machinegunmoose:

Proabably the 3rd time reblogging this 

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn…
With every goodbye you learn.
Veronica Shoffstall, “Comes the Dawn” (via oncealoyallover)

Day 1 of learning how to cook LOL
Fuck

Made 2 broccoli recipes

For the pasta, I replaced the fettucine with brown rice spaghetti (for my allergic-to-gluten sister). I also replaced the tahini with hummus, because who the fuck eats tahini. I also did not use nutritional yeast because fuk dat shyt. Just kidding, I don’t have anything against nutritional yeast. I just didn’t have any.

For the salad, I replaced the walnuts with cashews and the cranberries with those yellow raisins. This time the reason for not using those ingredients is actually just “fuk dat shyt”
I was also too lazy to make the dressing, so I just bought some WOOoOOoOooo

My life is basically Chinese translated to english

My life is basically Chinese translated to english

Food just looks better when it’s animated:
Ponyo on the Cliff by the Sea

svvitzerland:

my favourite scene of kill bill


lmao

svvitzerland:

my favourite scene of kill bill

lmao

straightgirl:

THIS IS SO IMPORTANT TO ME

straightgirl:

THIS IS SO IMPORTANT TO ME

every damn time

gerrardly:

BRAZILIAN RIOTS: THE TRUTH

After a 20 cents raise in public transports fare was anounced, thousands of brazilians went out to the streets to protest. But our riots go beyond 20 cents. Our country is facing corruption scandals, hyperinflation, high tax rates, precarious health care and education system, not to mention serious violation of the three powers (by proposals of taking away decisions from the Brazilian Supreme Court to the Congress) and proposed laws that will force raped women who got pregnant to have the child.

The riots, however, were entirely pacifist until the police attacked the unarmed protesters. People who were protesting, people who were simply passing by and even journalists were hurt. The police shot everyone in their way with rubber bullets. Some of them were shot in the eye. The police also fired expired tear gas.

It is very important to state that the protesters were not armed, were not “looking for a fight”. They kept screaming “no violence, no violence”, but the police didn’t care. Many of the protesters got severely hurt.

Our president has not yet said a word about it. We need the world to know about this. Please, spread the word.

(the following is translated and slightly edited from this)

Drunk, again. Home late, smelling like a whorehouse. Tried to wake his wife at 2am, asked her about dinner. She didn’t listen. He decided to wake her up with a punch. Heard a resentful weep, forgot about how hungry he was and went to sleep. The next day, didn’t go to work.

Time passes and she always forgives. Covers her bruises with make up. This same routine keeps going for years. Let’s try again, just one more time, just one more time.

She’s home from work, desperate to have someone to talk to about the wonderful things that happened on her job. He pretends not to listen and just keeps watching tv. Anything is better than listening to her crap. A few hours later he wants sex. She wants to cuddle. Tries to kiss him, carress the back of his neck, carefully chooses the lingerie. He doesn’t give a shit. Take off your clothes, he says. Powerless, that’s what she does. Rude sex.

She complains, he throws plates at her. Cuts her arm with them. He thought it funny that her skin was so fragile. You’re so weak, he said.

They wake up together, he goes to take a shower. Leaves a wet towel on the bed. Wet towel. Once again. He dresses himself. She gets the porcelain abajour. Hits him in the head. He faints, but she keeps hitting, never getting enough. The pool of blood is nothing compared to the river of sorrow inside her.

The next day, that’s what you’ll hear across the neighborhood:

“She killed him because of a wet towel, curse her.”

“They started a revolution because of 20 cents, curse them.”