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hiphop-mentality:

In honor of Mothers Day here’s Kanye and his mom singing “Hey Mama”

ladyhightimes:

"Do you know what a mandala is?" 

"Um, those are those round Buddhist art things."

The Tibetan monks make them out of dyed sand laid out into big beautiful designs. And when they’re done, after days and weeks of work, they wipe it all away.”

"Wow, that’s, that’s a lot."

"Try to look at your experience here as a mandala, Chapman. Work hard to make something as meaningful and beautiful as you can. And when you’re done, pack it in and know it was all temporary. You have to remember that, it’s all temporary.” 

one of my fav scenes

(Source: lesbianthropology)

vitaminsobsession:

fuckyeah-nerdery:

worthyourweightinfanfiction:

buttships-were-meant-2spooky:

this is the best thing in the entire world

she should greet jane as if nothing happened and see how jane reacts

she should avoid school the next day. And the next. Every night, she should put on the exact outfit she had on that day, hose herself down until she’s completely drenched and stand in Jane’s yard. When Jane is home alone, she should approach the window, staring at her. Knock on it if you don’t have her attention. 

That’ll get her back for killing you and trying to hide the evidence.

Ease up there, Satan.

Ease up? SHE TRIED TO KILL HER

(Source: courtneyhatesjane)

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.
Kait Rokowski (A Good Day)

"Depression is a good lover"

(via loveandddrevenge)

(Source: justsingyourlifeaway)

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