nice
me when it’s nice  (via volunruud)

(Source: ilovesmoothjazz1998, via yustin-joung)

This was posted 16 hours ago. It has 51,574 notes.
And how hard is it to land even a minimum-wage job? This year, the Ivy League college admissions acceptance rate was 8.9%. Last year, when Walmart opened its first store in Washington, D.C., there were more than 23,000 applications for 600 jobs, which resulted in an acceptance rate of 2.6%, making the big box store about twice as selective as Harvard and five times as choosy as Cornell. Telling unemployed people to get off their couches (or out of the cars they live in or the shelters where they sleep) and get a job makes as much sense as telling them to go study at Harvard.
"Why Don’t the Unemployed Get Off Their Couches?" and Eight Other Critical Questions for Americans (via seriouslyamerica)

(via lameborghini)

This was posted 17 hours ago. It has 30,754 notes.

dirtydisneyconfessions:

ok dude, i know you wanna fuck the granny queen from a bugs life, we’ve gotten your confession 385 fucking times, we get it, you love fucking old wrinkly ass ants, stop fucking submitting it.

(via instagrampa)

This was posted 17 hours ago. It has 140,257 notes.
micdotcom:

Forget the spreadsheet, here’s an easy flowchart to know if a women owes you sex

Microsoft Excel took a turn for the explicit this week when the Internet learned the once-innocuous office tool was being used in a dispiriting new bro-trend: using the software to track of the number of times their partners refuse sex. Yes, #sexspreadsheets are a thing, presumably because some men still believe that owning of a penis entitles them to unlimited sexy times.
Sorry, guys, that’s just not the way the world works | Follow micdotcom 

micdotcom:

Forget the spreadsheet, here’s an easy flowchart to know if a women owes you sex

Microsoft Excel took a turn for the explicit this week when the Internet learned the once-innocuous office tool was being used in a dispiriting new bro-trend: using the software to track of the number of times their partners refuse sex. Yes, #sexspreadsheets are a thing, presumably because some men still believe that owning of a penis entitles them to unlimited sexy times.

Sorry, guys, that’s just not the way the world works | Follow micdotcom 

(via likeneelyohara)

This was posted 17 hours ago. It has 11,369 notes. .
Meaning and morality of one’s life come from within oneself. Healthy, strong individuals seek self expansion by experimenting and by living dangerously. Life consists of an infinite number of possibilities and the healthy person explores as many of them as possible… the good life is ever changing, challenging, devoid of
regret, intense, creative and risky.
Friedrich Nietzsche (via cosmicroots)

(Source: liberatingreality, via cosmicroots)

This was posted 18 hours ago. It has 206 notes.

unsuccessfulmetalbenders:

keke palmers vine is a work of art

(via fake-mermaid)

This was posted 1 day ago. It has 84,191 notes.

(Source: allisonexplainsitall, via thatsmoderatelyraven)

This was posted 1 day ago. It has 712 notes. .
humansofnewyork:

"She doesn’t force her beliefs on other people. Just because she doesn’t do drugs, for example, she’s not judging people who do. She knows the difference between an opinion and a moral standard."

humansofnewyork:

"She doesn’t force her beliefs on other people. Just because she doesn’t do drugs, for example, she’s not judging people who do. She knows the difference between an opinion and a moral standard."

(via -theperfectmistake)

This was posted 1 day ago. It has 12,294 notes. .

metaknighty:

today a 4 foot tall freshman in an angry birds t shirt pushed me out of the way because he “has an honors class to get to move peasant” 

(Source: rhinse, via fake-mermaid)

This was posted 1 day ago. It has 143,016 notes.

(Source: santiagogaleas, via allbeautifulblackgirls)

This was posted 1 day ago. It has 15,572 notes. .

I am walking in the city when I see him. Sixteen, with a cigarette in mouth. Wearing a white shirt with stains in the underarms. Knock-off Wayfarers tucked into the collar. Hair slicked back. He is pulling a comb from his pocket and out comes a lighter too. He smirks, flips his comb open, lights his cigarette and then, while looking off into the distance, finally answers my question. “Yes,” he says, “I’ve got a lighter.”

Two years later, I skip gym class and find a boy sitting on a snowy tree stump just past the school gate. He is 18, with a large wool peacoat thrown over his lean body. A bit of pudge sticks out from under his wrinkled white dress shirt. I see him drinking beer after beer, and smiling larger with each one. I shiver and walk past him, until he calls out, “Hey, you got somewhere to be?” I turn around. “Not really, no.” He scoots over, making room for me on the stump. “Want to take a seat?” I sit down slowly and offer him a slight smile. He takes a sip of his beer-cheap stuff, likely stolen-turns away from me to burp and then excuses himself, and then says, “Cigarette?”

At the end of the school year, I see my boyfriend lighting a cigarette in his car after an exam. “You smoke now?” I ask. I am so annoyed with him. He tries so hard to be something that should take no effort at all. I have to look out the window to keep from cringing at his deliberately untucked shirt, artfully messy hair, and now the cigarette posed perfectly between his “just chapped enough” lips. “I’m stressed,” he spits back at me. I study the snow and roll my eyes. When he’s finished, he starts the car and puts on a smooth jazz station, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the song. Three months earlier, I tried to take him to a jazz bar and he told me everything I liked was “old-ladyish and weird.” When we reach his house, I get out after him and then steal his pack. Later that night, he heads to his car to “think” and then comes back a few minutes later with his hands shoved deep inside his pockets. “That was fast,” I say. “Yeah, I just had to get some fresh air,” he says, while slipping into bed, smelling of nothing but pine. He is snoring in two seconds, so happy to be relieved of his smoking habit that he’s fallen asleep half-smiling. I look at him for a few seconds, then slip out of the covers, grab his pack from my jacket pocket, and go outside. I return smelling of tobacco and pine.

A few years later, I take myself out to a bar and see a man putting his cigarette into his mouth, flicking his lighter, and smiling at me as he inhales. A cloud of smoke is blown into my face as he asks me my name. I give him a fake one. I don’t feel too much like myself anyway-eighteen, and standing on a street congested with bars and traffic at two a.m. We go into the upper level of the closest bar and inside, he buys me “whatever’s on the tap” with the change in his pocket. “Honey,” he says. “Honey, what are you doing in a place like this?” He is combing his hair as he says this, and I am suspicious that he is only looking into my eyes in hopes of seeing his reflection. I laugh in response. To this, he declares, “I need a smoke break.” He opens his pack, puts one in-between his teeth, and then offers one to me. I shake my head. “Suit yourself,” he says. “I won’t be too long. Otherwise I’ll start to miss you.” I watch him walk down the stairs as I sip the last of my beer. I am about to join him when I notice a back door. I check my watch, then walk down the bar’s fire escape and go home. He can’t miss what he doesn’t know.

That night, with my elbows resting on my fire escape, I light a cigarette and look at the sleeping city. Hot red lights, trucks unloading in the dark, the occasional scream of a car horn cutting through the stars. I suck in deeply, hold the smoke in my throat for so long that I almost forget it’s there, and then exhale. Gone. I am secondhand smoke. I have been breathed out by so many mouths that the stale smell of me clings to your clothes. I am in your new girlfriend’s hair when she comes home from the bar. I am floating outside your window when you return to our old apartment. And I am blackening your lungs one touch at a time.

The Cigarette Stories | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
This was posted 1 day ago. It has 832 notes.

policedog:

imagine if people screamed instead of snored

(via fake-mermaid)

This was posted 1 day ago. It has 345,172 notes.
The self-portrait: Swallowing glass chips to stay interesting. Keeping my insides cut so at least something comes out when I open my mouth. Spitting up blood. Calling it poetry. Calling it a performance. Calling it everything but what it is. Self-deprecation for the sake of humility. Self-dissolution to keep them guessing. Playing the same game until it stops becoming one. Turning tricks until they become habit. Here are some jokes I’ve made so many times they’ve lost their punchline: Texting late at night, check. Bleeding dirty thoughts and regret. Throwing up and forgetting the mess. Getting thin out of pure neglect. Check. Check. Check. This isn’t a way to grow up, but what else is there? Nice house? Nice car? Nice mouth? Nice girl? Wait. Didn’t you used to be such a nice girl? (I stole that line right out of the mouth of the concerned aunt who gave me a once-over last Christmas.) Let’s try this again. Nice girl. Nice girls don’t stay out late. They don’t forget their friends. They don’t drop everything and move for the sake of adventure. Nice girls don’t lie in the middle of the street and call it therapy. They don’t know how to become ghosts in two seconds flat. Nice girl. What happened to her? Killed her. Cursed her. Kept her hungry in the basement for so long that she gave up and went home. Pushed her aside and cared for poetry, coffee, and burnt curtains instead. Nice girl. Why don’t you call her up again? Ask her where she’s been? Ah, but where’s the fun in that?
The Self-Portrait | Lora Mathis 
It’s good fun writing like you’re insane  (via lora-mathis)

(via lora-mathis)

This was posted 1 day ago. It has 1,524 notes.

dear-white-people:

YOU DEMANDED IT! Check out the full-length official trailer for Dear White People before it hits theaters this weekend. 

#HITSHARE #TURNUP #BELIEVETHEHYPE

(via coolator)

This was posted 1 day ago. It has 21,951 notes.
chekhov:

I can’t believe our water supply is in the hands of a c-lister

chekhov:

I can’t believe our water supply is in the hands of a c-lister

(Source: wandaventham, via thatsmoderatelyraven)

This was posted 2 days ago. It has 17,731 notes. .