♥///JULIANA///♥

We're all grunge here
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fruitsofapathy:

SPRING JOKES.

On a side note, I really hate Tumblr’s lack of photoset options.

(via zackisontumblr)

minimalistco:

Daniel Radcliffe by Kai Z Feng

minimalistco:

Tom Hiddleston by Jason Hetherington

  • School: no shoulder-revealing shirts
  • Student: why?
  • School: you might ferociously anal fist each other in the hallway
I hate bitter winds and cold breaths. But since winter brought you to me, I’d gladly miss spring, leave summer, and skip autumn.

findandkeepthis #1 (NJ.)

(via strong-but-breakable)

http://curvellas.tumblr.com/post/83262534573/the-best-lesson-i-ever-learned-is-to-honor-my

curvellas:

the best lesson i ever learned is to honor my hunger. if you work with your body, your body will work for you. there is no point in starving yourself. you get so much further when you just stay in tune with yourself. like i know my body so well i can tell by what i’m craving or how i feel exactly…

jesusleto:

i’ve been waiting for this moment for the entire duration of having this url

(Source: 30secondstomars-gifs, via 5sos-biebsjepsen)

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is eight years old, she’s got pink cheeks that her grandmother calls chubby. She wants a second cookie but her aunt says “you’ll get huge if you keep eating.” She wants a dress and the woman in the changing room says “she’ll probably need a large in that.” She wants to have dessert and her waiter says “After all that dinner you just had? You must be really hungry!” and her parents laugh.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is eleven and she is picked second-to-last in gym class. She watches a cartoon and sees that everyone who is annoying is drawn with a big wide body, all sweaty and panting. At night she dreams she is swelling like the ocean over seabeds. When she wakes up, she skips school.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is thirteen and her friends are stick-thin ballerinas with valleys between their hipbones. She is instead developing the wide curves of her mother. She says she is thick but her friends argue that she’s “muscular” and for some reason this hurts worse than just admitting that she jiggles when she walks and she’ll never be a dancer. Eating seconds of anything feels like she’s breaking some unspoken rule. The word “indulgent” starts to go along with “food.”

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is fourteen and she has stopped drinking soda and juice because they bloat you. She always takes the stairs. She fidgets when she has to sit still. Whenever she goes out for ice cream, she leaves half at the bottom - but someone else always leaves more and she feels like she’s falling. She pretends to like salad more than she does. She feels eyes burrowing through her body while she eats lunch. Kate Moss tells her nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, but she just feels like she is wilting.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is fifteen the first time her father says “you’re getting gaunt.” She rolls her eyes. She eats one meal a day but thinks she stays the same size. Every time she picks up a brownie she thinks of the people she sees on t.v. and every time she has cake, she thinks of the one million magazine articles on restricting calories. She used to have no idea a flat stomach was supposed to be beautiful until she saw advice on how to achieve it. She cuts back on everything. She controls. They tell her she’s getting too thin but she doesn’t believe it.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is sixteen and tearing herself into shreds in order for a thigh gap big enough to hush the screams in her head. She doesn’t “indulge,” ever. She can’t go out with friends, they expect her to eat. She damns her sweet tooth directly to hell. It’s coffee for breakfast and tea for lunch and if there’s dance that evening, two cups of water and then maybe an apple. She lies all the time until she thinks the words will rot her teeth. She dreams about food when she sleeps. Her aunt begs her to eat anything, even just a small cookie. They say, “One bite won’t make you fat, will it, darling?”

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is seventeen and too sick to go to prom because she can’t stand up for very long. She thinks she wouldn’t look good in a dress anyway. Her nails are blue and not because they are painted. Her hair is too thin to do anything with. She’s tired all the time and always distracted. She once absently mentions the caloric value of grapes to the boy she is with and he looks at her like she’s gone insane and in that moment she realizes most people don’t have numbers constantly scrolling in their heads. She swallows hard and tries to figure out where it all went wrong, why more than a granola bar for a meal makes her feel sick, why she tastes disease and courts with death. She misses sleep. She misses being able to dream. She misses being herself instead of just being empty.

A FAT LITTLE GIRL
is twenty and writes poetry and is a healthy weight and still fights down the voices every single day. She puts food in her mouth and sometimes cries about it but more and more often feels good, feels balanced. Her cheeks are pink and they are chubby and soft and no longer growing slight fur. Her hair is long and it is beautiful. She still picks herself apart in the mirror, but she’s starting to get better about it. She wears the dress she likes even if it only fits her in a large and she doesn’t feel like a failure for it. She is falling in love with the fat on her hips.

She is eating out with friends and not worrying about finding the lowest calorie item on the menu when she hears a mother tell her four year old daughter “You can’t have ice cream, we just had dinner.
You don’t want to end up as a fat little girl.”

Why do we constantly do this to our children? /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

(via midnight-daydreams)

crystallized-velvet:

unbuttoningfeminism:

oliviatheelf:

lizywkim:

starryeyedlunatic:

fucksociety95:

this picture should have more then the amounts of notes it has, this shows us that not ever thing is “picture perfect” and that behind that smile and those eyes there is fear . So i beg you to please reblog this instead of a pair of shoes, someone smoking a blunt, and clothes … because this picture is literally worth 1,000 words 

This is insanely powerful.

As someone who grew up in an abusive household, I will never fucking fail to reblog this. People pull bullshit all the time over people getting abused. They make it to where it’s covered up, the victim’s fault, or they don’t care about it. This is happening RIGHT NOW and could be happening to your own neighbor, mother, sister, brother, grandparents, teachers, mail-deliverer. Anyone.  IT is a nightmare. 

Wow

If I remember correctly this is a norwegian newspaper commercial about speaking up for the weaker ones.

(Source: awayfromearth, via king-for-a-decade)

crystallized-velvet:

unbuttoningfeminism:

oliviatheelf:

lizywkim:

starryeyedlunatic:

fucksociety95:

this picture should have more then the amounts of notes it has, this shows us that not ever thing is “picture perfect” and that behind that smile and those eyes there is fear . So i beg you to please reblog this instead of a pair of shoes, someone smoking a blunt, and clothes … because this picture is literally worth 1,000 words 

This is insanely powerful.

As someone who grew up in an abusive household, I will never fucking fail to reblog this. People pull bullshit all the time over people getting abused. They make it to where it’s covered up, the victim’s fault, or they don’t care about it. This is happening RIGHT NOW and could be happening to your own neighbor, mother, sister, brother, grandparents, teachers, mail-deliverer. Anyone.  IT is a nightmare. 

Wow

If I remember correctly this is a norwegian newspaper commercial about speaking up for the weaker ones.

(Source: awayfromearth, via king-for-a-decade)

ink-splotch:

lumos5001:

You have ten minutes to present your chosen skill.

you can just see the moment she decides “fuck this I will make you pay for what you have done”

And this, too: that Peeta walked into this room (this room where you earn your rank, where you perform for your life against an uncaring panel, this room that helps determine your chance for survival) and said, this, this is my chosen skill.

You are sending me into a doomed field, to do battle against a few dozen strangers and the woman I love, to put blood on my hands and ratings on your networks, and you have asked me to step into this room and show you what I am worth. This is my worth, laid out on the floor, on a bed of flowers. You asked me to be a killer. This is how I kill you. 

But also: that this is about Rue. This is a story about people mattering.Peeta is asked to present his skill, to prove his worth, and the thing he chooses is about someone else. He takes these precious moments of spotlight (the boy is so good at spotlight), and offers them up in Rue’s memory, for her, for himself, for the woman he knows will walk into this room after him. He has stopped caring about survival (he stopped in the first book, the moment they called his name), which leaves him space to decide what matters. This matters. This is how she died: loved, mourned. This is your sin and I will stain your world with it. 

This is about a girl who never grew into a woman. It’s about an honest friendship in the midst of a manufactured murder spree; that in the middle of a war for her life, Katniss Everdeen stopped to mourn, because Rue mattered. It’s about this baker’s boy standing in a room full of weapons and the breaths of desperate, dying children and painting a remembrance of love and loss on the concrete floor. 

In Peeta’s hands, love is a weapon. Katniss fires an arrow at the gamemasters to get their attention, and so does he. 

(Source: jenniferlawrenceshrader, via midnight-daydreams)

Fixed. theme by Andrew McCarthy