andro-saurus:

xanderthegreatest:

spoopiness:

joponyhere:

ohadelaide-pls:

tiptreecrossing:

legendofkorraholyshit:

generalbumi:

arnanduh:

shittyme:

ionlyblogturtles:

livingmywayeveryday:

vickified:

“If a clock could count down to the moment you meet your soul mate, would you want to know?”

lol yes, so then i can shave.

Has anyone written a book about this yet? I think it’d be interesting!!!!!!

     One minute, 37 seconds.
     My legs are shaking. Holy cow, there is no way I can do this. None.
     One minute, 29 secods.
     I glance around at the faces surrounding the room. Of course my Meeting would take place in the gross, overcrowded cafeteria.
     One minute, six seconds.
     Somewhere within these four walls, someone has the exact same countdown on their wrist. They’re going through the exact same pressure as me.
      54 seconds.
     Mom said I should be excited, not nervous. Yet I still find myself wiping my sweaty palms on my dress. I can’t believe she talked me into wearing a dress. I mean, shouldn’t  my Soul Mate meet me as I normally am? All plain jeans, blah shirts, and wild brown curls?
     30 seconds.
     Something deep within me tells me to stand up. I do, drawing the attention of my tablemates. They all know too. They smile encouragingly up at me. I chew my lip nervously.
     25 seconds.
     That same feeling pulls me towards the center of the room. My stomach drops away from me as I take a step in that direction.
     20 seconds.
     I continue in that direction. With each step the tempo of my heart picks up.
     19. Faster.
     18. Quicker.
     17. More rapid.
     16.  It’s racing.
     Oh my god this is it. The moment my life changes forever.
     My eyes search frantically around the cafeteria, searching for someone who looks as nervous as me. For someone who’s heading towards their future with no sense of direction like me.
     10 seconds.
     The feeling directs me slightly to the left. I turn to accomodate.
     5. My heart has given up entirely.
     4. I stop walking.
     3. Just waiting left.
     2. Everything is about to change.
     1. Deep breath.

     0000 d 00 h  00 m  00 s

     Someone bumps my shoulder. I twirl around and my gray eyes meet blue, blue ones.
     “Hello there, love. It appears as though we’re Soul Mates then, eh?”
     As my words fail me, the only thing I can think is “I’m so glad I shaved this morning.”

THIS IS AMAZING

i think youre gonna write the book i nominate you you have no choice go get writing now

(I’d like to play what would happen in the ultimate plot twist)

“Thats weird…” I checked my wrist, the clock had just hit the 30 second mark but I looked around and there was no one there. I was a worrisome guy overall but I felt justified, I mean today was the day I was meeting my soul mate. Not that I expected my dream girl to be in the storage closet at work but still I was nervous. 

Walking out with a box the boss had requested I walked back to my cash register setting it on the shelf. My wrist hit the 20 second mark

19 seconds

18 seconds

Where was she? I could not help but get worried that an error would pop up or that she was gone and my timer would run out with no response. I panicked, I’d change my own fate if I had to. Running out of time I hurried through the back door. There was a park outside and maybe I was supposed to be there to find my soul mate. 

10 seconds

9 seconds

A faint ding of the doorbell hit my ear. Wait was that it?? She was here! I turned around running back to the counter. “Don’t worry I’m just in the back!”

I ran out looking at my wrist as it hit zero. Out of breath “Hi I’m Matt!” Sticking out my hand for a handshake it was met by a firm hand. Meeting my soulmate’s eyes for the first time they spoke. 

“I’m Steven.” The man gave a smile “It’s nice to meet you.” 

OH MY GOD 

 I watch my friend carefully. Her excitement is glowing all over her pretty face. Exactly 2 minutes left, she tells me. We’re waiting at the bus stop and the bus is coming in two minutes. I think she hoped she’d meet them on a beach at sunset or something.
 ”I mean that’s ok - these things can’t always be romantic I mean my mum met dad when he was working at the book store and it’s not like you can plan it to be romantic I just hoped, I mean everyone hopes don’t they-” she breaks off, looking at me awkwardly. “Sorry. It’s just a big day for me you know.” Yes I do know. You’ve been going on about it for the past year. I smile at her.
 ”Don’t worry. You nervous? You’ll be ok, you always are,” I grin, determined not to ruin this for her. It’s selfish of me to be moody. This is her future being determined. Right here. In now, precisely 1 minute 30 seconds.
 She smiles at me, but it isn’t quite reaching her eyes. She’s restless and keeps tapping her foot. Her eyes are wide with.. fear? Excitement? Nerves? Probably all of them and a thousand more things I can’t imagine. She keeps checking her wrist. So do I. The bus comes around the corner. 1 minute 10 seconds.
 ”Hey. I’ll leave you alone now ok? The bus is here. I’ll sit a couple of seats away, and be there if you need me,” I say, squeezing her arm reassuringly. “Good luck.” I hope it sounded sincere.

 The bus pulls up and I climb on first, taking a quick glance at her while I give the driver my ticket. She’s shaking and looks a little green. I want to give her a hug but know I shouldn’t interrupt now. I look at the passengers and it’s full of pensioners. My heart starts beating frantically. What? I can’t see anyone else at the bus stop. But she’s only 18, she can’t end up with a 80 year old. 
 I turn around and look at her - she’s breathing hard. The bus driver asks if she’s ok but she ignores him. Her eyebrows are creased and her face is flushed. Oh. Oh no. Stay calm. Someone is probably late. I give her a thumbs up and try to smile reassuringly. I think it’s more of a grimace.

 I take a seat near the back. Look at my watch. 25 seconds. She sits down a few seats away.

 Suddenly a dark shape runs past my window and a boy jumps on the bus. He has that same frantic look in his eyes. I breathe out with relief.
 ”Yeah get on, we’re running late,” the driver says, taking his ticket. The boy looks around, carefully stepping towards the seats. He’s tall and handsome, holding a sketchbook. I smile slightly; my friend hates art.
 4 seconds
 He spots her.
 3 seconds
 His eyes widen as he walks closer, as if being pulled by an invisible rope.
 2 seconds
 My friend stands up too, that same rope tying her to him.
 1 second -
 ”I was worried the bus would leave. No way could I miss meeting my soul mate!” he jokes, though he looks just as nervous as she. They smile at each other as they both sit down together. I can’t hear what they’re talking about.

 I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Suddenly I’m crying. Hot tears dropping down my cheeks.

 I look at my wrist, scratching at it. Trying to get rid of it. 

 The numbers have never changed.

 They’ve always been at 0.

the lAST ONE HOW DARE YOU MY HEART BROKE OMF.

alright the last one made me sad so i wrote a new one because no one stopped me. aherm.

I’m such an idiot. I’m not only an idiot, I’m a very unintelligent idiot.

I had 3 minutes on my wrist and 25 seconds. 24 seconds. 23 seconds.

I glanced around the empty room. The teacher leaned back in the chair, reading. I was all alone. Hell, it was Friday, too! Most kids would have been in detention. Unless my soulmate is..?

I panicked and looked at the teacher. He snored gently with a book on his chest.  No, you idiot, I thought again, he’s 42. The maximum age difference is 10 years apart. You’re 16, remember?

I sighed, glancing at my wrist. 2 minutes, 00 seconds.

Oh god, I’m missing my chance. Could the wrist be wrong? No. It’s never been wrong. I’m just unlucky. Probably. Right?

1 minute, 48 seconds.

I groaned and slumped into my chair, keeping my head down and concealed with my hoodie. I stared at my wrist, watching the seconds trickle away. The more I looked at it, the faster it went. 

1 minute, 25 seconds.

My mother had always told me that true love will find you, no matter where you are. But my soul mate could be at home, reading a book, staring at his wrist and trying to cry!

I sigh. I need to stop doing that, It might not be a he.

That was just it about the soul mate counter. You have no clue who it could be. It could be a man, woman, transgender, or anything else! Black, Caucasian, Native American, Asian, etcetera. That was the beauty of it. You aren’t going for looks, you’re going for love.

55 seconds. 

Come on love, can’t you slow down!?

I tried not to let it, but my eyes began to sting with tears. I quickly dabbed at my eyes and blinked, raising my head and staring at the door. Suddenly, it clicked. The door slowly creaked open, and one of my friends stood in the doorway. 

My heart beat faster and I smiled weakly, waving and nodding towards the teacher. Lydie smiles slowly and nods back understanding, and sits down. Her eyes are red and a tear still hangs to her cheek.

“Dee, are you alright?” I ask, sitting closer to her and cupping her cheek. She blushes, and starts to cry even harder, slowly revealing her countdown clock.

It’s at 15 seconds. She starts to cry harder. “I’ll never see my soul mate. I missed it. I missed my chance, dude,” she lets her long black hair hang over her eyes as it clings to her face, as she tries not to hiccup. All I can do is stare at my clock.

It says 10 seconds. Just like hers.

I suddenly hold her close, something clicking inside me. I remember all those years with her, remembering every smile, every picture, and every time she looked beautiful. Like she always looked to me.

I looked over to the teacher, who snoozed deeply. If this didn’t wake him up, then hopefully…

5 seconds. I lifted her head up.

4 seconds. I showed her my wrist.

3 seconds. She looked at me, those blue eyes wide with shock.

2 seconds. I’m holding her close, my heart tugging closer to her. 

1 second. She breathes out, “I love you,” as the clock hits zero, and we kiss. I could be cheesy and say there were fireworks, but it was honestly just kissing her. My soulmate…and that was amazing as it was. 

And I smile, knowing all I’m going to remember is how thankful I was for skipping Algebra class.

BEAUTIFUL JO BEAUTIFUL

Ok I cried like 5 times you bastards

I haven’t looked at my wrist in years, but she glances at it from time to time, nervously running her fingers over the band while we watched a movie, when I pulled her hand up to kiss it gently, her eyes always lingered over the numbers. 365 days, 183, 112, 98, 56, 45, 23. Those were days I remembered, days where she would look at my wrist and disappear she would retreat into the darkest parts of her mind, because her clock was already at zero. Her clock had been at zero and no one had come, and here she was with me and I had days and days left until my own zero. We were here now, down to 16 minutes in the middle of the grocery store. She’d been crying secretly for the last three days, and I’d pretended not to notice. I couldn’t say anything to make her feel better. We walked down the aisles, her nails clicking nervously as she counted down for me. 12 minutes. 10. 7. She looked at me with 2 minutes to spare, no words in her mouth but novels of sadness in her eyes.
“I’m gonna… Go get in line.” Her voice was cracking and she looked away. “Why don’t you go get something you want.”
I nodded, stepping away from her and heading to the frozen foods aisle as she trudged to the line. I looked at my wrist as I reached in to grab a pizza, 37 seconds. Plenty of time, I smiled to myself and made my way to the check out, counting down as I went. I reached her at 12, placing the pizza down on the rest of our groceries and grinning as she looked up at me quizzically.
“But… You only have 8 seconds left, what are you doing?”
I shrugged, “I got a pizza for dinner tonight, what should we watch once we’re home?”
“But your soulmate…”
Smiling, I looked at her as my timer hit zero. “You’re standing right in front of me.”

Rape culture is when I was six, and
my brother punched my two front teeth out.
Instead of reprimanding him, my mother
said “Stefanie, what did you do to provoke him?”
When my only defense was my
mother whispering in my ear, “Honey, ignore him.
Don’t rile him up. He just wants a reaction.”
As if it was my sole purpose, the reason
six-year-old me existed,
was to not rile up my brother.
It’s starts when we’re six, and ends
when we grow up assuming the natural state of a man
is a predator, and I must walk on eggshells, as to
not “rile him up.” Right, mom?

Rape culture is when through casual dinner conversation,
my father says that women who get raped are asking for it.
He says, “I see them on the streets of New York City,
with their short skirts and heavy makeup. Asking for it.”
When I used to be my father’s hero but
will he think I was asking for it? (will he think)
Will he think I deserved it?
Will he hold me accountable or will he hold me,
even though the touch of a man - especially my father’s -
burns as if I were holding the sun in the palm of my hand.

Rape culture is you were so ashamed, you thought it would
be easier for your parents to find you dead,
than to say, “Hey mom and dad,”
It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask for it.
I never asked for this attention, I never asked
to be a target, to be weak because I was born with
two X chromosomes, to walk in fear, to always look behind me,
in front of me, next to me, I never asked to be the prey.
I never wanted to spend my life being something
someone feasts upon, a meal for the eternally starved.
I do not want to hear about the way I taste anymore.
I will not let you eat me alive.

Rape culture is I shouldn’t defend my friend when
an overaggressive frat boy has his hand on her ass,
because standing up for her body “makes me a target.”
Women are afraid to speak up, because
they fear their own lives - but I’d rather take the hit
than live in a culture of silence.
I am told that I will always be the victim, pre-determined
by the DNA in my weaker, softer body.
I have birthing hips, not a fighter’s stance.
I am genetically pre-dispositioned to lose every time.

Rape culture is he was probably abused as a child.
When he even has some form of a justification
and all I have are the things that provoked him,
and the scars from his touch are woven of the darkest
and toughest strings, underneath the layer of my skin.
Rape culture leaves me finding pieces of him left inside of me.
A bone of his elbow. The cap of his knee.
There is something so daunting in the way that I know it will take
me years to methodically extract him from my body.
And that twinge I will get sometimes in my arm fifteen years later?
Proof of the past.
Like a tattoo I didn’t ask for.
Somehow I am permanently inked.

Rape culture is you can’t wear that outfit anymore
without feeling dirty, without feeling like
you somehow earned it.
You will feel like you are walking on knives,
every time you wear the shoes
you smashed his nose in with.
Imaginary blood on the bottom of your heels,
thinking, maybe this will heal me.
Those shoes are your freedom,
But the remains of a life long fight.
You will always carry your heart,
your passion, your absolute will to live,
but also the shame and the guilt and the pain.
I saved myself but I still feel like I’m walking on knives.

Rape culture is “Stefanie, you weren’t really raped, you were
one of the lucky ones.”
Because my body wasn’t penetrated by a penis,
but fingers instead, that I should feel lucky.
I should get on my hands and knees and say, thank you.
Thank you for being so kind.
Rape culture is “things could have been worse.”
“It’s been a month, Stefanie. Get out of bed.”
“You’ll have to get over this eventually.”
“Don’t let it ruin your life.”
Rape culture is he told you that after he touched you,
no one would ever want you again.
And you believed him.

Rape culture is telling your daughters not to get raped,
instead of teaching your sons how to treat all women.
That sex is not a right. You are not entitled to this.
The worst possible thing you can call a woman is a
slut, a whore, a bitch.
The worst possible thing you can call a man is a
bitch, a pussy, a girl.
The worst thing you can call a girl is a girl.
The worst thing you can call a guy is a girl.
Being a woman is the ultimate rejection,
the ultimate dismissal of strength and power, the
absolute insult.
When I have a daughter,
I will tell her that she is not
an insult.

When I have a daughter, she will know how to fight.
I will look at her like the sun when she comes home
with anger in her fists.
Because we are human beings and we do not
always have to take what we are given.
They all tell her not to fight fire with fire,
but that is only because they are afraid of her flames.
I will teach her the value of the word “no” so that
when she hears it, she will not question it.
My daughter,
Don’t you dare apologize for the fierce love
you have for yourself
and the lengths you go to preserve it.

My daughter,
I am alive because of the fierce love I have
for myself, and because my father taught me
to protect that.
He taught me that sometimes, I have to do
my own bit of saving, pick myself off the
ground and wipe the dirt off my face,
because at the end of the day,
there is only me.
I am alive because my mother taught me
to love myself.
She taught me that I am an enigma - a
mystery, a paradox, an unfinished masterpiece and
I must love myself enough to see how I turn out.
I am alive because even beaten, voiceless, and back
against the wall, I knew there was an ounce of me
worth fighting for.
And for that, I thank my parents.

Instead of teaching my daughter to cover herself up,
I will show her how to be exposed.
Because no is not “convince me”.
No is not “I want it”.
You call me,
“Little lady, pretty girl, beautiful woman.”
But I am not any of these things for you.
I am exploding light,
my daughter will be exploding light,
and you,
better cover your eyes.

slk

Rape Culture (Cover Your Eyes)

Rape culture is the police being more concerned about the $20 stolen from my purse than my being sexually assaulted.

(via positive-life-love-vibes)

Yes!

(via secr3tlife95)

❤️❤️❤️

(via lanasmommy)

Incredibly written- tearing up.

(via missmuscles)

adrians:

none of my friends understood the joke

orangelemonart:

Is the the plot of dmmd

alligatorsohmy:

SETTING THE RECORD STRAIGHT

blazn:

I read a text post that said Koujaku is basically gay porn Kamina, and I couldn’t resist. _(:3」∠)_

I call him…Koumina. (And Kamijaku is in the back)

salikawood:

Kill well…and often.

game typography challenge