I wish I could put my arms around you.
When you’re in your twenties, a man, descended from Anglo-Saxon genes, born into immense luxury, able-bodied, surrounded by friends, family, and authority figures who support you, mentally alert, straight, possessing a degree from a respected four-year institution, and head over heels in love, the world just seems like a magical place, doesn’t it? The sun shines brighter, the breeze blows sweeter, and it feels like you’re on top of the world! Anyone who’s ever been captivated like that and has had all the advantages life has to offer handed to them on a silver platter because of their race, class, family history, and education level knows exactly what I’m talking about.
I mean, just knowing that you’ve got that special someone—as well as the monumental opportunities afforded to you by being an affluent white male in his twenties who was born into a democratic society with limitless social mobility—can make you feel like the luckiest man alive. Yes, when you’re in love and the recipient of every possible benefit imaginable—be it lifelong financial stability or peerless social stature—it feels like it’s just you, the object of your enchantment, and your unshakeable position within the top echelon of privilege. Nothing else matters.
Just think about how rare young love is! What a special thing it is to have found someone who truly cares about you! And, similarly, how special it is to have never faced discrimination due to your race, gender, sexuality, religious preference, or social class; to live in a safe, crime-free neighborhood; to have enjoyed a stable childhood in which you never felt afraid for yourself or your loved ones; to possess a strong, healthy body and mind that allows you to surmount any obstacles that would impede less fortunate individuals; and to have parents whose financial prosperity ensures that you will always have a safety net in the unlikely event that even the merest trace of hardship or want should at any point intrude upon your life.
It makes you feel, well, pretty much invincible.
Neither NYCC, the Negaverse, nor any of that rebel scum was ready for this.
Far Left: Our friend B has a killer flirt as Sailor Stormtrooper Mercury
Left: fr-eck-less fighting for love as Sailor Stormtrooper Venus
Center: jkruton holding it down as Tuxedo Vader
Right: Yours Truly, heating it up as Sailor Stormtrooper Mars
And in the name of the Dark Side, we will most definitely punish you.
I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your un-dumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it would lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is just really a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this —But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defences. And I don’t really resent it. - Vita Sackville West to Virginia Woolf
Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.--Virginia Woolf to Vita Sackville West
Sloane Crosley (via fatgirlinohio)
“YOU THINK YOU KNOW ME? YOU THINK YOU FUCKING KNOW ME? BEHEADING, SEX, MONSTER PAGAN PRIESTS, BOUT TO DROP THAT ANCIENT ALIENS FEDDY TO BRING YOU THE RAW SHIT. Also did you guys know the exact architectural specifications necessary for the construction of an effective longboat?” -The History Channel
New York’s hottest club is VIKINGS. You can’t get in without licking the clammy palm of an eyeless priest. This place has everything: bloodlusts, lettuce gauntlets, giggly threesome invites, dogs you think are goats, eyefucking, mindfucking, a guy dressed as a chicken, a Tonsure Nana — Tonsure Nana? Oh, it’s that thing of where you put a sexy monk on a leash and make him babysit your kids. Don’t miss the x-ray planking and primitive solar navigation. And before you leave, beautiful club promoter Ragnar Lothbrok feeds you a blood sausage from his own fingers. Delicious! Don’t talk to me, Seth, don’t look at me, I’m going to VIKINGS for a hundred years and I’m not coming back.
I HAD A DREAM MY LIFE WOULD BE
SO DIFFERENT FROM THIS HELL I’M LIVING
congrats girl you the best
HOW TO MAKE A MONSTER
“First you must take something innocent, then feed it hate, ridicule and betrayal. All that is left is a soul poisoned by the world.”
A comic or something, idk, somehow I can relate to Damara, even though she’s pretty much a loon. I just drew this to experiment w/ my style a little, it’s pretty bad. Posting it anyway. Sadstuck. Stuff I used to draw: Pen, Pencil, marker.