...?

HAHAHA!

Sat, 02 Jun 2012 14:59:25 -0700

Post photo of the Situation, lose a follower.

YEEAAAAA BUDDY.. did you go to TUMBLRMARKETING(.)COM yet? FREE STUFF YEEAAAAAA

Sat, 02 Jun 2012 14:23:52 -0700

tassels: Longleat Hedge Maze in Wiltshire, England

Sat, 02 Jun 2012 14:21:35 -0700

tassels:

Longleat Hedge Maze in Wiltshire, England

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Fri, 01 Jun 2012 15:14:16 -0700

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Fri, 01 Jun 2012 11:17:42 -0700

huffley6: theoddmentemporium: Puzzlewood is an ancient...

Fri, 01 Jun 2012 11:10:33 -0700

huffley6:

theoddmentemporium:

Puzzlewood is an ancient woodland site, near Coleford in the Forest of Dean, Gloucestershire, England. The site, covering 14 acres, shows evidence of open cast iron ore mining dating from the Roman period, and possibly earlier.

In 1848 some workmen, after moving a block of stone in the woods, found a small cavity in the rocks. In this cavity, hidden away, were three earthenware jars containing over 3,000 Roman coins. No-one knows why the coins were hidden away in the cliff face nor by whom.

J. R. R. Tolkien, a frequent visitor to the Forest of Dean, may have visited Puzzlewood, and many believe Puzzlewood was the inspiration for the fabled forests of Middle-earth, such as the Old Forest, Mirkwood, Fangorn or Lothlórien contained within The Lord of the Rings. J.K Rowling is also said to have visited Puzzlewood, and it may have been this that influenced her idea of The Forbidden Forest in the Harry Potter books.

I HAVE TO GOOOOOO.

I’m not putting everything into this contest. I mentally can’t handle waiting for...

Fri, 01 Jun 2012 02:54:16 -0700

I’m not putting everything into this contest. I mentally can’t handle waiting for something so long and then finding out I’ve been let down. I guess this is just so important to me because I’ve spent my entire life being good at stuff that I am not passionate about, and it was a constant torment to me because I felt obligated to keep doing it even though it made me miserable. I spent my childhood being angry. I don’t want to go for the rest of my life wanting so badly to be a good writer because it’s something that I love, only to find out that it’s a dream that just isn’t happening. Everyone deserves to be passionate about something. And they deserve to have that reflect in whatever that outlet is: art, music, and writing, et cetera.

This isn’t my only plan. I know that committing myself to being a “professional writer,” is a big step and it’s unlikely. I’m not alone in my dream. I know that. But as much as I want to win, and as much as I’ll be let down to find out that my work isn’t good enough, this does not mean that I will lose my passion for the written word. I will still love to read and I will still love to write. I have to make this promise to myself. I will not let these people win by destroying the only thing I’ve ever been passionate about. I can’t.

October 1st is a big day. Either I’ll achieve something bigger than I’ve ever imagined, or my life will change. I will change. If I tell myself long enough that that’s not a bad thing, I will start to believe it.

This is important. This is the most important thing in the world to me.

Fri, 01 Jun 2012 02:40:09 -0700

Dear Felicia

Hello! Thank you so much for submitting your extract of THE JUNKIE into the The Guardian Hot Key Books Young Writers Prize.

You now have until Monday 1^st October to complete the full manuscript. If you have successfully been picked for the long-list, you will be alerted at this time. Unfortunately we will not be able to contact everyone who is unsuccessful, so if you don’t hear from us at the beginning of October, sadly you will not have been selected.

If your manuscript is chosen for the short-list, then we will let you know towards the end of November.

The answer to most questions can be found in the full terms and conditions on www.youngwritersprize.com – please refer back to them anyway, as they are quite important - otherwise good luck, and hopefully you will be hearing from us again soon!

With very best wishes,

The HKB Team

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Fri, 01 Jun 2012 02:36:48 -0700

I submitted it.

Thu, 31 May 2012 11:17:11 -0700

Shout out to Smalls for being the only one I could count on. I owe you my life.

Oh, also, here's the synopsis.

Thu, 31 May 2012 06:37:00 -0700

Mainly set in the fictitious town of Caecus Valley, California, sits May Varian Porter, an unfulfilled teen who has woken up after spending a lifetime of blindness to the existence of a world of adventure. This epiphany comes to her after almost falling victim to a kidnapping when she abandons a New Year’s party half an hour before the countdown. Her reaction to this life and death situation, one of excitement and potential for adventure rather the expected response of fear and worry for those who will be left by tragedy should she die, is a red alarm that she has to tell others about the situation. In her confusion, she confides in her parents, which turns out to be a poor plan of action.

Upon hearing their child’s story, May’s parents decide to send her to see a psychiatrist, who she has visited every week since the New Year’s incident. One day, after ditching school and being escorted to her appointment by local police officer and pushover Derick, May explodes, demanding know what Eileen Kimbel the psychiatrist has to say about her problems. As May had expected from the beginning, Kimbel informs her she is in a rut, and been in a rut in a very long time. Kimbel informs her that her antidepressants will not help her if she does not develop a passion for something to help them along, and she will instead go on feeling like a puff of smoke from someone else’s cigarette: a tool for the world to brush away. Kimbel goes on to explain that she has taken the liberty to enroll her in a dancing class meeting that very night.

This introduction, though unsuccessful, is the spark May needs to start seeking out the excitement she craves, and engulfing in the joys of adventure in a healthy way. In other words, taking an active interest in her own life. She tries piano lessons, lessons, martial arts lessons, skydiving, and even investing college tuition money in a motorcycle she ends up crashing, placing her in the hospital with a broken rib and concussion, but otherwise unharmed, except for the realization that her plan is unfolding as a failure. Worried, her parents place May under house arrest, and the Kimbel increases the dosage on her medication. In an act of desperation, May sneaks out one night, looking for an attacker to remind her of the feeling she has not experienced since the many months before on that fateful New Year’s night. At that point, she is starting to feel as if she invented it. Derick discovers May in the knick of time, driving away the attacker, lecturing her on her recklessness, and ending the night by delivering her home once again to her infuriated parents.

Because they are also starting to become desperate, but in order to save their daughter rather than watch her seek out danger, they send May to visit her grandmother in Finem, North Carolina, a beautiful town that lies on the east coast directly next to the ocean.

It is the following Near Year when she realizes that nothing has changed since her experience a year before. Abandoning yet another New Year’s party and taking one too many Prozacs, she steals her grandmother’s motorboat and a dead lift from her grandfather and heads to sea. She is sitting in the boat, contemplating suicide when she starts comparing the situations one last time. She felt alone then, but out in the water just sitting there, anything could happen and there would be no one to save her. She attacks herself for looking for someone to save her when she is the source of her own dissatisfaction. After making a final remark that suicide would be her admitting defeat to a world that wouldn’t notice either way, she throws the weight into the water and falls back on the boat. She reflects on the times when she was a kid and she would falls asleep places where she shouldn’t and she would magically wake up the next day in her own bed. Telling herself she’s going to start giving herself time, she heads back to shore and the story ends.

I present to you, loyal follower, my final draft entitled "The Junkie" -

Thu, 31 May 2012 06:33:00 -0700

My biggest issue with it is that I think it’s a bit rushed, but I really wanted to end it at the point that I ended in this. Because I had to rush, there’s stuff that I missed, more I wanted to say that I can’t now. I don’t know what my chances of winning are, to be honest. I want to believe that I’m good enough, so it’s not that big of a stretch to imagine. Getting my hopes up just isn’t on my list of things to do. Ever.

Anyway, I hope you read it. And I hope you like it. And I hope you’ll give me feedback sometime before midnight tonight when I submit this bitch.

I left the New Year’s party at 11:30 with plans to run home just a few blocks away. Something about being in that room with those people had become too much of a hassle on my sanity, and spending the first few moments of my new year celebration being legally insane sounded extremely unappealing. The problem with leaving for the concern of my mental health meant that I hadn’t really given thought to what was out there running around on a night like this, where, according to society, it wasn’t all that bad to go crazy; it was actually kind of expected. Most of the walk went fine. There weren’t many cars because of my unique timing, and I saw not a single soul roaming the streets as I was. The cool air was refreshing, the open space gave me the freedom to run and walk when I wanted without being concerned about making conversation. This was such a good idea, I thought. It was 11:45 and I was only one more intersection away from my neighborhood when the first car I’d seen that night passed me, going a suspiciously slow speed even for a residential area. All of us drivers know that we don’t really keep up with the 25 mile per hour limit law, and on a night like this there was no point. I stopped walking and waited for the car to pass me, eying him suspiciously as he moved on. For a moment, I quickly tried to plan what I would do if this became a kidnapping-fight-for-your-life situation. Thinking about that only made me hope for a different outcome, since my only action move is a karate kid I invented one afternoon as a child when I told all my friends I’d been taking lessons for three years.

He turned around, a sharp u-turn. I wasn’t exactly sure that had really happened, and it caught me off guard so I froze up for a moment. In an act of desperation, I hid behind a car, thinking to myself that it was weird I wasn’t afraid. I was acting like this was a scene in a movie, something that I know all of us have done at some point, I just have terrible timing. I kept thinking that this wasn’t a human-to-human battle; I kept thinking that it was me versus this average sedan that might have been having an identity crisis as to whether or not it was a full sedan, or some type of hybrid between itself and a station wagon, which meant that regardless of its nerdy exterior, my chances at coming out of this encounter a winner were extremely low. After all, I had zero horse power and this car had at least one. I peeked out from the back of this truck I was hiding behind to see where this other car was. Curiosity had intrigued me, and I was looking to catch a glimpse of the man behind the steering wheel, but I was foiled. It was too dark. I started thinking that if I had the power to morph into a car, the truck I was hiding behind would be the one I’d choose. It had the domineering essence of many fights that had been won, which was exactly what I needed. I waited there, watching and remaining still until he drove away again. I stayed hidden for a few minutes before breaking into a sprint, still completely unafraid, still seeing this whole potentially life and death encounter through an imaginary camera lens. Even so, I still ran for it. Anyone on Earth can recognize danger when it’s staring them in the face. My problem was that I’d never been introduced to it before.

I didn’t hear the car coming again until it was too late. It had pulled up beside me and parked. I stopped running at once and took a few steps back, still unable to see the driver until he cocked his head back and I could see his glasses reflecting off of the first street light I’d encountered that night. If all else failed, I’d break his glasses and make a clear getaway, but I tried not to think about that. His passenger side window had already been lowered. I realized then that I’d been waiting.

“You’re attracting a lot of attention running around out here on your own,” he said. His voice was hauntingly calm. It was soft, as if he had been humming to a sleeping baby and I’d interrupted. He had to be at least forty, driving around at midnight all by himself. Had I not already been wary of this guy because of his behavior, I would have been set off by that fact alone. Then again, the same could be said about me. The way he said it made it sound like he’d consulted with a jury of people before pulling up to me, though I knew we were completely alone. Even the houses were dark and barren.

I took a comfort step back. “You’re the only person I’ve seen.”

He paused. It was an uncomfortable pause in the rhythm of conversation we’d started. He looked like he was frozen before he surprised me by speaking again. I reached into my purse and grabbed my keys. They were all I had.

“Do you need a ride?” He asked, completely ignoring the fact that I had implied he was a creep.

“No, I live nearby.”

There was another pause, and it was more uncomfortable than the first in that I knew we were solar systems apart in our thinking. I have never experienced more daunting pauses than the ones you get with strangers, and this one must have been the worst. The worst kind are the strangers who try to fight their way into your life. This man, and all of them out there who are like him, they are the bad guys, the enemy, and I’d never had an enemy before.

“It would be my pleasure to drive you wherever you need to go.”

“I’m okay. I really do live nearby.”

“You don’t know who’s out here at this hour. It could be dangerous.”

I resisted my urge to become annoyed and snap at him. Something told me that would be a bad idea. “Listen, when I said I don’t need a ride I meant it. I said I don’t need a ride. Thank you for your offer, but I can handle it from here.”

He nodded, and after a few seconds he started to drive away again, but he was interrupted by the sudden appearance of dog that sprinted in front of this car, fear etched on its face, headlights reflecting off of eyes open wide and the quick spark of a collar. I could hear it breathing, and could tell he’d been running for a while. The man slammed on the brakes before turning back to me again. “Look out for this dog!” He shouted, though the dog was already gone, across the street, clearly not stopping for anything.

“I’m not worried about the dog right now,” I retorted, almost rudely. This cued another pause.

Nothing in my life had ever been questionable. If I need to, and thank God I never did, I could plot my expected activity from one day to the next and for multiple more after that. This was different; I could feel it. I was standing in the in-between, right in the center, and there were so many ways this could go. Some possibilities were simple: he could drive away, another car could pull up and scare him off, I could always run. After all, there were places that cars couldn’t go. But then there were the others: the unfathomables. The ones you’re told horror stories about that are supposed to scare you into being careful. The same ones you think to yourself, “Oh, God, that could never happen to me,” but you still cling to the potential of its truth when you lie in bed alone at night. Here in my present situation, I started to think that I was the next tale that parents scare their kids with. I would be reduced to a severed hand in a field or a muffled cry in a basement that no one ever heard. And my only reaction was one of anger over what brought me here to begin with. I hadn’t been tormented or depressed or dumped; I had only been at an exploding point, simply because I’d been around other people. People that I knew — didn’t I? I could look at their faces and their names would come to mind. I knew things about them. I knew which of them had parents who were dead (in order to avoid classless “yo mama” jokes). I knew about unrequited love, and not all my own. Pointless drama, things teenagers weep over that won’t matter ten years, five years, even a couple of months from those brief moments of pain. I wanted to scream out, demanding they focus, demanding to know why being around them affected me like this. Each time was the same. I left them always early, always telling myself I preferred to be alone. But I know I don’t want to be alone, at least not forever, and I worried that that was my one direction. I realized then, maybe too late, that there are no connections. They only exist to me as unimportant points that I shouldn’t know anyway, and I am just there. Someone who breathes and beats and thinks, but far too differently. On a night like this, even if I did disappear into a children’s tale, nothing about my absence would change any of them.

It was such a long time that he sat and I stared, and regardless of that fact that I’d had plenty of time to trap myself in my own head, I was still ready. For anything. For the first time in my dreary, scheduled life.

But he drove away.

It took me a minute of waiting and watching and listening before I started moving again. I sprinted, unsure of how I should feel or what I should have done. I’d survived, hadn’t I? That end result must mean I’d done exactly what I should have. It took me less than five minutes to reach my front door, but once I pushed down on the handle and hurried inside, I started breathing heavily. So much adrenaline, so many emotions being blocked. I kept seeing the reflection of his glasses, those eyes that I almost saw and would spend a lifetime imagining. My mother called out from the living room, anxious (“Who’s that at the door at this hour?”). I heard my father’s steps getting closer and closer to me, cautious at first, worried once he realized it was me sitting there on my knees, panting. I looked like I was in shock, though I still felt nothing. The sounds of his, “Are you okay?”s echoing inside my brain and getting louder and louder and louder and my heartbeat getting faster again, like I was entering a new chase, a new fight, and the room felt like it was spinning though I sat still. And then I felt it:

I was disappointed.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

I don’t know if hilltops are unusual in desert areas because I’ve only ever been in one, but they sure as hell are unusual to this one. I guess it helps that I don’t come here for its rarity: I come here to feel bigger than everyone else. You’d think that living in a conservative town would mean that everyone would jump to buy this place so they could own it and ban anyone else from ever stepping foot on it, but as far as I know it hasn’t happened. Considering I’d never looked into it before, I guess I liked the idea that I was trespassing. Why keep to the sidewalk when there’s an empty road in front of you?

Every time I come up here, I try to think really deep thoughts so I can feel like a philosopher, but I always end up primarily thinking about how much I wish I was a smoker so that I could have something to do with my hands. Hands are the neediest, clingiest part of your body, did you know that? You probably don’t, considering it’s not exactly scientific. I guess you could say it’s only a theory. I notice things sometimes. I’ve noticed that you feel your most uncomfortable when your hands feel like dead weight at the ends of your wrists. If the environment you’re in is familiar, unless your fingers are on fire, you won’t be paying much attention to them. The company of others, intriguing conversation, friends, even; I guess they’re all one big distraction from your demanding hands, and mine are no exception. I’ve been coming up here a lot recently. My hands have been really busy, you can only imagine. Especially when they were using the steering wheel to ditch school and drive me here.

Hands can also be pretty traitorous, especially when they start waving to a police officer when it’s pretty obvious you’re supposed to be in school. In defense of myself, he was waving first. I guess he was trying to be ironic before he shipped me off to jail.

It was Officer Quentin. He is abnormally tall, which is his only intimidating feature. I’m not exactly sure who told him it was a good idea to work for the law, since there are way too many reasons why he shouldn’t, though I guess that’s typical of most people involved with police departments. Oh, I’m sure that’s controversial. Then again, so is a police officer who smokes weed in his cruiser. He smiled as he walked over to me.

“I’m sure you’re aware, ma’am, that the high school isn’t out for another hour and a half?” Questioning Quentin, they say. It’s a crime to be so unsure of yourself that you can’t state a fact without including an inflection. There were a lot of crimes happening on this hill.

I checked the watch on my wrist that didn’t exist, nodding, feigning exasperation. “Well, here now, Officer. My watch is two hours fast, you see. You know I’d never decide for myself not to go to school. Dare I say it? Ditch?”

Question takes a lot of things in good humor. According to rumor, he even takes murder in good humor, which I guess is a good thing if you’re a cop, but a scary thought to consider when you’re an otherwise perfectly normal resident. It’s the same thing with doctors. People die in front of them all day long, and I wonder what it would be like if someone they really loved died on the table. I remember when my grandmother on my mom’s side died. She’d been in the hospital for a few days already, and every day when we went back she had gotten disgustingly worse: she was having multiple heart attacks, her skin was starting to hang off her face like bologna, only drained of all color, and she was starting to smell from crapping in her pants all day long. It was actually pretty funny because it was so ironic. My mother only turns to God when she’s facing a crisis, and I’m pretty sure most religious people do this as well. Every day until that last day she had been praying to God, “Please, make ma get better, make ma get better. I’ll do anything, just don’t take her away,” but on that last day, all of us — even me — we started praying for her to die. God, that’s sounds awful. The thing is though, watching her suffer like that and being so helpless made us feel thisbig, and I hated that my mom was watching the person who brought her into this world pass right on through it. There’s this term I learned in latin called memento mori, and it means something like “a reminder that death is coming.” And what better way to be reminded that you’re going to die than watching someone else do it first? Maybe that’s why doctors, and cops are so good at remaining detached from the whole thing. They’re reminded of their fates every single day. So someone they love dying in front of them would only be geography or genetics.

Quentin pulled out a hand to help me off the dirt, and I accepted, dusting myself off once I had a steady grip on the ground. “Right, you ditching school would be a dumb thing for me to imagine ever happening. Don’t you have an appointment to get to, by the way?”

Therapy, I told myself. He means therapy. I nodded, heading for my car with him following close behind. “I’ve got two more hours.”

“How’s that going for you?”

I knew he wasn’t asking because he was extracting information with intentions to gossip. After all, he’d been the cop that showed up when my parents called to report the guy that pulled over on New Year’s. He had been understanding, though I could tell he was annoyed for having to drive all the way over only to find out I was perfectly fine, and even a bit perky. Once he came over to me, exhausted after listening to my mother weep over how “scary this man is,” he stopped pretending to be understanding. He was openly angry that I couldn’t remember anything about the car, describing it as “some average, little four-door job,” and explaining that the driver was a man in his forties who wears thick-rimmed glasses. The more I spoke, the angrier he got, explaining that he has a kid out there and if anything were to happen to her because of this man it would be my fault. He was right. I was in the position to make a difference, possibly save someone, and I didn’t care enough to notice that when I was in the moment. I was never born to be a hero, didn’t he know that? Didn’t everyone know that?

I got inside my car and closed the door, rolling down the window. “It’s going fine, Officer Q. I feel all sane inside.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You pay more attention to license plates now?”

I don’t, actually. “Sure,” I told him. “I almost got into an accident the other day because I was so busy reading all these license plates.”

He shook his head. “Well you’re going to need to work at doing both at the same time, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I’ll make it a priority. Scout’s honor.”

We both fell silent for a moment before he spoke up again.

“Here, I’ll escort you to your appointment,” he turned, walking back towards his car.

I stuck my head out of my window. “But it doesn’t start for another two hours!”

He got on the megaphone installed in his cruiser. “I’m overlooking a truancy ticket here, May. I’d really rather you weren’t driving around all over town when it’s pretty clear that you’re supposed to be at school. I’ll follow you.”

I imagine moving to this town is a lot like being sucked into a black hole. People are attracted to Caecus Valley because it’s cheap to live here. Either that, or they sold their souls to the Devil and this is their punishment. And to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that every adult who moved here on their own turned out to not have a soul. The thing is, this town rips you to pieces. My mother was an artist. She painted pictures that had colors jumping off the page. She grew up surrounding herself with nothing but colors, pinks and greens and blues and yellows circling and colliding, engulfing her in a tornado meant to reflect the very insides of her lovely, lovely imagination. She hasn’t been painting lately. The barren desert surrounding swallowed up the colors when it stole everyone’s motivation to become something. If there weren’t street signs at every street corner, you’d could drive through the entire town and still think you’ve made one huge circle. It’s just all the same: dirty, quiet, and filled with people that are so empty you’d think the universe decided it’d be better to shrink rather than to expand.

When we pulled up to the office, Quentin didn’t get out of the car. He waved and went on his predictable way. In an effort to take good advice, I followed his orders and entered the large double-doors. The only stand-out thing in Eileen Kimbel, MD’s office is the obnoxious fish tank. Besides that there are two sofas, a coffee table, and the reception desk. Her practice is small, though successful, her being the only psychiatrist in town. Shelley waved at me, checking the time the moment I entered, confusion on her pretty, pretty face. After explaining my pathetically dull situation to her, she called up The Kimbel and let me know I was free to go in. Surprise, surprise. People loved going out of their way for me today. I had to try to ignore that. If you take note of when people do you favors, you start feeling like you owe them something, and I’d rather keep my debt clear.

The Kimbel didn’t stand when I entered, waving almost dismissively for me to take my usual seat. I didn’t really expect for her to be ready for me; it’s my own fault I’d gotten there an hour and a half in advance. My idea of psychiatrists hasn’t changed in the two months since I started seeing one. She sits across from me, asking questions and taking notes that I’m never allowed to read, and all of this is consistent with the psychiatry urban legends. And I know she behaves like this with not only me, but also each every one of her other patients. To me, her life outside of our hour-long sessions every week is just one huge, empty void. Watching her work became fascinating very quickly when I realized this. I felt like I’d solved a mystery: a boring and rather predictable mystery that I’m sure no one else would care to have solved.

Oh, and she was wearing track pants, which was not only a rarity for her, but an even bigger one to the entire grouping of what is a “doctor.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

“Technically I can’t ask you not to be difficult, because that’s why you’re here in the first place, but I’m going to say this sentence in the hopes that you’ll never ask that again and I won’t have to charge your parents double out of my own annoyance,” she responded.

I rolled my eyes at her, but said nothing. I’d get it out of her as soon as we started the session, though I already suspected — aha! Upon looking at her left hand I discovered that her ring was missing, yet again. For a psychiatrist, she had one hell of a time keeping the peace in her own life. If I cared more about her personal problems it would probably affect my ability to take her advice seriously. The fact that it was the opposite actually really helped us to get started. At the beginning, I had a tough time talking to her, and in order to avoid answering questions where I would have to look deeper inside myself and think about it, I lied. And this impressive ability to lie had garnered me an antidepressant prescription, which was made interesting to me because I took them regardless of the fact that I knew I didn’t have depression. In an effort to hate myself a little less for lying in my own psychotherapy session, I started asking her questions about herself and it helped to have a more balanced conversation. At least now I know what it’s like to have to listen to pathetic problems and pretend you’re really interested.

“May Varian Porter,” she said, pulling my file out of a stack that sat beside her. “You’ve been coming here for almost three months.”

I nodded.

“I’ve got to say, I think I’ve found you a solution.”

I sat up. This could potentially be a huge, huge moment. I’d been desperate for an answer. The only reason I agreed to get therapy was because I genuinely felt psychotic after I came home that night suddenly bored with my entire existence. I admit, I never expected her to help me out. I’d spent so much time lying, or not answering questions at all. For one fraction of a second, I even felt excited.

“I think you’re in a rut, May. I think you’ve been in a rut for a really long time. Believe it or not, I know what it’s like not to feel satisfied with the way you’re life is going,” she glanced at her empty finger before redirecting her attention to me. “You’re an adrenaline junkie who has never really experienced adrenaline before, and that’s why that night was so exciting to you. And maybe I’m a kill-joy for saying this, but there are healthy ways to go about feeling that addictive rush without the danger of getting savagely murdered. Are you ready to hear my newest prescription?”

“No, I’d really rather you drag it out more,” I told her.

She stood up and handed me a pair of heels that had been sitting in a box on the floor next to her chair. “Your mother told me your size. May, I’ve signed you up for dance lessons. You meet tonight at seven. I hope you’re prepared for the time of your life, because I just handed you the juiciest figurative lemons you’ve ever received.”

garfieldminusgarfield: G-G the book.

Thu, 31 May 2012 06:13:17 -0700

garfieldminusgarfield:

G-G the book.

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Thu, 31 May 2012 04:36:49 -0700

Photo

Thu, 31 May 2012 04:35:08 -0700

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Thu, 31 May 2012 04:35:02 -0700

tumblrtreats(.)com is showing how silly tumblr is. they'd do worse than facebook in the stock market. just giving free shit away

Wed, 30 May 2012 23:56:48 -0700

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Wed, 30 May 2012 23:42:49 -0700

Whoa! Is this real?

Wed, 30 May 2012 23:40:18 -0700

Whoa! Is this real?

friendleaderp: Kittens rescued by US Marines in...

Wed, 30 May 2012 23:34:38 -0700

friendleaderp:

Kittens rescued by US Marines in Afghanistan