Love seeing little pawprints. So fucking magical. There was a little guy here.
День рождения сильного и независимого мужчины.
me, every second of my life: but is it meaningful? but is it meaningful? but is it meaningful?
“Sometimes you’re 25 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened everyday and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breathe in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.”
— The Winter of the Air (via fadeouuut)
There was once a time when we were a little younger. I was still a raging tomboy and you still had your short hair. We went to the movies and hid your dab pen up my sleeve and blew the smoke into one of our jackets. That was it for us, we were the shit, nobody was as cool as you and I. I think we may have been with our old group of friends. I hope you write about these times too. I hope you are successful and achieve everything you want. I hope you have a shitty apartment in Brooklyn and spend too much time choosing the color to paint your finger nails. I hope you publish stuff in independent zines that nobody will read and I hope you go on loads of crappy dates. And I hope you cut your own bangs and they turn out bad.
4/1/20 - it’s very late; reminiscing (if I deserve it)
Linger by the Cranberries except it’s 1993, and you’re lying on your bedroom floor, listening to the song on repeat on an old tape deck. Your heart’s in your throat as you think about your crush, just vaguely cognizant of your family living their life downstairs.
requested by @travelerblessed
mrhaliboot