If you aren't growing; you're dying
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About: Twenty-something.
Swedish in LA.
Graduate Student
Third Culture Kid now Adult
Bookworm & Foodie
Quote whore.
Old Soul.
“This is what I know:
A tree is still a tree even if it is burning.
God might not be real but also he might be, so, there’s that.
Faith cannot be a person.
Faith is often a person.
Everyone I’ve ever kissed has been a mistake, and I am okay with that.
My love is going to be a fist unclenching;
honey being poured over a sharpened spear so that they can taste me in the wound.
Gravel makes my skin look like a pathway.
When I fall, I pretend I’m coming home.
Bees are necessary.
I meant for this to be something more poetic, but it’s just a list of facts.
It is possible to love someone without losing yourself.
The ocean is still largely unexplored.
There is no way of proving that life
doesn’t exist on other planets and in other universes.
Hawaii is the only state in America that has its own language.
How beautiful it is, to belong to something
and still be your own.”
Caitlyn Siehl, A List of Facts Dressed up as a Poem (via alonesomes: indieless) … This, this, this.
(via live-to-the-point-of-tears)

(via live-to-the-point-of-tears)

How Birth Year Influences Political Views

(Source: azspot, via seriouslyamerica)

Watched Guardians of the Galaxy this weekend, a little funnier and more light-hearted than your usual Marvel movies. Oh, I also picked up my car and keys to my apartment, no big deal. 

(also how do people drive in LA without crying)

(Source: merryweatherblue, via musicwordscolourslights)

“It’s a terrible thing, I think, in life to wait until you’re ready. I have this feeling now that actually no one is ever ready to do anything. There is almost no such thing as ready. There is only now. And you may as well do it now. Generally speaking, now is as good a time as any.” —Hugh Laurie (via aurelle)

(via seulmates)

An update from across the pond

Settled phone number, bank account, car and apartment in six days, but nowhere close to feeling at home yet. 

Just beginning to realize how hectic the start of the semester will be. I am being lulled into this false sense of security because I am surrounded by the familiar up here in the Bay Area, but I know that LA is going to be new and exciting and scary and intimidating for the foreseeable future. But it’s good right? If you’re not growing, you’re dying, and all the jazz. 


Tanning - 1953


Tanning - 1953


Women against feminism are basically just arguing that their individual lives are fine and they don’t care about what other women go through

(via okayalrightwhatever)

“No one asked, at any point, if Mitt Romney might give up on his presidential ambitions because he wanted to spend more time with his litter of grandkids. Fuck, no one even asked in 2012 if Tagg Romney would do less on the campaign trail because he just got two new babies. No one asked because not only did no one care, but because everyone assumed that things would go on as normal because that’s what the fuck people do, men, women, grand or otherwise. The only reason anyone is talking about this is because Hillary Clinton has lady parts. And, no matter how you wanna sputter, “But…no,” it comes out sexist.”Mitt Romney Became a Grandfather Eight Times While Running for President and No One Gave a Damn (via samuraifuckingfrog)

(via seriouslyamerica)

Before You Were Mine


by Carol Ann Duffy

I’m ten years away from the corner you laugh on
with your pals, Maggie McGeeney and Jean Duff.
The three of you bend from the waist, holding
each other, or your knees, and shriek at the pavement.
Your polka-dot dress blows round your legs. Marilyn.

I’m not here yet. The thought of me doesn’t occur
in the ballroom with the thousand eyes, the fizzy, movie tomorrows
the right walk home could bring. I knew you would dance
like that. Before you were mine, your Ma stands at the close
with a hiding for the late one. You reckon it’s worth it.

The decade ahead of my loud, possessive yell was the best one, eh?
I remember my hands in those high-heeled red shoes, relics,
and now your ghost clatters toward me over George Square
till I see you, clear as scent, under the tree,
with its lights, and whose small bites on your neck, sweetheart?

Cha cha cha! You’d teach me the steps on the way home from Mass,
stamping stars from the wrong pavement. Even then
I wanted the bold girl winking in Portobello, somewhere
in Scotland, before I was born. That glamorous love lasts
where you sparkle and waltz and laugh before you were mine.

Just suffered from a PMS induced identity crisis. Hows your hump day?

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