woman's bags

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#Sponosred by @AdobeStock I am always happy to try something new, it is so relaxing. This time, I had the opportunity to experiment with line art and photos. I created this montage using #AdobeStock photos & pattern (their new search features let you find everything your are looking for so fast!). Right now they are offering 10 images for free when you sign up for a free trial - Link in bio! So let’s try something new!

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World Class.

2012 WOMEN’S WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS SILVER MEDALIST
3X USA BOXING NATIONAL CHAMPION
U.S. OLYMPIC TEAM TRIALS BRONZE MEDALIST


Raquel Miller, San Francisco, Ca.

Shot at: Donaire Sr. Boxing Gym.

Oakland, Ca. 2015.


good morning, it’s me: Bad Cat

anonymous asked:

hey if you're still doing prompts, the time(s) someone outside of the team (or inside) mistakes aaron for andrew or the other way around?? thanks!! i love your writing!!

There should be some sort of rule, Aaron thinks, that identical twins have to avoid celebrity. 

It was disarming enough to be a teenager the first time he saw his own face with nothing inside of it, like an indifferent stone likeness. Then Andrew went and got himself famous, made himself important to everyone (including Aaron). He stares out from magazine spreads with his middle finger up when Aaron goes through the checkout counter, and he follows him closely with his reputation.

He’s had patients bow out of the exam room when they heard their intern was ‘A. Minyard’. He’s had anger and relief flip toggles in his chest when he caved and bought a magazine, finding Andrew and Neil piled in Exy gear to promote a product. They looked uncommitted and severe except when they were jostled together and shot from the side, candid, staring. 

It almost makes him miss the moments with the foxes when everything was as simple as watching Andrew’s face for the changes and catching the wave to the next game.

But it’s better to have the kind of work that he knows he does best, stockpiled for the rest of medical school and the rest of his life after that. It feels good to stretch on rubber gloves and distance himself from the worst sort of rot in the world. 

It feels good for his feet to throb and his head to twist itself into knots, and to come home to Katelyn, who always tries to wait up for him and never can. She passes out with her legs over the armrest of their secondhand couch and her hair fanned over the cushions. He kisses her awake more often than not.

He goes for runs, sometimes, like he never did in college. It’s when his own reflection makes his neck prickle and he thinks, god, he’s here. He’s never not here. If you’re a twin you’re a member of a club, and you’re constantly in uniform.

He gets stopped on the street and asked for his autograph, and he feels comforted to know that his “piss off” is gentler than whatever Andrew would have said. 

He sees his own face hoisted at pride, watches Andrew become half of a relationship that handcuffs exy to entire social movements, and it coaxes old fear into his blood. It takes some wrangling and undoing of rusted closed spigots before he realizes that he’s impressed, too. 

He hates Neil out of habit. He watches the sun make new colours with Katelyn’s hair at 5 am. He puts his alarm on snooze just so he can lie there with her. He likes that his life is a can on a string, and somewhere, tossed out into another state, in a high-rise with blackout curtains and an orange cat, Andrew has the other can.

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