Hilarity and Hope.

I'm a twenty-something from Massachusetts, trying to figure out this whole living and loving myself thing. I find joy in cats, quotes, music, and more.

hotdadcalendar:

I’m actually concerned for boys who complain about how different girls look without makeup. Like did you think eyeshadow permanently alters a girls eyelid? Are you frightened when people change clothes

(via save-me-from--myself-please)

She is not “my girl.”

She belongs to herself. And I am blessed, for with all her freedom, she still comes back to me, moment-to-moment, day-by-day, and night-by-night.

How much more blessed can I be?

Avraham Chaim, Thoughts after The Alchemist (via peachiegrl)

(via havefearsjumpanyway)

curseofthefanartlords:

When I was a kid I thought your 20s were supposed to be fun, not filled with perpetual anxiety about financial stability and constantly feeling like an unaccomplished piece of shit. 

(via havefearsjumpanyway)

I love it when people are affectionate with me. I like when they always invite me places, or text me, or call me. I would rather have that person than someone who makes me text them first all the time and replies back like 10 hours later.

(via havefearsjumpanyway)

dek-says-so:

vex138:

and stop viewing feminists as man haters!

Oh, hey; so my shitty boss uses “cute” names for everyone (admittedly, regardless of gender) and when I complained to HR about it, the woman told me, “Oh, that’s his way.”

And that’s when I realized, no one in a company actually cares for the cogs in the machinery; just the machinery.

(via save-me-from--myself-please)

The ad was in a women’s magazine and if I remember correctly, was for a perfume. It featured a white woman lying in bed with a black man. The man’s shirtless back was to the viewer, making only his taut, muscular form and powerful-looking arms and shoulders visible. He was faceless, unidentified. The woman looked sultrily at us from over his mysterious form, satisfaction writ large over her features. She had partaken of whatever delights this man had to offer and was smugly, luxuriantly basking in the afterglow.

The ad copy was, “Take a walk on the wild side.”

My teacher used the ad as an example of how marketers can use certain words and images to convey large amounts of information subtly and effectively. A white woman having sex with a black man? How risqué. The implication: be a little like that woman. Spray on that perfume and feel like the kind of girl who has sex with faceless, muscular black men in ritzy hotel rooms because it’s an adventure, a thrill, a risk, something illicitly pleasurable.

These are the semiotics of race. This is why columnists will trip over themselves not to call Lupita Nyong’o or Angela Basset “beautiful”, choosing instead to use terms that call to mind a kind of savage, animalistic magnetism: fierce, striking, edgy, eye-catching. Words like “pretty” and “beautiful” and “cute” are for white women whose bodies and sexualities are not seen as wild, animal, or untamed. Black men are hulking, threatening, thuggish; white men are charming, sexy heartthrobs with hearts of gold. Brown women are exotic, with their “honey-coloured” skin and their “mystical”, “enchanting” beauty, unlike their white counterparts, who are held up as not only ideal, but knowable and safe. White people are beautiful; non-white people are dangerous.

c-cassandra:

my hair and i have a very complicated relationship </3

(via onedayiwillfuckyourparents)

I am constantly torn between wanting to improve myself and wanting to destroy myself.

tinarannosaurus:

"It’s called Buttloose."

requested by dressesandcarresses (x)

(via ianstagram)

My pain was never beautiful or poetic. It was answering the phone mid breakdown and laughing like I was fine.
Those who are not looking for happiness are the most likely to find it, because those who are searching forget that the surest way to be happy is to seek happiness for others.
Martin Luther King Jr.  (via observando)

(via darkobssessions)