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"...Ere to the wind's twelve quarters I take my endless way."
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The answer to the age old question: Can you french braid a mohawk?
Yeah, I know you all were wondering.
Guys, guys! I french braided a mohawk tonight!
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I know I could never drink alone, because as soon as I do, I would become a nineteen-year-old Charles Bukowski, telling stories with doomed endings and writing cynical poetry about my paranoia and nameless prostitutes for anyone who’d listen.
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…but seriously, I don’t think I can do this anymore.
Reblog if you’ve ACTUALLY read The Hobbit
(Source: thefoxxybenedict, via vienna-v)
(via apostrophizing)
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The world is full of confusing things, like a kaleidoscope that rearranges and shifts in the light when you turn around.
Haunted, gaunt, like a madwoman trapped in her own body, white skin clinging to frail bones- I can’t seem to get out of here. I can’t leave my house; I can’t leave my insanity behind. I’m dying here and I don’t know why. I can’t seem to find the source of the putrid smell, the poison. The alarm sounds in my head in shrill shrieks, but they can’t seem to dispel me like a fire alarm, wake me like the morning clock- it’s a siren’s song. I’m captivated, addicted to the destruction. I love to watch beautiful things burn.
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If you ever end up on Space Mountain with only 5 people, you have to do the ‘lost in space’
(Source: soupnbread, via thesignof43)
(via albeitobvious)
do you ever wonder if people could watch your life on tv who they’d ship you with
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(Source: the-more-i-arty, via thesignof43)
