papparazzoo:

almeh:

A school boy, wearing a backpack, walks past burning fuel tankers along the GT road in Nowshera, located in Pakistan’s Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa Province. REUTERS/Adrees Latif

these middle eastern kids have to deal with some crazy shit…

papparazzoo:

almeh:

A school boy, wearing a backpack, walks past burning fuel tankers along the GT road in Nowshera, located in Pakistan’s Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa Province. REUTERS/Adrees Latif

these middle eastern kids have to deal with some crazy shit…

(Source: bhagyawati)

Reblogged from contact to buy
It saddens me to see girls proudly declaring they’re not like other girls – especially when it’s 41,000 girls saying it in a chorus, never recognizing the contradiction. It’s taking a form of contempt for women – even a hatred for women – and internalizing it by saying, Yes, those girls are awful, but I’m special, I’m not like that, instead of stepping back and saying, This is a lie.

The real meaning of “I’m not like the other girls” is, I think, “I’m not the media’s image of what girls should be.” Well, very, very few of us are. Pop culture wants to tell us that we’re all shallow, backstabbing, appearance-obsessed shopaholics without a thought in our heads beyond cute boys and cuter handbags. It’s a lie – a flat-out lie – and we need to recognize it and say so instead of accepting that judgment as true for other girls, but not for you.

“I’m not like the other girls”, Claudia Gray

Excellent article. I always end up thinking this when I see reblogs like that. Female competition is a horrible, poisonous thing (that I’ve only recently gotten over engaging in, and I am much happier for it).

(via birdwithapeopleface)

Reblogged from The Clothes Horse

martinekenblog:

Portraits on Maps by Ed Fairburn

Read more

Reblogged from folie à deux
2062

2062

Death By Chocolate

“Relieve Me with Chocolate”

 You and I lived Gemini

Sixty-three by three-sixty-five

Our children’s children with children

 Too much energy let us die.

 Wars and rules and household robots

Disorders and vitamins tried keeping us taught

 Nurses had their way with us

Assured us happiness if in them we trust.

Two hearts in one,

you always knew me

Dairy brings me fatal allergy

Let me have my goodbye,

Leave a chocolate for me.

calivintage:

street style at paris fashion week by Fashionista.

calivintage:

street style at paris fashion week by Fashionista.

Reblogged from calivintage on tumblr

lovely reader submission from imboycrazy.com

You lay there with your legs intertwined with his. You roll to your side, reaching for something in particular, but you can no longer remember what it was you were reaching for. Your hands grasp for nothing. You arm falls lazily to the side of the bed. You lay on your side, and unlike the ones before him, he doesn’t reach for you. You like it that way. You hate the feeling of a heavy arm on your shoulder. The heat from his skin burns your back.

He hands you a cigarette and a glass of water, pushes the stray strands of hair away from your face. His lips warm, they kiss you close to your ear lobe. It’s always perfect. He knows your secrets, the ones you’ve yet to tell him. He excuses himself and climbs out. He pulls you up onto the pillow. He pulls you slowly, delicately. And then he walks out and you watch him leave.

You roll back onto your side, check the time and stare at the wall. He returns with another glass of water. He climbs back into bed. He pulls you closer by your legs. You wrap your legs around him and he holds you too close. You realize this is too close but you say nothing. This time it will be different.

You are intoxicated by him. His lips, his eyes. The way he teases you, twirls your hair around his finger. His boyish charm, his juvenile sense of humour. The way he makes you wait for hours, days. He owes no explanation to you and you command none. He will call and you will crawl back into bed with him. He will leave you without pictures, songs, borrowed t-shirts and other memorabilia that lovers exchange. He is everything you want, but he is not what you should want.

He is cold, unknowingly manipulative. Your hands fit perfectly into his. He closes his eyes for a moment and you kiss him gently. You know that this time will be different. But it never is. You compare him to the beautiful men in lovely black and white movies. Tall, stoic. Workaholics, alcoholics with no soul but with eyes full of too much soul, and all it takes is an honest conversation. They become changed men. Men capable of holding and feeling. They run away with you to Paris. You peruse the streets of Rome with him. He is there at night and you can hear him breathing. The only two stars of your wonderful movie, in black and white, with no blurring grey areas.

Or you lay in bed alone, promising to never love the man you shouldn’t want. But you were never very good at keeping promises.

(Source: imboycrazy.com)