i feel like the mantis is always contemplating something i bet they know a lot of freaky secrets
someone you thought you’d seen the last of (via pinkmanjesse)
Lord lemme get a job lord please.
Starbucks acting like you need a damn PhD to make lattes like cmon call me back b
on the dick like
I CAN’T FUCKING BREATHE
perfect gif is perfect.
everyone quick to call out white ppl tryin to be black but what about other ppl of colour trying to be black im sorry but its all the same to me
I see no lies
the word “thrombosis” has been stuck in my head for a few days now
"i want to know your birthday and your parents jobs and if you ever heard them fighting or having sex and if you love your siblings and the worst fight you’ve ever gotten into and if you like one sibling more than the other and what you wanted to be when you grew up when you were seven and your dream vacation and the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you and if you’ve been to therapy and if it helped and the hardest thing you’ve experienced and how you overcame it and if you like what you see when you look in the mirror and if you think appearances matter in a relationship or at all and your favorite movie and which books changed your life and the hardest you’ve ever cried and which grandparent you loved the most and if the words “we need to talk” make you sick to your stomach and why and which holiday is your favorite and which season and which color and if you like rain and if you’re scared of dying and if you believe in god and if you have allergies and to what and what your favorite food is and restaurant and if you like to cook and whether or not you care about cleanliness and what your political views are and if you’re a feminist and your favorite flower and song and if you’d rather own a cat or a dog and if you’d shave off all your hair to give it to a little girl going through chemotherapy and where you’d like to live and honeymoon and what kind of gum and candy you like and what you act like when you’re mad and if you’d rather someone buy you silver or gold jewelry or neither and what clique you were in in high school and what you think your spirit animal is and which flower you’d be and who you admire and which traits you wish were more dominant and if you ever worry you’re a shitty person and what hurt you the most and why you ever thought you were worthless and how someone can make you feel better when you’re sad and if you prefer hugs or kisses and what your house looks like and what your dream car is and which celebrity you think lives the most tragic life and why you think people become so cold and what you think about nature vs nurture and if you believe in heaven and aliens and mermaids and reincarnation and the bible and which feeling is your least favorite and what was the best day you ever had and what would be the best day and if you see yourself as the protector or one who needs protecting and how you deal with your pain and what you would do if you had 100 million dollars and if you think wealth affects people’s morals and what good you think writing is and if you could do it all over, would you and what would you change and what mistake was your biggest and which language you wish you spoke fluently and how many people you’ve loved and if you loved the person you lost your virginity to and if you realize you’re remarkable and what your enneagram is and how you think we could improve the education system and what you think of people who commit suicide and if you think they’re selfish and what you say to them before they did it if you could and what your favorite memory of your childhood is and how you take your tea or if you prefer coffee and when you last wrote someone a handwritten letter and what the best gift you ever received was and what the best piece of advice was and when the last time you cried was and if you’re competitive about board games and which is your favorite and if you feel pressured to settle down and what you notice first in a person and what your top three pet peeves are and if you have any phobias and what you’ve always wanted to do but don’t have the courage to go through with and what you do when you feel overwhelmingly sad and if you ski and if plastic surgery was 100% safe and painless, would you get it and where and why and where you think home is and if you think politeness is important and what you think of indecisive people and if you think there’s ever a reason to go to war and something that scares you and if you believe in therapy and what you want in life and what you look for in a partner and what you want to change about yourself and about the world and who you want to be and who you are. just tell me who you are."
1.) The girl practiced safe sex and used condoms. SMART. AS. FUCK.
2.) I’ve seen this reblogged with notes calling her a “whore” and a “skank”. Fuck that noise. Over half the girls on tumblr will, or have, sucked the dick of a guy they just met, only hung out with a few times, or barely know, and then stress because he hasn’t called them back or he’s treating them like shit. Meanwhile the same girls go to work at a minimum wage job where they don’t even make $920 in 3 months, much less a day.
Good for this chick. She’s on her hustle and I ain’t mad at her. Make that money, girl!
you go girl
suck them dicks
achieve your dreams
are we going to ignore that these guys were willing to pay $460 just to have pleasure? i might not know a lot about how this business goes down but dayum she must have done a good job
i’m really enjoying the part where all of these people are ignoring the fact that prostitution is illegal but whatevs
Missed Connection - m4w
Check out this awesome Missed Connection from Craigslist. These posting usually read as comedic in their strange and skeevie nature but this one is honestly beautiful.
I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train.
I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.
You got on at DeKalb and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you’re looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.
Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you — maybe pretend I didn’t know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, “Hot day.” It all seemed so stupid.
At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it — a biography of Lyndon Johnson — but I noticed you never once turned a page.
My stop was Union Square, but at Union Square I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to the 7 at 42nd Street, but then I didn’t get off at 42nd Street either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to the end of the line at Ditmars, we both just sat there in the car, waiting.
I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.
Still I said nothing.
We took the train all the way back down — down through Astoria, across the East River, weaving through midtown, from Times Square to Herald Square to Union Square, under SoHo and Chinatown, up across the bridge back into Brooklyn, past Barclays and Prospect Park, past Flatbush and Midwood and Sheepshead Bay, all the way to Coney Island. And when we got to Coney Island, I knew I had to say something.
Still I said nothing.
And so we went back up.
Up and down the Q line, over and over. We caught the rush hour crowds and then saw them thin out again. We watched the sun set over Manhattan as we crossed the East River. I gave myself deadlines: I’ll talk to her before Newkirk; I’ll talk to her before Canal. Still I remained silent.
For months we sat on the train saying nothing to each other. We survived on bags of skittles sold to us by kids raising money for their basketball teams. We must have heard a million mariachi bands, had our faces nearly kicked in by a hundred thousand break dancers. I gave money to the beggars until I ran out of singles. When the train went above ground I’d get text messages and voicemails (“Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?”) until my phone ran out of battery.
I’ll talk to her before daybreak; I’ll talk to her before Tuesday. The longer I waited, the harder it got. What could I possibly say to you now, now that we’ve passed this same station for the hundredth time? Maybe if I could go back to the first time the Q switched over to the local R line for the weekend, I could have said, “Well, this is inconvenient,” but I couldn’t very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed — why hadn’t I said “Bless You”? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.
There were nights when we were the only two souls in the car, perhaps even on the whole train, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She’s reading her book, I thought, she doesn’t want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we’d immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we’d both think: Young Love.
For sixty years, we sat in that car, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you cry once after you’d glanced at a neighbor’s newspaper. I wondered if you were crying about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.
One day, in the middle of the afternoon, you stood up as the train pulled into Queensboro Plaza. It was difficult for you, this simple task of standing up, you hadn’t done it in sixty years. Holding onto the rails, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.
It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the subway car, sit down next to me, rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing would be said. Nothing would need to be said.
When the train returned to Queensboro Plaza, I craned my neck as we entered the station. Perhaps you were there, on the platform, still waiting. Perhaps I would see you, smiling and bright, your long gray hair waving in the wind from the oncoming train.
But no, you were gone. And I realized most likely I would never see you again. And I thought about how amazing it is that you can know somebody for sixty years and yet still not really know that person at all.
I stayed on the train until it got to Union Square, at which point I got off and transferred to the L.