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I do love happy endings
I do love happy endings
And from this slumber you shall wake, when true love's kiss, the spell shall break.

April 20 2014, 09:07 AM

So like in the ninth grade I was once called “the straightest girl at parkview” and while at the time I thought I was straight that seemed odd to me because I’ve never been even remotely boy crazy and I just feel that if I was supposedly “the straightest” then I should be loudly vocal about boys. You know? I guess a lack of me being interested in girls just automatically meant straight? And VERY straight? At the time it didn’t bother me, now it very much does.

WELL now, approximately 6.8 years later, I have just discovered that upon meeting me, Celine thought I was a lesbian until Hannah told her I was ace. (Idk how I feel about her outing me, actually, because it’s not something I like to spread around in real life, but I don’t think I’m upset about it)

This is also weird to me because now it just seems like a lack of interest in boys automatically means I’m into girls? I mean im not girl crazy, either… Like I compliment my friends based on looks a lot, but I thought girls just did that? I don’t think I’m very flirty, at least not to THESE friends. I don’t know them well enough. And I asked why and Hannah was just like “idk you do seem like a lesbian, tho” which I do trust since she’s bi, so there you go

I feel vaguely accomplished but kind of annoyed because I don’t want anyone to assume anything about me, I don’t want my friends to say, no, she’s ace, to people I barely know. It’s none of your business. and I have no desire to explain what that is to my close friends; why do I want to explain it to strangers? Right, I don’t.

Oh and I guess I AM upset that she outed me

But at least I come across as queer now

April 20 2014, 08:38 AM

madsmurf93:

imagreatbowler see how awesome these look. oh gosh. i want one ;n;
(p.s click the image to go to the original source, and the recipe ouo)
(p.p.s two links because i care)

T__T thank u friend

madsmurf93:

imagreatbowler see how awesome these look. oh gosh. i want one ;n;

(p.s click the image to go to the original source, and the recipe ouo)

(p.p.s two links because i care)

T__T thank u friend

April 20 2014, 08:38 AM

fruitsgarden:

that was the biggest fucking overreaction im laughing so hard

April 20 2014, 08:25 AM

I had to buy wifi! Can you believe this? Probably won’t be online after this until….idk, the 24th?

April 20 2014, 07:41 AM

498 notes   •  VIA: sarahtaylorgibson   •   SOURCE: wormwoodandhoney
Filed Under:  COOL  LADIES  
wormwoodandhoney:

girls fighting evil: the historian

this has been requested a few times!

(“history, huh?” the guy says, squinting at you over his beer. “and what are you gonna do with that? don’t get a lot of money sitting over some dusty old books.” “mm,” you say, thinking of the top ten most painful deaths in history that you could be inspired by. “i mean, i guess there are museums,” the guy says doubtfully. “but they only want like real historians, you know?” there’s walking the plank, you consider. but where would find a plank? same goes for the brazen bull. “i mean, you’re so pretty,” the guy continues. the stake has been pretty overdone, huh? you see the demon begin to slink from the shadows of the corner and head towards your critic. “why would you want to ruin your eyes and your posture hunched over some books about things that happened a million years ago?” you watch as the demon rears back, jaws open, mouth wide.
you push the dude away and stab the demon in the neck with the pen you got from your dad for getting into grad school. as the demon disappears into a wave of dust and blood, you turn back to the man you saved. “history teaches me about today,” you say, and click your pen closed.)

wormwoodandhoney:

girls fighting evil: the historian

this has been requested a few times!

(“history, huh?” the guy says, squinting at you over his beer. “and what are you gonna do with that? don’t get a lot of money sitting over some dusty old books.” “mm,” you say, thinking of the top ten most painful deaths in history that you could be inspired by. “i mean, i guess there are museums,” the guy says doubtfully. “but they only want like real historians, you know?” there’s walking the plank, you consider. but where would find a plank? same goes for the brazen bull. “i mean, you’re so pretty,” the guy continues. the stake has been pretty overdone, huh? you see the demon begin to slink from the shadows of the corner and head towards your critic. “why would you want to ruin your eyes and your posture hunched over some books about things that happened a million years ago?” you watch as the demon rears back, jaws open, mouth wide.

you push the dude away and stab the demon in the neck with the pen you got from your dad for getting into grad school. as the demon disappears into a wave of dust and blood, you turn back to the man you saved. “history teaches me about today,” you say, and click your pen closed.)

April 20 2014, 06:43 AM

swanjolras:

will someone please, please write me a secret history/john green novel crossover

there’s a boy in high school with all his high school friends. they all have really clever conversations and they’re all really pleased with how clever they are. then one day this teenage boy meets a teenage girl and she changes his life (except it’s actually SATIRIZING the concept of manic pixie dream girls, come on guys, how could you possibly miss the fact that it was a SATIRE) and they have a lot of witty repartee. also they are smart, also they are teenagers

then they kill someone

then you become suddenly and horribly aware of the fact that your narrator is unreliable and he and all his Witty Teenage Friends are actually enormously pretentious as well as deeply unstable, and the girl who Changes His Life (in a DECONSTRUCTIONIST way) is really dangerous and really scary and really not someone who can separate reality from fantasy and you should be very worried about her

then everyone has mildly horrific fates

the end

April 20 2014, 05:46 AM

1,683 notes   •  VIA: lavender-menace   •   SOURCE: lysenkoist
Filed Under:  yo  

Aside from the fact that Walmart is actually not “capitalism gone wrong” but “capitalism gone very well according to its own logic”, the answer to this article’s hypothetical question is actually quite simple: the people who shop at Walmart are by-and-large those people who can’t afford to shop at the supposedly “ethical” stores that charge prices beyond what most people cannot afford. Indeed, that offensive “People of Walmart” site (which I refuse to link on principle) is evidence of this fact since it is primarily a site devoted to mocking the poor.
(…)
Hence, anti-consumerist politics is a lifestyle politics that assumes the problem with capitalism lurks at the point of consumption rather than the point of production; it assumes that the solution to capitalism is based on our buying choices, on de-commodifying by refusing to buy from big corporations, and living as pure anti-capitalists in an individual sense. The fact that the vast majority of people, especially those with the power to change society, cannot opt out in this kind of way, or the fact that buying at ‘ethical’ sites of production does not at all escape commodification, eludes this simplistic and self-righteous politics. Nor do most of the people who push this anti-consumerism see any contradiction in wearing clothes, walking down sidewalks, or living at the centres of capitalism which is entirely dependent on the brutal system they claim they are fighting when they make fun of people buying Banksy prints at Walmart.

April 20 2014, 04:48 AM

April 20 2014, 03:50 AM

18,071 notes   •  VIA: piraticalpsyche   •   SOURCE: captnshane
Filed Under:  gorgeous  summer starr  disney  
ink-splotch:

Wendy Darling believed in fairies all her life.
This was based in kindness, not faith. It was a fearful thing. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night panicked at the thought she might stop one day. What a world, to place the life of even as flawed a person as a Tinkerbell in the hands of children’s ability to believe. 
Coming back, Wendy expected to miss the magic, the beauty, the feel of the wind in her unpinned hair. She expected to miss Peter, and she did. But she didn’t expect to miss the exhausting task of being the Lost Boys’ young mother.
And she didn’t miss it, not exactly. Wendy missed being useful, and she missed being listened to.
But she told her brothers stories, at night, still. She watched the light grow in their eyes and felt powerful for the first time since Neverland.
Michael came home from school crying one day. A boy on the playground had said fairies were stupid and fake.  The teachers thought it was exhaustion or the disappointed hopes of a child who still believed his big sister’s bedtime stories.  When father laughed at him at table, John hesitated for a moment and then joined in. Wendy pled an upset stomach and fled to her room.
Michael had nightmares for a week of a shining tiny person breathing their last on a Neverland forest floor.
Shaken awake in her own room, Wendy padded down the hall and creaked open his door. She gathered her smallest brother in her arms and said, “We’ll believe enough for all of them, every one. You and me, Michael, we’ll save them all.”
In the other bed John, pretending to sleep, squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted so badly to be grown.
His father had always told them true men protected people who needed it. John sat up. “I do believe in fairies,” he said, and his siblings chorused, “I do, I do.” Michael stopped crying. John started.
Wendy often asked herself why they had come back. The question surfaced over particularly tedious chores, or when her father came home drawn after a long day and picked apart her every flaw over the blandest supper Wendy’d ever tasted. But it surfaced also when she was happy, fetching sweets from the dime store, when Michael raced through the halls, hollering, an old shirt hoisted on a broom as a conquering flag.
Once, she had known how to fly. She remembered and it ached.
They tried to settle back in, all three of them, to shake lost boys and pirates from their heads. A year after leaving Neverland, Wendy’s mother asked why Wendy never brought nice girls home to play with. It took effort not to laugh. 
Wendy didn’t say, “Nice girls? Tink tried to get the Lost Boys to shoot me out of the sky, tried to blow up her own home on the off chance she might get me, too.”
She didn’t tell her, “The mermaids would have liked to drown me, too, babbling away in those dolphin sounds that Peter could understand but that just gave me shivers.”
“All I want to be is a mother,” Wendy said instead, and meant, all I want is to be of use, to have people need me as much as they did. I want someone to believe my stories as much as Peter did. 
She didn’t say, “And what could those girls offer me? I fought pirates. I touched the very stars.”
“I have all the friends I need in John and Michael,” Wendy offered. At mother’s frown, she added, “I’ll try harder.”
She joined a club against her own wishes. The club girls talked about dresses and Wendy thought about swords and crocodiles.
Wendy thought, these silly young things have never heard that tick tock and shaken in their boots. They’ve never seen the stars up close.
The club girls talked longingly of their mothers’ lipstick, of debutantes and growing up, and Wendy thought, How many fairies have you killed?
The years rolled on. Wendy fell in love with boys who needed her, who fascinated her, a long line of sharp-boned muses who forgot to eat their vegetables for weeks.
These boys only knew one kind of woman. They expected mothers, all of them, women childless or not, beautiful women with strength and graces pressed into their souls. If they had ever found Wendy crying over a thimble, they would not have known what to do with this alien fragile thing.
So they did not find her so. Wendy Darling was well versed in being the thing people needed her to be. Even to the most magical place she knew, Wendy had been brought for one reason. Peter’s boys had needed a mother.
That thought sat rancid in her stomach for days, but then she remembered: Peter had lingered at her window all those nights not because he needed soup or love or tucking in. He had loved her stories.
She had taken the wild boy, the lost bird, the starcatcher, and had stolen his breath away with words of her own making. On the other side of years and years, Wendy caught her own breath.
She started carrying a thimble in her pocket. When Wendy felt powerless, like a thing and not a person, she slipped a finger against the chill shape. It was a slip of puckered metal, an odd knick knack of women’s work. But once, Wendy had named it something else, given it power.
Boys boasted around her, of jumping fences and wrestling, of stealing kisses. Wendy thought, you think you know the power of a kiss? I once defeated death with a thimble, because I gave it a name. I believed. Words are power, and the words are mine.
One day, someone did find her crying. Wendy was in the girl’s lavatory. It had been a little thing, John snapping at her over breakfast, and then some boy in the yard saying something careless. Wendy had thought, I once knew how to fly, and suddenly everything seemed too dirty and too confining to stand. She hid in the furthest stall from the door, and cried angrily about every speck of magic she had lost in her life.
There was a light knock on the door and some wispy little thing from the club Wendy’d been calling her penance peeked in.
“My grandma died last year,” the girl said. “I was crying in the next stall over.” The girl sat up on the edge of the sink and said, “Do you want to hear a story about her?”
At the next club meeting, Wendy listened. A grinning redhead always used the past tense when she spoke of her father. Another girl, wan, flinched at loud sounds. They knew the sound of the ticking clock, these young women, some of them better than she ever had. Wendy had walked away from one beautiful world and into another. They had lost one, or many; or wished they could fly away the way she had gotten to, once.
Wendy stopped crying in bathrooms, mostly. She started checking them, quietly, and offering shoulders and stories of a magical land to the people she found there.
Wendy listened. One of the club girls was obsessed with trains, the way they take you away, the way they come back on schedule, the sound of them. Wendy asked, and she listened. A young woman whose hands folded in her lap like a wayward haystack stared out the window, entranced by a world only she could see.
Wendy thought, you’ve never seen the stars up close. She thought, maybe I can show you.
She dragged them all out one night, late, when they were out in the country for a school trip. They snuck out of their lodgings and got in terrible trouble for it, but that night the moon was missing and the sky was dusted with more blazing stars than they had ever seen, except for Wendy.
None of them but one odd duck knew the boys’ parts, but they did their best to dance there beneath them, to pretend they could catch starlight on their outstretched tongues. 
Wendy wondered what the mermaids would have said, if she had ever learned their tongue. She wondered what stories Tinkerbell could have told her. She wondered if Tiger Lily would have taught her how to dance.
She wondered why none of the women in Neverland had been able to speak to her. She wondered why she hadn’t tried. 
Michael sprouted inches and inches, his voice dropping to an alien depth. He stopped planting broomsticks tied with old red shirts on the dining room table and declaring the room claimed for Neverland.
Michael buried himself in books instead, as though that might be a way out. He started scribbling in journals, for all John teased him about it. Wendy was sure that those messy lines were not all poetry about the chin of the girl down the street, sure some of them were the adventures Michael was having still, somewhere inside. She was sure. She hoped with every ounce of herself, hoped like it was the kind of faith that makes children fly.
John buried himself in books, too, but all his joy in it was wrapped up in how they helped him win: win grades, and commendations, pats on the shoulders from their learned teachers, their father’s nod at supper. Wendy’s father had always terrified her, his hooked rage, the way he ran from meeting to appointment, pursued by the tick of the clock on his heels.
John joined debate, cricket, an honors society or two, a young businessmen’s club for boys. Wendy told him once, in a quiet moment alone, that she could hear the tick tock at his heels, too, these days.
John squeezed her hand. “Me, too, but it’s okay Wendy. C’mon, I always wanted to be a pirate.” He squeezed her hand again. “I’ll be better than he ever was, Wendy. I’ll be good.”
In their nursery room games, years ago now, John had always played Hook. Michael had played Peter.
Wendy had always been the narrator, the storyteller, the minstrel. She thought she rather liked it that way. 
Wendy grew into a young woman. She went out dancing with her friends, whispered a pretend background for every eligible young bachelor who watched them, and listened to her friends’ laughter make those stories true.
They talked about dresses over light lunches, about boys and babies, about industrialism and pollution, about Plato and Darwin, the epiphanies and practicalities of falling in love. They talked Eleanor, the wispy girl from the bathroom, through her parents’ disappointment as she pursued a life as a legal secretary. Wendy dictated stories to give Ellie something interesting to practice on.
Another friend taught Wendy how to crochet. They made piles of socks for a charity drive, meeting up in the afternoons to sit in a sunlit window and crochet and talk the light away.
Wendy ran her hands over the heaps of warm socks when they were done. She was a girl who believed in magic, and this took her breath away, how patterns and patience could lead to this, could build something so good and solid.
Wendy woke and slept, told stories, kept a thimble in her pocket, breathed.
She wondered what she was building.
No child ever grows up. They grow out. They grow down and deep, textured and heavy. They grow.
One day, decades later, Peter lighted on her old windowsill, chasing down a runaway shadow. 
He thought she was her daughter. Wendy watched Jane stare up at this fey creature. Wendy could feel the weight of all the years between her daughter’s anxious gawky adolescence and her own taller years, the backaches and the tragedy, the things her hands had built. Peter would never know them. Wendy wanted to weep as hard as she once had, at fifteen, over a thimble. 
Wendy went downstairs, made a bag of sandwiches that she put in a backpack with some sturdy clothes and a pair of good shoes. Her daughter would not be going on any adventures clad only in a nightgown.
When she got back, Jane was flying. Wendy’s heart was breaking, was singing, was soaring. Peter was laughing. His shadow was watching her.  It knew more than it told and always had.
Wendy pulled her daughter back to earth. She gave Jane the backpack and said, “You be brave. You be good. Remember to talk to the mermaids. Ask them to sing to you. Tell them your stories.”  

ink-splotch:

Wendy Darling believed in fairies all her life.

This was based in kindness, not faith. It was a fearful thing. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night panicked at the thought she might stop one day. What a world, to place the life of even as flawed a person as a Tinkerbell in the hands of children’s ability to believe. 

Coming back, Wendy expected to miss the magic, the beauty, the feel of the wind in her unpinned hair. She expected to miss Peter, and she did. But she didn’t expect to miss the exhausting task of being the Lost Boys’ young mother.

And she didn’t miss it, not exactly. Wendy missed being useful, and she missed being listened to.

But she told her brothers stories, at night, still. She watched the light grow in their eyes and felt powerful for the first time since Neverland.

Michael came home from school crying one day. A boy on the playground had said fairies were stupid and fake.  The teachers thought it was exhaustion or the disappointed hopes of a child who still believed his big sister’s bedtime stories.  When father laughed at him at table, John hesitated for a moment and then joined in. Wendy pled an upset stomach and fled to her room.

Michael had nightmares for a week of a shining tiny person breathing their last on a Neverland forest floor.

Shaken awake in her own room, Wendy padded down the hall and creaked open his door. She gathered her smallest brother in her arms and said, “We’ll believe enough for all of them, every one. You and me, Michael, we’ll save them all.”

In the other bed John, pretending to sleep, squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted so badly to be grown.

His father had always told them true men protected people who needed it. John sat up. “I do believe in fairies,” he said, and his siblings chorused, “I do, I do.” Michael stopped crying. John started.

Wendy often asked herself why they had come back. The question surfaced over particularly tedious chores, or when her father came home drawn after a long day and picked apart her every flaw over the blandest supper Wendy’d ever tasted. But it surfaced also when she was happy, fetching sweets from the dime store, when Michael raced through the halls, hollering, an old shirt hoisted on a broom as a conquering flag.

Once, she had known how to fly. She remembered and it ached.

They tried to settle back in, all three of them, to shake lost boys and pirates from their heads. A year after leaving Neverland, Wendy’s mother asked why Wendy never brought nice girls home to play with. It took effort not to laugh. 

Wendy didn’t say, “Nice girls? Tink tried to get the Lost Boys to shoot me out of the sky, tried to blow up her own home on the off chance she might get me, too.”

She didn’t tell her, “The mermaids would have liked to drown me, too, babbling away in those dolphin sounds that Peter could understand but that just gave me shivers.”

“All I want to be is a mother,” Wendy said instead, and meant, all I want is to be of use, to have people need me as much as they did. I want someone to believe my stories as much as Peter did. 

She didn’t say, “And what could those girls offer me? I fought pirates. I touched the very stars.”

“I have all the friends I need in John and Michael,” Wendy offered. At mother’s frown, she added, “I’ll try harder.”

She joined a club against her own wishes. The club girls talked about dresses and Wendy thought about swords and crocodiles.

Wendy thought, these silly young things have never heard that tick tock and shaken in their boots. They’ve never seen the stars up close.

The club girls talked longingly of their mothers’ lipstick, of debutantes and growing up, and Wendy thought, How many fairies have you killed?

The years rolled on. Wendy fell in love with boys who needed her, who fascinated her, a long line of sharp-boned muses who forgot to eat their vegetables for weeks.

These boys only knew one kind of woman. They expected mothers, all of them, women childless or not, beautiful women with strength and graces pressed into their souls. If they had ever found Wendy crying over a thimble, they would not have known what to do with this alien fragile thing.

So they did not find her so. Wendy Darling was well versed in being the thing people needed her to be. Even to the most magical place she knew, Wendy had been brought for one reason. Peter’s boys had needed a mother.

That thought sat rancid in her stomach for days, but then she remembered: Peter had lingered at her window all those nights not because he needed soup or love or tucking in. He had loved her stories.

She had taken the wild boy, the lost bird, the starcatcher, and had stolen his breath away with words of her own making. On the other side of years and years, Wendy caught her own breath.

She started carrying a thimble in her pocket. When Wendy felt powerless, like a thing and not a person, she slipped a finger against the chill shape. It was a slip of puckered metal, an odd knick knack of women’s work. But once, Wendy had named it something else, given it power.

Boys boasted around her, of jumping fences and wrestling, of stealing kisses. Wendy thought, you think you know the power of a kiss? I once defeated death with a thimble, because I gave it a name. I believed. Words are power, and the words are mine.

One day, someone did find her crying. Wendy was in the girl’s lavatory. It had been a little thing, John snapping at her over breakfast, and then some boy in the yard saying something careless. Wendy had thought, I once knew how to fly, and suddenly everything seemed too dirty and too confining to stand. She hid in the furthest stall from the door, and cried angrily about every speck of magic she had lost in her life.

There was a light knock on the door and some wispy little thing from the club Wendy’d been calling her penance peeked in.

“My grandma died last year,” the girl said. “I was crying in the next stall over.” The girl sat up on the edge of the sink and said, “Do you want to hear a story about her?”

At the next club meeting, Wendy listened. A grinning redhead always used the past tense when she spoke of her father. Another girl, wan, flinched at loud sounds. They knew the sound of the ticking clock, these young women, some of them better than she ever had. Wendy had walked away from one beautiful world and into another. They had lost one, or many; or wished they could fly away the way she had gotten to, once.

Wendy stopped crying in bathrooms, mostly. She started checking them, quietly, and offering shoulders and stories of a magical land to the people she found there.

Wendy listened. One of the club girls was obsessed with trains, the way they take you away, the way they come back on schedule, the sound of them. Wendy asked, and she listened. A young woman whose hands folded in her lap like a wayward haystack stared out the window, entranced by a world only she could see.

Wendy thought, you’ve never seen the stars up close. She thought, maybe I can show you.

She dragged them all out one night, late, when they were out in the country for a school trip. They snuck out of their lodgings and got in terrible trouble for it, but that night the moon was missing and the sky was dusted with more blazing stars than they had ever seen, except for Wendy.

None of them but one odd duck knew the boys’ parts, but they did their best to dance there beneath them, to pretend they could catch starlight on their outstretched tongues. 

Wendy wondered what the mermaids would have said, if she had ever learned their tongue. She wondered what stories Tinkerbell could have told her. She wondered if Tiger Lily would have taught her how to dance.

She wondered why none of the women in Neverland had been able to speak to her. She wondered why she hadn’t tried. 

Michael sprouted inches and inches, his voice dropping to an alien depth. He stopped planting broomsticks tied with old red shirts on the dining room table and declaring the room claimed for Neverland.

Michael buried himself in books instead, as though that might be a way out. He started scribbling in journals, for all John teased him about it. Wendy was sure that those messy lines were not all poetry about the chin of the girl down the street, sure some of them were the adventures Michael was having still, somewhere inside. She was sure. She hoped with every ounce of herself, hoped like it was the kind of faith that makes children fly.

John buried himself in books, too, but all his joy in it was wrapped up in how they helped him win: win grades, and commendations, pats on the shoulders from their learned teachers, their father’s nod at supper. Wendy’s father had always terrified her, his hooked rage, the way he ran from meeting to appointment, pursued by the tick of the clock on his heels.

John joined debate, cricket, an honors society or two, a young businessmen’s club for boys. Wendy told him once, in a quiet moment alone, that she could hear the tick tock at his heels, too, these days.

John squeezed her hand. “Me, too, but it’s okay Wendy. C’mon, I always wanted to be a pirate.” He squeezed her hand again. “I’ll be better than he ever was, Wendy. I’ll be good.”

In their nursery room games, years ago now, John had always played Hook. Michael had played Peter.

Wendy had always been the narrator, the storyteller, the minstrel. She thought she rather liked it that way. 

Wendy grew into a young woman. She went out dancing with her friends, whispered a pretend background for every eligible young bachelor who watched them, and listened to her friends’ laughter make those stories true.

They talked about dresses over light lunches, about boys and babies, about industrialism and pollution, about Plato and Darwin, the epiphanies and practicalities of falling in love. They talked Eleanor, the wispy girl from the bathroom, through her parents’ disappointment as she pursued a life as a legal secretary. Wendy dictated stories to give Ellie something interesting to practice on.

Another friend taught Wendy how to crochet. They made piles of socks for a charity drive, meeting up in the afternoons to sit in a sunlit window and crochet and talk the light away.

Wendy ran her hands over the heaps of warm socks when they were done. She was a girl who believed in magic, and this took her breath away, how patterns and patience could lead to this, could build something so good and solid.

Wendy woke and slept, told stories, kept a thimble in her pocket, breathed.

She wondered what she was building.

No child ever grows up. They grow out. They grow down and deep, textured and heavy. They grow.

One day, decades later, Peter lighted on her old windowsill, chasing down a runaway shadow.

He thought she was her daughter. Wendy watched Jane stare up at this fey creature. Wendy could feel the weight of all the years between her daughter’s anxious gawky adolescence and her own taller years, the backaches and the tragedy, the things her hands had built. Peter would never know them. Wendy wanted to weep as hard as she once had, at fifteen, over a thimble.

Wendy went downstairs, made a bag of sandwiches that she put in a backpack with some sturdy clothes and a pair of good shoes. Her daughter would not be going on any adventures clad only in a nightgown.

When she got back, Jane was flying. Wendy’s heart was breaking, was singing, was soaring. Peter was laughing. His shadow was watching her.  It knew more than it told and always had.

Wendy pulled her daughter back to earth. She gave Jane the backpack and said, “You be brave. You be good. Remember to talk to the mermaids. Ask them to sing to you. Tell them your stories.”  

April 20 2014, 01:55 AM

April 20 2014, 12:58 AM

2 notes  Filed Under:  i just really like them?  

a movie where ellen page and kristen stewart play sisters would be nice though

idk what else is happening in this movie

April 19 2014, 11:02 PM

70 notes   •  VIA: adamusprime   •   SOURCE: adamusprime
Filed Under:  once more with feeling  

adamusprime:

People like “everyone ignored that guy with a help the poor sign”

Like…do you guys understand how living in a city works…you ignore everyone with a sign because if you talked to everyone you would literally never get anywhere

Of course people reacted strongly to the “fuck the poor” sign, that is a very unusual sign to hold

Idk moral of the story is I think that ad campaign is trite and ineffective

April 19 2014, 09:08 PM

824706:

jackblogguy:

thequintab:

Extremely excited singing: Space Jam.

the greatest video on the planet

this girl is truly brica aloejuice