Poetry…like silk in the rain, it clings to me.
~Kevin Stock (via takingstockofwhatmattersmost)
25/7/2014 . 118 notes . Reblog
lizawithazed:

sometimes you see a pun so artfully constructed you just have to stand back in awe.

lizawithazed:

sometimes you see a pun so artfully constructed you just have to stand back in awe.

20/7/2014 . 323,827 notes . Reblog

14/7/2014 . 157,435 notes . Reblog
A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs. Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin Dudley…He couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: ‘To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!’
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (via hidingbehindaface)
14/7/2014 . 374 notes . Reblog
Sorry for the fitspam, I’ll see myself out.

Sorry for the fitspam, I’ll see myself out.

2/7/2014 . 3 notes . Reblog
Rockclimbing Problems

"I hate my arm for being hurt. I want to climb," I said.
“Do push-ups,” says Joey.
“Eh why?”
“To help your arm? If you can do push ups you could probably climb.”
“If you can dodge a wrench you can dodge a ball.”

Sometimes I try to boulder my fireplace. It’s like four feet tall and only wide enough for two moves. But really I almost ran for my chalk and shoes when I realized its rocks have a few decent hand holds.

But the biggest problem of all: harness wedgies of the crotch.

2/7/2014 . 0 notes . Reblog
Core core core. Needs work. -_-

Core core core. Needs work. -_-

2/7/2014 . 2 notes . Reblog
25/6/2014 . 3 notes . Reblog
Dysmenorrhea

I picture myself reaching into my own abdomen, digging my hands deep down into the that soft fleshy nook created by my wide hip bones. I see myself like a rabid zombie, my insatiable hunger for flesh outweighing my own desire for self-preservation. I am yanking out my own organs. This is quite a complex conundrum as I am both defying self-preservation and driven by it. A need to eliminate the pain emitted by overactive ovaries produces this thought, this idea, that maybe if I just pull them out, disconnect them from the body, the pain will stop. I will be able to go back to work. I will be able to hear the words of the people around me instead of this endless internal monologue repeating itself over and over again, “My god, this hurts. You are on fire. Make it end. My god, this hurts…”

            Instead I lay motionless. Instead I reach for pill after pill of ibuprofen, acetaminophen, tylenol, but nothing comes close to quelling the pain. Nothing can touch it. I am a woman lost in the woods yelling at the top of her lungs with not a single person to hear, the pills and capsules are droplets in a vast ocean, they change nothing of the water’s current. The word futility sounds a lot like fertility with enough throbbing in the system to ignore their differences. Right now they are one. I am fertile. It leaves me futile. Nothing can be done.

23/6/2014 . 3 notes . Reblog
Rockclimbing Problems

"I hate my arm for being hurt. I want to climb," I said.
“Do push-ups,” says Joey.
“Eh why?”
“To help your arm? If you can do push ups you could probably climb.”
“If you can dodge a wrench you can dodge a ball.”

Sometimes I try to boulder my fireplace. It’s like four feet tall and only wide enough for two moves. But really I almost ran for my chalk and shoes when I realized its rocks have a few decent hand holds.

But the biggest problem of all: harness wedgies of the crotch.

21/6/2014 . 1 note . Reblog