We have to quit defining ourselves solely in relation to dudes. Like, ‘I am not me—I am some imaginary man’s imaginary perfect 10, plus 50 extra pounds, minus a 20-inch waist, plus a threatening commitment to feminism, minus any desire to pretend to care about bike polo! That’s me!’ No, that’s not you. That is a weird monster you made up to torture yourself. I try to remember (and it is hard sometimes—real talk) that I’m an actual human being, not some math equation that can be solved by triangulating all of the nearest boners.
Lindy West on boner triangulations (from Jezebel)
lol @ “plus a threatening commitment to feminism” too real// too r33L.
(via pregnant-teen-mom)
sweet ball sweat this is relevant
(via imanassspankme)
The Caravan Has Come To Rest: hey bro bro broski brosicle broseidon, god of the brocean brotato...
- hey bro
- bro
- broski
- brosicle
- broseidon, god of the brocean
- brotato chip
- brotein shake
- brosef stalin
- barack brobama
- teddy brosevelt
- don quibrote
- adrien brody
- gallilebro gallilei
- napoleon bronaparte
- brobo cop
- leonardo dicapribro
- broseph mengele
- bro nye the science guy
- selena…
I currently reside in the Bromuda Triangle.
(Source: the-vashta-nerada)
We don’t have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power
never put to good use.
Jeffrey McDaniel, excerpt from The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy (via theoryoflostthings)
jesus christ, it’s every poem
He seems taken aback, but then his face lightens and his other arm reaches out to hold my waist, and I melt, I melt, I open up like a dream and I’m his for the night until the warmth goes cold.
In the following days he couldn’t believe her indifference. She’d fixed his car. They’d spoken for hours. They went to bed! He’d told her great stories and made her laugh, but now she didn’t seem to give a shit. She never returned his calls, ignored the love letter he spent one whole Saturday composing … Nothing. What had gone wrong? He tracked her down after a class and asked the question point-blank. She said, “Nothing’s wrong. You’re nice.” And kept walking.
It’s a poetry night, and I am not sorry for flooding your dash.
…in this single bed, between these garish sheets, I will find a map as likely as any treasure hunt. I will explore you and mine you and you will redraw me according to your will. We shall cross one another’s boundaries and make ourselves one nation. Scoop me in your hands for I am good soil. Eat of me and let me be sweet.
(Source: hysterical-unreliable-organs)
