The name's Gina, like a smurf
I LOVE SMURFS AND I LOVE BLUE. I AM SHORT TOO. LOVE ME, bitches.
(via astoldbycj)
Laughing At My Nightmare!: The Ferris Wheel by Jon Burcaw
My dad, author of The Sidecar Kings (<- click to buy, proceeds benefit the MDA!), has been doing lots of writing lately… about me. When I started reading his stories, I will admit it was a little weird, seeing my life through someone else’s eyes. After I got over that tiny emotional hiccup,…
youvemetaterriblefatehaventyou:
pigfarts-pigfarts-here-i-come:
OH NEIN YOU DIDN’T.
I DID NAZI THAT COMING.
OH HEIL NO
JEW DID NOT JUST MAKE THAT JOKE
THAT IS NOT ALL REICH, OKAY, OH MY GOD
GUYS, THESE JOKES ARE TASTELESS, ANNE FRANKLY I WON’T STAND FOR THEM.
JOKES LIKE THIS REALLY PUT ME OUT OF MEIN KAMPFORT ZONE.
THIS WILL NOT BE GOING ANY FÜHRER
I DON’T SEE ANY FINAL SOLUTION HERE.
Laughing At My Nightmare!: Silly woman
My friend Jon and I went to Wal-mart this afternoon to buy an $18 fishing pole because we wanted to go fishing. I have 3 other poles, but we found them in the garage in a giant, tangled clusterfuck of fishing line, hooks, bobbers, and confusion.
Anyway, that’s not really important. What’s…
(via astoldbycj)
Omg imagine if it was pouring with rain and just ugh so cosy and umf
Imagine waking up in the middle of a snowstorm. It’d be like a reverse snowglobe.
REVERSE.
SNOWGLOBE.
imagine waking up to a bear trying to rip into your home.
This bed is not for fucking in.
this bed is definitely for fucking in.
imagine getting lost in the woods and walking in the dark only to run into this and interrupt the couple having intercourse in the bed.
imagine looking up during sex and just seeing shia labeouf’s face pressed to the wall. watching. waiting.
(via iwasafakerbeforeyou)
Smile.
Because unlike the average 200,000 people that will die each day, your eyes opened this morning.
She recited poetry in church. She instilled her creative ambitions and energies into her young son. She encouraged his drawings. She sent him out for professional dance lessons in a land where young boys did not dance. She created a miniature puppet theater constructed of cardboard in which she and her son staged their own in-house productions. And she died when she was 29. Her son was 9.
Her sister-in-law, Ortense Winslow, recalled “I heard her say different times she wanted to live to raise Jimmy. She never wanted to die and leave Jimmy.”
On July 16 Jimmy accompanied his mother’s body on the train back to Fairmount, Indiana. Legend has it that he clipped a lock of her hair while she was in her coffin and placed it under his pillow. But Mildred Dean left her son much more than a lock of hair. She left him a legacy of creative wonder, of separateness, and of pain.
(via giraffe-giraffes)
