fun prank: wake up during open heart surgery and sing don’t go breakin’ my heart to the surgeon

(via crunchier)


happy halloween. its fucking halloween every day from now until the end of october. happy fucking halloween

(via gnarly)


do you ever look back and realize your selfie game has improved 500% 

(via crunchier)


hello 911 yes help I lost the soap on the shower floor

(via zackisontumblr)


Black girls with natural hair get made fun of and black girls with fake hair get made fun of and black girls with no hair get made fun of so like what are black girls supposed to do but not give a fuck abt u

(via asexualock)


When I first felt hatred
for myself, I was 11 years old.
It was two weeks before
starting middle school
and I would enter adolescence
with self-doubt and fresh
wounds on the surface
of my premature skin.
As it goes with every new
sudden feeling, I felt alone
in the journey that was
set before me. I’m 21 years
old now and all of those
open wounds have healed
and have become small stories
on my body. Tales that I would
go on to repeat to any newcomer
that recognized scar tissue
in places that could only be
self-inflected. Since then,
looking back on those 10 years
of searching for myself
with the help of sharp objects
that had no say in what might
be best, I have taken those
throbbing experiences
and have turned them into
hope for new wanderers
who may have crossed
the path of darkness before
reaching the field of light.
Still, I look down at my limbs
and see the weakness hiding
beneath new tissue. I can
still hear it calling to me
to open them up one more time.
I cover up my wrists
with my armor and look ahead
to my path, to my not yet
completed journey.
The first time I felt the richness
of self-doubt was when I was
11 years old. Barley old enough
to see the outcome of what
my hands were truly capable of.
10 years of solitude
masked with bandaids
and bracelets and now my skin
is finally able to breathe.
Now I can see that what I was
trying to destroy all along
would be the only thing
that served as my protective
shield. Now I can stretch
my arms outward and show
my once so powerful
self-doubt that it no longer
will be able to reach me.

"My victory lives beneath my skin," - Colleen Brown (via mostlyfiction)

(via mostlyfiction)


When you are 13 years old,
the heat will be turned up too high
and the stars will not be in your favor.
You will hide behind a bookcase
with your family and everything left behind.
You will pour an ocean into a diary.
When they find you, you will be nothing
but a spark above a burning bush,
still, tell them
Despite everything, I really believe people are good at heart.

When you are 14,
a voice will call you to greatness.
When the doubters call you crazy, do not listen.
They don’t know the sound
of their own God’s whisper. Use your armor,
use your sword, use your two good hands.
Do not let their doubting
drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.
You are the Maid of Untamed Patriotism.
Born to lead armies into victory and unite a nation
like a broken heart.

When you are 15, you will be punished
for learning too proudly. A man
will climb onto your school bus and insist
your sisters name you enemy.
When you do not hide,
he will point his gun at your temple
and fire three times. Three years later,
in an ocean of words, with no apologies,
you will stand before the leaders of the world
and tell them your country is burning.

When you are 16 years old,
you will invent science fiction.
The story of a man named Frankenstein
and his creation. Soon after you will learn
that little girls with big ideas are more terrifying
than monsters, but don’t worry.
You will be remembered long after
they have put down their torches.

When you are 17 years old,
you will strike out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig
one right after the other.
Men will be afraid of the lightening
in your fingertips. A few days later
you will be fired from the major leagues
because “Girls are too delicate to play baseball”

You will turn 18 with a baby on your back
leading Lewis and Clark
across North America.

You will turn 18 
and become queen of the Nile.

You will turn 18 
and bring justice to journalism.

You are now 18, standing on the precipice,
trembling before your own greatness.

This is your call to leap.

There will always being those
who say you are too young and delicate
to make anything happen for yourself.
They don’t see the part of you that smolders.
Don’t let their doubting drown out the sound
of your own heartbeat.

You are the first drop of a hurricane.
Your bravery builds beyond you. You are needed
by all the little girls still living in secret,
writing oceans made of monsters and
throwing like lightening.

You don’t need to grow up to find greatness.
You are stronger than the world has ever believed you to be.
The world laid out before you to set on fire.
All you have to do
is burn.