Now Playing Tracks

Reblog and see if you get a color.


    We near never speak, but I do enjoy your presence on my dashboard.


    I wish I could become your best friend through the internet.

  • GREY:

    You leave me with jumbled words.

  • RED:

    I'm in love with you.

  • PINK:

    I have a crush on you.


    You're hot.


    I sincerely wish you would notice me.

  • TEAL:

    We have quite a lot in common.

  • BLUE:

    You are my Tumblr crush.


    I dislike your page.



  • WHITE:


  • GREEN:

    I find you cute.

  • BLACK:

    I would date you.

  • BROWN:

    I dislike you.

People always want to know what it feels like, so I’ll tell you: there’s a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you’ve done something you shouldn’t have, and yet you’ve gotten away with it. Then you sort of go into a trance, because it’s truly dazzling—that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. And—God—the sweet release, that’s the best way I can describe it, kind of like a balloon that’s tied to a little kid’s hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. You just know that balloon is thinking, Ha, I don’t belong to you after all; and at the same time, Do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here? And then the balloon remembers, after the fact, that it has a wicked fear of heights.
When reality kicks in, you grab some toilet paper or a paper towel (better than a washcloth, because the stains don’t ever come out 100 percent) and you press hard against the cut. You can feel your embarrassment; it’s a backbeat underneath your pulse. Whatever relief there was a minute ago congeals, like cold gravy, into a fist in the pit of your stomach. You literally make yourself sick, because you promised yourself last time would be the last time, and once again, you’ve let yourself down. So you hide the evidence of your weakness under layers of clothes long enough to cover the cuts, even if it’s summertime and no one is wearing jeans or long sleeves. You throw the bloody tissues into the toilet and watch the water go pink before you flush them into oblivion, and you wish it were really that easy.







Those who say the Black Widow’s fighting style is just movie bullshit can see the above. ^ Shit is terrifyingly real. 

I think I’m in love.

She’s so tiny.

But she could kill me.


^ That

I will reblog this flying head scissors every time it comes on my dash because it’s so fucking awesome.

That majestic flip

(Source: zkarl)





Everyone, this is Olivia Jane Penpraze, the inspiration for the song Bulls In The Bronx off of the album Collide With The Sky by Pierce The Veil.
She had posted a video on her Tumblr saying good bye and how much she could not take her depression, psychosis, or how ugly she thought that she was, but you see, she wasn’t ugly. She was amazingly beautiful and stunning and I wish, I fucking wish that she would have stayed alive just long enough for her to see that. To see that not only is she beautiful, but it gets better.
After the video was posted, people watched, and then they told her to just do it. They egged her on, and that makes me completely sick to my stomach.
They could have saved her, I could have saved her, WE could have saved Olivia. There was a tiny possibility that in which any of us could have helped, regardless if we were strangers.
But instead of helping, we as humans chose hate.
This leaves me with the feeling of being hallow.
I’m not saying we, as in you or me or him or her but someone: Someone human like us chose to hate instead of help.

Olivia, I wish I knew you. I wish I could have helped you. Even if the help was small, and didn’t do very much, at least you would have known that someone cared about you.
Olivia, you are so beautiful.
Rest In Peace Liv, 1993-2012

I can’t get over how happy she looks in this picture

Forever. fucking. reblog.

this seriously needs more fucking notes.

(Source: twerkthirty)

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