What Some Might Say

We do sex, drugs, and love because
that's all we have and it's all we need.

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"HAVE YOU EVER" hour.

  • 1. had sex?
  • 2. bought condoms?
  • 3. gotten pregnant?
  • 4. failed a class?
  • 5. kissed a boy?
  • 6. kissed a girl?
  • 7. had a job?
  • 8. left the house without my wallet?
  • 9. bullied someone on the internet?
  • 10. sexted?
  • 11. had sex in public?
  • 12. smoked weed?
  • 13. smoked cigarettes?
  • 14. smoked a cigar?
  • 15. drank alcohol?
  • 16. been to a wedding?
  • 17. been on the computer for 5 hours straight?
  • 18. watched tv for 5 hours straight?
  • 19. been late for school?
  • 20. kissed in the rain?
  • 21. showered with someone else?
  • 22. been outside my home country?
  • 23. been on a road trip longer than 5 hours?
  • 24. had lice?
  • 25. gotten my heart broken?
  • 26. had a credit card?
  • 27. been to a professional sports game?
  • 28. broken a bone?
  • 29. been unhappy about my weight?
  • 30. won a trophy?
  • 31. cut myself?
  • 32. been on a diet?
  • 33. rode in a taxi?
  • 34. stayed up for 24 hours or more?
  • 35. been to a concert?
  • 36. had a crush on someone of the same sex?
  • 37. had braces?
  • 38. wore make up?
  • 39. lost my virginity before I was 16?
  • 40. kissed someone a different race than myself?
  • 41. Snuck out of the house?
  • 42. had oral sex?
  • 43. dyed my hair?
  • 44. met someone famous?
  • 45. been on vacation?
  • 46. been on a boat?
  • 47. been on an airplane?
  • 48. prank called someone?
  • 49. taken a pregnancy test?
  • 50. been suspended from school?
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kissykissycas:

When I die spread my ashes at Comic Con because that’s probably the only way I’ll ever get there.

(via two-atoms-in-a-molecule)

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Permalink mossyelf:

queenvbeex:

ihatenicolascage:

dooleysqueen:

norulesnobras:

basedhiyoko:

yoursexcrazedsub:

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




Damn I guess I better start sucking dicks

Woah

Hahahaha this post rocks
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disastr:

the most iconic song lyric will always be
“tell your boyfriend that if he’s got beef that I’m a vegetarian and I ain’t fuckin scared of him”

(via everliving-ghostof)

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I am walking in the city when I see him. Sixteen, with a cigarette in mouth. Wearing a white shirt with stains in the underarms. Knock-off Wayfarers tucked into the collar. Hair slicked back. He is pulling a comb from his pocket and out comes a lighter too. He smirks, flips his comb open, lights his cigarette and then, while looking off into the distance, finally answers my question. “Yes,” he says, “I’ve got a lighter.”

Two years later, I skip gym class and find a boy sitting on a snowy tree stump just past the school gate. He is 18, with a large wool peacoat thrown over his lean body. A bit of pudge sticks out from under his wrinkled white dress shirt. I see him drinking beer after beer, and smiling larger with each one. I shiver and walk past him, until he calls out, “Hey, you got somewhere to be?” I turn around. “Not really, no.” He scoots over, making room for me on the stump. “Want to take a seat?” I sit down slowly and offer him a slight smile. He takes a sip of his beer-cheap stuff, likely stolen-turns away from me to burp and then excuses himself, and then says, “Cigarette?”

At the end of the school year, I see my boyfriend lighting a cigarette in his car after an exam. “You smoke now?” I ask. I am so annoyed with him. He tries so hard to be something that should take no effort at all. I have to look out the window to keep from cringing at his deliberately untucked shirt, artfully messy hair, and now the cigarette posed perfectly between his “just chapped enough” lips. “I’m stressed,” he spits back at me. I study the snow and roll my eyes. When he’s finished, he starts the car and puts on a smooth jazz station, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the song. Three months earlier, I tried to take him to a jazz bar and he told me everything I liked was “old-ladyish and weird.” When we reach his house, I get out after him and then steal his pack. Later that night, he heads to his car to “think” and then comes back a few minutes later with his hands shoved deep inside his pockets. “That was fast,” I say. “Yeah, I just had to get some fresh air,” he says, while slipping into bed, smelling of nothing but pine. He is snoring in two seconds, so happy to be relieved of his smoking habit that he’s fallen asleep half-smiling. I look at him for a few seconds, then slip out of the covers, grab his pack from my jacket pocket, and go outside. I return smelling of tobacco and pine.

A few years later, I take myself out to a bar and see a man putting his cigarette into his mouth, flicking his lighter, and smiling at me as he inhales. A cloud of smoke is blown into my face as he asks me my name. I give him a fake one. I don’t feel too much like myself anyway-eighteen, and standing on a street congested with bars and traffic at two a.m. We go into the upper level of the closest bar and inside, he buys me “whatever’s on the tap” with the change in his pocket. “Honey,” he says. “Honey, what are you doing in a place like this?” He is combing his hair as he says this, and I am suspicious that he is only looking into my eyes in hopes of seeing his reflection. I laugh in response. To this, he declares, “I need a smoke break.” He opens his pack, puts one in-between his teeth, and then offers one to me. I shake my head. “Suit yourself,” he says. “I won’t be too long. Otherwise I’ll start to miss you.” I watch him walk down the stairs as I sip the last of my beer. I am about to join him when I notice a back door. I check my watch, then walk down the bar’s fire escape and go home. He can’t miss what he doesn’t know.

That night, with my elbows resting on my fire escape, I light a cigarette and look at the sleeping city. Hot red lights, trucks unloading in the dark, the occasional scream of a car horn cutting through the stars. I suck in deeply, hold the smoke in my throat for so long that I almost forget it’s there, and then exhale. Gone. I am secondhand smoke. I have been breathed out by so many mouthes that the stale smell of me clings to your clothes. I am in your new girlfriend’s hair when she comes home from the bar. I am floating outside your window when you return to our old apartment. And I am blackening your lungs one touch at a time.