes she’d mailed them— even if some of it didn’t fit right. And they sat her down to eat dinner, a meal they’d made with the horsemeat that they’d been saving up for a while plus all the food from their rations for that month just so they would have something to give her. It was all they had. And she ate it all, even though it was bad and tasted horrible, because it was all they had.

When she left their house that night she got into the cab that had waited for her and cried. Once she calmed down, eventually she asked the cabbie who she had shared the sandwich with earlier if he could drive her to and from Havana every day for that week, to which he agreed. And when she asked him how he’d like to be paid and offered to continue to buy him food from the diner, he declined gratefully and asked if instead he could be paid in soap, because his family had none. 

When my grandmother came back to New Jersey after that trip she told my mom  about the cabbie and the horsemeat and how her family had no food and how they struggled every day. And how the difference between her hotel in Havana, with its beautiful vistas and clean and happy smiling employees and how they differed from the cabbie who drove her around for a week in exchange for a crate of soap. How hard life was there and how grateful she was to be in america, and how they could never, ever go back. 

Just in case you didn’t see it all over my page already (lol) I commissioned the super sweet, super awesome @days-e for some art of my mayors, and I was/am so happy to be blessed with this beauty 😭😭😭💖 

Benny is super duper talented and kind, please consider commissioning her as well! And click on the pic to see it in HD and appreciate all of the amazing details she put into this~

Tonight I came to the realization that maybe I have created a version of you in my head that doesn’t exist in real life, but that led to the more important realization that I need to find someone just like that, but hopefully not you.
—  MJG // Can you tell I’m watching a new show?

Not to be dramatic but the looks Mako and Korra give each other in the series finale are and forever will be the most loving and heartfelt expressions in any fiction universe and nothing will convince me otherwise

Originally posted by knock

read tags for caption | twitter

God I’m so tired or your bullshit!” I yelled

“Sorry that I changed! But that’s what high school does to you you grow up. Why are you mad at me for that?!” She exclaimed

“No you didn’t just ‘change’. You’re not the same person I fell in love with.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re so invested in high school. You’re so invested in being popular and having an infinite group of friends that you forgot life is not just about those four years.” I sigh

“Apparently you even forgot who you really are. Don’t come running back to me when you do.

10

You acted like the bad guy in front of her, but I know you’re hurt inside. I was aiming for that.

shipwreckedcomedy: Writing session for a very real project that isn’t at all fake.

After much photo editing and squinting I was able to make out almost all of it:

POE PARTY SEASON 2
Story ideas

- Kill HG Wells for good
- Instead of murders… (I have no idea what the rest says but I’m pretty sure it says back massages??)
- They are just a theater group getting really into character
- Joe the director murders everyone off screen
- CGI mustache
- REVEAL: Hemingway is Poe’s father
- Eddie is Hemingway’s father
- BUT
- Poe is Eddie’s father
- WHAT?
- You heard me!
- Kevin Spacey IS Keyser Soze
- Rachel got off the plane!!
- It was New York all along
- Rosebud is the… (again, no idea what that last word was)