(Source: epic-vines)

(Reblogged from kiasyd)


Or maybe she does and she’s just trollin’ y’all.



Or maybe she does and she’s just trollin’ y’all.

(Reblogged from tastefullyoffensive)

(Source: vampyrat)

(Reblogged from goth-style)


(via biomorphosis)

what the fuck cat



(via biomorphosis)

what the fuck cat

(Reblogged from xenontrioxide)


I just invented a new word:


(Reblogged from kerink)

Ugh. sorry for the crappy picture. My camera’s broken and my computer’s webcam is terrible. I made a gift fro my mom for Easter. A bouquet made from wire and nail polish. I wish I could have made it fuller. It need more green leafy stuff. However, I’m tired. :P

Yanno. For Easter being right around the corner, I have seen almost no “CHRISTIANS STOLE EASTER FROM THE PAGANS!”-type posts. I’m really proud of you all. Thank you. :)

(Source: picnicintherain)

(Reblogged from ohpardonme)


swear to god if you whine to me about “too dependent on technology” i will sneak into your house and take all your lightbulbs

(Source: withquestionablewit)

(Reblogged from kerink)

poem: manufacturing defects (mind the warnings)




In the manufacture of any complex machinery
there will necessarily be factory seconds.
Sent into this world scarce half made up.

With increasing sophistication of technology
many of these may be detected
before release to the public, for consumption.

in certain instances the flaw
is not immediately apparent;
years may pass before detection.

By then it is too late.
How do the rejected DVRs
the bad iPads, the not-quite-perfect phones
view their design-specific other selves?

"Perfection is boring," we are told.
The people telling us most often trend
toward the perfect.

And there are times when even though
what we are given is enough to do the job
to get us through, to pay the rent, to gas the car
we are aware of what we lack.

We are aware of that whole world
that spans the gulf from us to them
(from here to there)
and in which lies reality: we are not real.

We are the hollow and the strawmen
standing at the windows, with our hands
cupped to the glass, watching the real
go really round their days
and really through their lives

and although we the unreal stand quite close, 
enough to hear and see and smell and taste,
we cannot hear or see or smell or taste or touch
quite the way they do it; quite how it is done.

Until the manufacture of the Man
has undergone some quality control
the flawed and incomplete will roll (in their diurnal course)

until they all run down;
in such a world it seems unkind
to place injunctions on the simple act
of self-destruction, once that gulf is plumbed
and its true depth made manifest and clear.

We are not like you. We’re behind the glass
and blank and stopped and broken all to hell
and on stripped gears and tattered belts and chains

we creak along the roads you drive with ease.
Don’t wonder why we don’t return your smiles.
It’s hard enough to stay within the lines.

reblog because it seems so utterly exhausting to re-write the same fucking thing all over again

That is a beautiful bit of writing, there. Damn.

(Reblogged from thischick25)