missmirandaaraee:

WHAT

(Source: wamwanfood, via therougemaiden)

ernbarassing:

You say I’m wearing too much black but all I hear is I look great

(via therougemaiden)

// MY GRANDPA WANTED TO BE AN ARTIST //

honerablerosemary:

BUT HE HAD 7 KIDS AND A WIFE TO FEED SO HE ENDED UP OWNING A GROCERY STORE AFTER SERVING IN WW2

TODAY MY DAD WAS CLEANING THE HOUSE AND FOUND SOME PENCIL DRAWINGS THAT MY GRANDPA DID AND ASKED IF I WANTED TO HAVE THEM AND I

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CAN WE JUST LOOK AT THIS

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MY BAD WEBCAM PICTURES DON’T EVEN DO THEM JUSTICE LIKE LOOK AT THESE

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MY GRANDPA NEVER BECAME A FAMOUS ARTIST

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BUT I WANT TO MAKE HIM KNOWN

(via therougemaiden)

She hated the namelessness of women in stories, as if they lived and died so that men could have metaphysical insights.
Chad Harbach, The Art of Fielding (via yungkumari)

(Source: fissionaccomplished, via yungkumari)

http://yungkumari.tumblr.com/post/82288272652/for-many-of-these-women-the-reading-experience

For many of these women, the reading experience begins from a place of seething rage. Take Sara Marcus’ initial impression of Jack Kerouac: “I remember putting On the Road down the first time a woman was mentioned. I was just like: ‘Fuck. You.’ I was probably 15 or 16. And over the coming…

There are no Jack Kerouacs or Holden Caulfields for girls. Literary girls don’t take road-trips to find themselves; they take trips to find men.

"Great" books, as defined by the Western canon, didn’t contain female protagonists I could admire. In fact, they barely contained female protagonists at all.

somewhere there is a 17 year old girl who smells like pomegranates and has summer air tight on her naked skin, wrapping around her scars
like veins in a bloody garden, who won’t make it past tomorrow,

there is a young man, who buys yellow flowers for the woman
in apartment 84B, who learned braille when he realized she
couldn’t read his poetry about her white neck and mint eyes

there are people watching films,
making love for the first time, opening mail with the
heading of ‘i miss you’, cooking noodles with
organic spices and red sauces, buying lemon detergent,
ignoring ‘do not smoke’ signs, painting murals
of his lips in abandoned warehouses, chewing
the words ‘i love you’ over and over again, swallowing
phone numbers and forgotten birthdays, eating
strawberry pies, drinking white wine off of each
others open mouths, ignoring the telephone,
reading this poem

somewhere
someone is thinking
i’m alone
somewhere
someone finally understands
they never really
were

poems from my uncles graves (via bhagyawati)

(Source: irynka, via aabrs)

Michelle: the Bonapartist