poe-ticjus-tice:

dirtylesbians:

smoke-me-up:

That moment when her fingers first push inside you…

OHHHHHKAYYYYY

Or when you first push them into her ….

Uhhhhh

8 hours ago - 80,197 notes - via - src
filed under: nsfw.  

howtocatchgosling:

so….. i tried…..

The Jump Off (feat. Mr. Cheeks) | Lil’ Kim

3 days ago - 1,259 notes - via - src
filed under: lil kim.  music.  

damnckles:

"Yours is the first face that I saw, I think I was blind before I met you."
4 days ago - 703 notes - via
filed under: rihanna.  
4 days ago - 558 notes - via - src
filed under: lingerie.  

chapmen:

literally wtf the fuck

4 days ago - 73,156 notes - via
filed under: funny.  

elizabethswardrobe:

Amelle Berrabah in River Island in London.

makingabetterurllater:

My hero.

6 days ago - 254,462 notes - via
filed under: funny.  

In the Deep South, God is a cotton king,
Trussed up in plantation whites and powdered over smooth
with a little bit of talcum from Momma’s compact.
He’s the Georgia dust that gets on everything, in everything,
Caking the soles of bare feet
sifting through cracks in church pews,
and catching in your lover’s eyelashes.

In the Deep South, the Devil is a beautiful boy
who swears and cheats at billiards on Sunday.
He is the one who reaches up your skirt,
pulls out the prayers your were saving for someday
and lights them on fire with his tongue.
He will sing hymns while feasting on your forfeit heart,
call you blessed while peeling away dignity like stockings,
then drag you out in front of the church to be stoned.

In the Deep South, the Holy Spirit is an old woman
with hands brown and gnarled as the nuts she boils
and a voice soft and dark as the Appalachian sky.
She is the swamp kingdom matriarch children are sent to
when sins need to be wished away like warts,
the presence of whom straightens the spines of wayward souls
and coaxes a “Yes Ma’am” from the devil’s own.

In the Deep South, Jesus is a mixed-race child
with drops of destiny mingled into his blood
and the names of the saints tattooed along his spine.
He has his mother’s bearing, one that wears suffering nobly,
and baleful eyes that speak of the sins of his forefathers.
The word of God flutters from his mouth like butterflies
with bodies baptized in tears and wings dipped in steel.

In the Deep South, angels drink too much.
They sashay and guffaw and forget to return calls.
They tell white lies and agonize over what to wear.
In the Deep South, angels look very much like you and it,
and they cling to each other with dustbowl desperation
and replenish their failing reserves of grace with ritual
in the hopes of remembering what they once were,
what wonders they once were capable of performing.

Hossana Americana by S.T. Gibson
(via sarahtaylorgibson)

clarabeau:

Ladies, I am holding out my hand. Do you trust me?

I need you to open Google Maps. Locate your nearest mall. Get in your car. Drive to Yankee Candle.

Past the seasonal pumpkin display, near the back of the store, you will find a trash pile Man Candle section. You will see candles called MMM, Bacon!. Riding Mower. Man Town. (I’m not kidding. Man Town.) Stay strong. Not in this section, but likely very near this section, you will find a candle called Mountain Lodge.

Hold this jar in your hands like a talisman. Close your eyes and picture a man.

I want to be clear: I’m not talking about a Hugh Dancy. Or an Andrew Garfield, a Ben Whishaw, even a Tom Hiddleston. This exercise requires someone in the Chris Evans weight class. The Richard Armitage department. Someone with smile lines around his eyes who could chop the cedar for your bower with his own hands, strangle an alpha wolf, carry you home when you sprain your ankle in the woods, bench press your entire body. Picture this man in your mountain home with a full beard, a slightly grimy white henley, a fond half smile he reserves only for you. Now open the lid and smell Mountain Lodge.

Steady yourself on the man candle display. Give yourself a second. No, you’re not wrong. Yes, the Yankee Candle Company has just eliminated the need for men. This medium tumbler Mountain Lodge candle jar is now your boyfriend. The Yankee Candle Company has effectively replaced the need for contact with the male half of our species with a compact and clean-burning candle in a jar.

"Do you like this one?" the cashier asked, ringing me up. "Every man should be required by law to smell like what this candle smells like," I replied intensely. "That’ll be $12.01," she said.

image

MOUNTAIN LODGE

unbowedunbroken:

i thought i would stop after the first one but uh

important

sister-bell:

apiphile:

Have you ever thought “Man, I feel impossibly shitty and I don’t know why”?

Run through this checklist before you do anything else.

  1. What have I eaten in the last 24 hours? Is it enough? If not, go and eat some food, you butt.
  2. Am I hydrated? If not, put some fluids in your body, fool.
  3. Have I slept an acceptable amount in the last 24 hours and preceeding few days? If not, do your utmost to have a nap. You need a reset, bro.
  4. Have I been outside/partaken in whatever form of exercise I am capable of? You’re stagnating, homie.
  5. Have I communicated with anyone? At all? About anything? In the last 24 hours? Sup, you’re not actually a lone wolf, and even if you’re just shouting BUTTLUMPS at someone over the intertubes, it’s better than shouting it at yourself inside your own head.

So basically: eat, drink, sleep, walk, and talk. If you still feel like emotional ass after that, start looking for more involved explanations.

i am so guilty of this