HAHAHAHAHA, I’m so into this.
I feel that even in this day and age people feel like they don’t have the right to be mentally ill, and I just think, if you broke your foot you would get an x-ray, and put it in a plaster cast and let it heal. And then you would do exercise to get it back to full health. It’s the same if you’re mentally unwell – go and speak to someone. It’s fine. (x)
Sharon Rooney, of My Mad Fat Diary
I haven’t watched this show, but she seems very cool. And she looks super lovely in this photoset.
This is an experiment in venting, because I feel as though if I keep all my feelings inside any longer, I will collapse into myself like a submarine taken to too great a depth. And perhaps I too am, in fact, out of my depth.
This is a letter.
Tonight, during the first public outing we’ve ever made just the two of us, I sat to your right, my legs crossed toward you. My hands lay slightly open in my lap, fingers curled invitingly, beckoning. I had my head tilted towards you, my shoulder touching yours. I only made note of these actions when, to my embarrassment, I realized the you were facing away from me. Your arms crossed over your chest, your legs stretched away, as far to the opposite side of the seat as you could. I rearranged myself as inconspicuously as possible, erasing the markers of my longing from my posture. To be perfectly honest, you finally managed to properly break my heart in that moment, and you didn’t even say a word. Later, you kissed me on my doorstep, but all I could see or feel was your crossed arms and hunched shoulders, clearly and unequivocally telling me that I mean nothing to you.
You have made me feel smaller than I have felt in years. I’ve made some mistakes, and been made to feel like a idiot, a slut, and a fool, but never have I been made to feel so completely and utterly insignificant. It took me much too long to notice, because your polite nonchalance seemed to be a facade, something that I might make my way past, in time. But having uncovered layer after layer of you, I have found the polite nonchalance hides not a cautious affection, but rather the complete and utter disregard you hold for me. And why? I have personally witnessed you show compassion and kindness. I have seen you defer to the elderly, charm babies, and stick up for your friends, but never me! Never once have you deferred to me. Never once have you made an effort to charm me. Never once have you stood up for me.
I never asked you for any form or amount of your love, because that is so weighty, so unreasonable. And why? God forbid I ask you to feel something for me! God forbid I ask for your surplus compassion and kindness! I have twisted logic and reasoning into pretzels around my head and heart, trying to manufacture an excuse for your actions, trying to shake the worthlessness I feel because of you. I’m tired and I’m sad, and you are still not excused.
Somewhere there is someone who will treat me like I am special and necessary, worthy of love. But that person is most definitely NOT you.
Isidor and Ida Straus
On the night of the sinking, Isidor and Ida Straus were seen standing near Lifeboat No. 8 in the company of Mrs. Straus’s maid, Ellen Bird. Although the officer in charge of the lifeboat was willing to allow the elderly couple to board the lifeboat with Miss Bird, Isidor Straus refused to go so as long as there were women and children still remaining on the ship. He urged his wife to board, but she refused, saying, “We have lived together for many years. Where you go, I go.” Her words were witnessed by those already in Lifeboat No. 8 as well as many others who were on the boat deck at the time. Isidor and Ida were last seen standing arm in arm on the deck.
My morning slap to the feels.
I don’t think I know how to be in love anymore. I watch it happening around me, and understand that I am apart from it. I don’t know how to be intimate with someone; I only know how to fuck, and it isn’t the same thing. I’m wildly attracted to people I can never have, (coworkers, straight girlfriends) and have absolutely no feeling whatsoever for the men who, under the cover of darkness and bolstered with liquid courage, tell me in their blunt and obsequious way how hot I am. Friends tell me that I should count myself lucky to be desired, but my body is not who I am, and compliments on my form have become an annoyance, and roll off of me like so many water droplets, spraying out of peoples mouths like spittle! Ugh! I hate being reduced to an object to be gazed upon, and have harden myself against their piercing looks. Being a part of relationship is being soft, being mouldable, your edges flowing together with another person’s. I’m no longer fluid, no longer mouldable, my edges rigid and unyielding. I no longer look at my body as something to be observed and enjoyed by another, but rather the empty space beneath my head. I’m turning to stone, and require the intervention of respect, of friendship, of love (read: magic,) to crack my exoskeleton.
bisexual people aren’t more likely to cheat in relationships but we are more likely to cheat at cards, while lesbians are most likely to cheat at jenga, and genderqueer people often cheat at mario kart
how the fuck do you cheat at jenga
ask a lesbian
tumblr really does have a gif for everything