Lindsay.
21.
Canada.
Architectural Tecchnology Grad.

 

thor-n-cap:

youarewortheverything:

serration:

constantly torn between “if it’s meant to be, it will be” and “if you want it, go get it”

seriously though. 

how about a mix of the two “if its meant to be, its up to me”

nikolaecuza:

danosaurs-and-philions:

im a bad person who thinks bad thoughts like ‘ew what is that girl wearing’ and then remember that im supposed to be positive about all things and then think ‘no she can wear what she wants, fuck what other people say damn girl u look fabulous’ and im just a teeny bit hypocritical tbh

I was always taught by my mother, That the first thought that goes through your mind is what you have been conditioned to think. What you think next defines who you are.

gorlt:

why are people so afraid to google things? why come to someone’s inbox and ask a researchable question where you may have to wait hours, days, even weeks for a response when you can google it in less than 3 seconds? what are you afraid of? results?

ohbabyv:

Mine - A short film from Fordham University for Campus Movie Fest 2014. Out of over 100 films, it won Best Actress and got nominated for Best Drama. Mine has since been promoted by organizations like End Violence Against Women International, and it is a finalist in the Campus MovieFest national wild card competition.

The story follows Lucy as she performs a spoken word poem about the sometimes subtle way abusive relationships can develop. 

The poem:

People make a big deal about eyes
but it was really the wrinkle in his forehead that caught me
as he fumbled to write down his number.

We fell in love like children running downhill:
wind whipping past, parading each other to our friends, 
to the sky, to the old couples we imagined as our future selves.  

When he moved in, I swore he fused with the house.
I could hear his sigh in the hum of my ceiling fan
I could taste him in my coffee
And anyone could see him in my poetry.

The grooves in his palm spoke of tragedies.
A frayed lifeline spread to the pinky-tip
I traced along those calloused patches
and kissed the scars on his knuckles

When you love hard enough, you can embrace those scars
And when you love long enough you excuse or even ignore
almost imperceptible changes in the terrain:
when he gripped me a bit tighter a bit more often
when “how are you?” became “where were you?”

In college I learned that in World War I,
soldiers rarely wrote about their misery.
They were living a new kind of nightmare,
so what good were the same old words and metaphors?

Poets died in those trenches.
I thought of them as I tiptoed 
around the landmines that littered our home.
When you live in a battlefield, 
where do you find energy to pick up a pen?

Like a numbed soldier I lived from moment to moment,
and when the moments were sweet 
(and many were) I savored them
Because nothing tastes as good as hope

Because even on the bad days
when it seemed an eyelash could set him off
when he threatened to leave the apartment or this world
still each night he would murmur into my ear
that these were the natural ups and downs of love.

But there is nothing natural about war.
He was my comrade, sinking into the trenches,
grasping at my face, my arm, my collar bone
I wanted to rescue him
If that meant bearing his blows 
and his slurred insults, I would do it
If I could’ve swallowed his sadness, I would have.

My friends considered me M.I.A., but I reported for duty every day
and would’ve marched unto death if she hadn’t made me listen.
In that moment I realized I wasn’t his comrade but a prisoner of his war
And after two years and seven months, I finally made a break for it.

Some nights I find myself clicking through old memories.
I marvel at the smiles and the closeness
and realize that these are the images
which remain with me most vividly.
When time has had its way with me,
has softened the edges of my memory,
I’m afraid I’ll only remember his charms:
the crook of his arm, the way he said “hey baby.”
I’m afraid I’ll miss these ideas of him.

But then I remember those poets
and how long they lived in those trenches
and the mornings I spent crying into my breakfast
And now when I pick up my pen
it is heavy, but it is firm.
I lean into it like a staff as I tread the ground
that hardened beneath me the moment I let you go.
The ink smudges my hands like war paint
I am bruised from battle, but I am not a casualty of his war
I am free. I am free. I am mine.

shikarius:

Dad’s gotten 1000% better talking about periods since we started using Shark Week euphemisms:

"Ah, it’s Shark Week?" = "Ah, you started your period?"

"Harpoons on deck?" = "Do you have enough pads/tampons/etc?"

"Chum stocks are holding?" = "Do you need chocolate/midol?"

"Supplies are low cap’n" = "Yes, please."

"What kind (of shark) is it?" = "How do you feel?"

  • "It’s a Nurse Shark" = "I’m fine/not bad"
  • "GREAT WHITE OFF THE STARBOARD BOW" = "FUCKING OW"

For thousands and thousands and thousands of years, we’ve been telling stories about superheroes. Norse gods, mythical fuckin’ Greek gods, Roman gods—Hercules? It sounds like fuckin’ Wolverine, you know what I mean? We have been telling stories about superheroes and super-villains forever. This isn’t some new thing that we now do and sell out for. [x]

(Source: dammitmarvel)

lilyhoran17:

I don’t know what I love most about this gifset: Jensen’s reaction in the first one or Jared’s sparkly happy eyes in the second one.

(Source: harrisackles)

leviathanrose:

like 98% of my problems would be solved if i stopped overthinking things and calmed the fuck down and stopped being such a panicky, anxious little shit