what if
21-year-old doodler who likes song lyrics and is trying to find the motivation to fix herself. That's about it.

operameister:

thisismythanksgivingurl-gobble:

agentgreenfishy:

poselikeateam:

fuck-i-just:

Next time a blocked number calls you answer like this: “Jim’s whore house. You got the dough, we got the hoe.”

Why does this not have any notes?

lol no “Nashville sperm bank, you squeeze it we freeze it. how may I help you?”

“Henderson’s Morgue, you stab em, we slab em, this is Eight Ball speaking.”

“Texas crematorium you kill ‘em we grill ‘em how can I direct your call?”

(via lunaslullaby)

2,265 plays

On My Way Back Home - Band of Horses
On my way back home, by chance I thought of
All my favorite songs, where I’d gone wrong
The only words that I could think of

(Source: play-listings, via lunaslullaby)

Fine. You win. I’ll walk away.
(via yoursixwordstory)
You’ve been criticizing yourself for years and it hasn’t worked. Try accepting yourself and see what happens.

Louise Hay 

Everything you love is here

(via lovequotesrus)

(Source: ignitingenergy, via lovequotesrus)


a-spoon-is-born:

If I follow you, yes, I care about your garden, what your cat did today, the jewelry you made, that one friend who said the thing, i like your sense of humor, and also your selfies.

Also, heart.

(via 0aklungs)

I’ll miss you terribly. I miss you already.
Ernest Hemingway, from The Garden Of Eden (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via 0aklungs)


Never, never tell them. Try and remember that. Never tell anyone anything ever. Never tell anyone anything again.
Ernest Hemingway, from The Garden Of Eden (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via 0aklungs)


foxnewsofficial:

i get so affectionate when i’m sleepy it’s disgusting

(via 0aklungs)

One pays for one’s sin, and then one pays again, and all one’s life one pays.
Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan (via talesofpassingtime)

(via 0aklungs)


We didn’t even finish our bucket list
(via yoursixwordstory)
It pains me to know you’re hurting
further than my arms can reach,
that I am unable to protect you with the entire
span of the Pacific between us,
that no number of emails or texts
or FaceTime minutes
can bandage the bruises
he hammers into your skin.
There are days I think of you
until the expression on my face
is a postcard he will not let you read:
I wish you were here,
I wish you were here,
I wish you were here.

I keep three clocks set to your timezone
as reminders
that my 2ams
are your almost middays,
that while the moon wanes in this sky
you are under the sun someplace else,
feeding breadcrumbs to birds in a park
wishing for wings of your own
and I imagine that for a fraction of a moment,
you’re not so afraid. Fly home to me.
Where the hands that hold you will tremble
with passion not violence.
Where you will not be a possession
but the universe I inhabit. Fly home to me.

Beau Taplin || Fly home to me.  (via afadthatlastsforever)
©