Tuesday, September 2, 2014

iwishlilbwasmygrandpa:

My cousin is always watching Everybody Loves Raymond in the other room while I’m on the computer. I always hear Raymond’s voice. His deep, throaty voice, like a hungover toad. It’s very unique. Sometimes I continue to hear the thick grog of Ray Romano long after the television is off. Ray tells me things. Ray tells me horrible, horrible things. And I listen.

(Source: flip5600)

Monday, September 1, 2014

(Source: dweebery)

emojustinyoung:

emojustinyoung:

he keeps getting stuck in the couch

this is my dog brian stuck in our couch in case u missed it

toxicwinner:

is my character weakened or strengthened as result of being related to human poison: time wil tell

indigenousdialogues:

One feature [d]ominated [Sylvia] Plath’s childhood:

       My childhood landscape was not land but the end of the land – the cold, salt, running hills of the Atlantic. I sometimes think my vision of the sea is the clearest thing I own. (Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams and Other Prose Writings, pg. 177)

And again, the sea reached her when she was out of sight by infiltration:

       Even with my eyes shut I could feel the glimmers off its bright mirrors spider over my lids. I lay in a watery cradle, and sea gleams found the chinks in the dark green window blind, playing and dancing, or resting and trembling a little. (Ibid., pg. 119)

This was not the sea of Melville. It was a sea not of depths (the ‘whaled monstered sea-bottom’ which fascinated Hughes) but of surface and mirrors, prismatic, not of relics but of jewels, not of sharks but of mermaids. Though this sea was capable of great violence, leaving spectacular wreckage and a dead shark in the geranium bed, ‘my grandmother had her broom out, it would soon be right.’ Nothing could disturb her sense that the sea’s role in relation to herself was to bring her blessings, to lay its coloured magical tribute at her feet – ‘the purple “lucky stones” I used to collect with a white ring all the way round, or the shell of a blue mussel with its rainbowy angel’s fingernail interior’; nothing until the final sudden betrayal, the triumph of the real world:

       My father died, we moved inland. Wereon those nine first years of my life sealed themselves off like a ship in a bottle – beautiful, inaccessible, obsolete, a fine, white flying myth. (Ibid., pg. 124)

© Keith Sagar, ‘The Laughter of the Foxes, A Study of Ted Hughes’ , pg. 36-7 (Liverpool University Press, 2006)

i have too much going on with my school and work and  combined w/ the torturous psychological goings-on in my house with my father i just have no spare energy to expend most of the time

gameraboy:

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)

gameraboy:

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)

woefromwitmarie:

Zdeněk Miller, thank you for my happy childhood!

blondiemidget:

door insurance

(Source: milfgrl)

This was the deliberate sacrifice of a cathedral full of people. The hideous holocaust will not and ought not to be forgotten. The ugly barn-like Cathedral, like the mountain of sacrifice of Mexico, like the Bridge of Sighs of Venice and other monuments of man’s inhumanity to man, ought to be religiously preserved as a memorial of the stiff-necked determination of the Armenians to die rather than change their religion, and of the infernal brutality which can be practiced in the name of religion. Sir Edwin Pears, on the massacre of 2,500 Armenians trapped in the cathedral of Urfa, where they had sought sanctuary.  (via tomarza)

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