Posted 14 hours ago

one-two-whatsinthestew:

actual photo depiction of finals week at my school

(Source: trynsave)

Posted 14 hours ago

shingekinokyojinheaven:

he just became like 50% carrot

(Source: lolgifs.net)

Posted 1 day ago

chollypace:

lost meme/one flashback◇                 :

Greatest Hits

(Source: taysoldedits)

Posted 2 days ago

clearlypositive:

do you ever wanna talk about a thing but you know you already talk about it too much and your friends are sick of hearing about it so instead you just hold it all inside you and constantly feel like you’re gonna burst?

Posted 2 days ago
Posted 2 days ago

prawnathan:

what the american school system teaches us

Posted 2 days ago

hologrif:

do you ever just get

viciously jealous

about people

like

no

that’s my friend

mine

(Source: dextrgrif)

Posted 2 days ago

toopaletofunction:

staythatswhatimeanttosay:

One nation, under Canada, above Mexico.

with liberty and justice for some 

Posted 3 days ago

A lot of actors act intelligent, but Philip was the real thing: a shining, artistic polymath with an intelligence that came at you like a pair of headlights and enveloped you from the moment he grabbed your hand, put a huge arm round your neck and shoved a cheek against yours; or if the mood took him, hugged you to him like a big, pudgy schoolboy, then stood and beamed at you while he took stock of the effect.
 Philip took vivid stock of everything, all the time. It was painful and exhausting work, and probably in the end his undoing. The world was too bright for him to handle. He had to screw up his eyes or be dazzled to death. Like Chatterton, he went seven times round the moon to your one, and every time he set off, you were never sure he’d come back, which is what I believe somebody said about the German poet Hölderlin: Whenever he left the room, you were afraid you’d seen the last of him. And if that sounds like wisdom after the event, it isn’t. Philip was burning himself out before your eyes. Nobody could live at his pace and stay the course, and in bursts of startling intimacy he needed you to know it. 
No actor had ever made quite the impact on me that Philip did at that first encounter: not Richard Burton, not Burt Lancaster or even Alec Guinness. Philip greeted me as if he’d been waiting to meet me all his life, which I suspect was how he greeted everyone. But I’d been waiting to meet Philip for a long time. I reckoned his “Capote” the best single performance I’d seen on screen. But I didn’t dare tell him that, because there’s always a danger with actors, when you tell them how great they were nine years ago, that they demand to know what’s been wrong with their performances ever since. 
There was a problem about accents. We had really good German actors who spoke English with a German accent. Collective wisdom dictated, not necessarily wisely, that Philip should do the same. For the first few minutes of listening to him, I thought, “Crikey.” No German I knew spoke English like this. He did a mouth thing, a kind of pout. He seemed to kiss his lines rather than speak them. Then gradually he did what only the greatest actors can do. He made his voice the only authentic one, the lonely one, the odd one out, the one you depended on amid all the others. And every time it left the stage, like the great man himself, you waited for its return with impatience and mounting unease. 
We shall wait a long time for another Philip. - John le Carré (X)

A lot of actors act intelligent, but Philip was the real thing: a shining, artistic polymath with an intelligence that came at you like a pair of headlights and enveloped you from the moment he grabbed your hand, put a huge arm round your neck and shoved a cheek against yours; or if the mood took him, hugged you to him like a big, pudgy schoolboy, then stood and beamed at you while he took stock of the effect.

Philip took vivid stock of everything, all the time. It was painful and exhausting work, and probably in the end his undoing. The world was too bright for him to handle. He had to screw up his eyes or be dazzled to death. Like Chatterton, he went seven times round the moon to your one, and every time he set off, you were never sure he’d come back, which is what I believe somebody said about the German poet Hölderlin: Whenever he left the room, you were afraid you’d seen the last of him. And if that sounds like wisdom after the event, it isn’t. Philip was burning himself out before your eyes. Nobody could live at his pace and stay the course, and in bursts of startling intimacy he needed you to know it.

No actor had ever made quite the impact on me that Philip did at that first encounter: not Richard Burton, not Burt Lancaster or even Alec Guinness. Philip greeted me as if he’d been waiting to meet me all his life, which I suspect was how he greeted everyone. But I’d been waiting to meet Philip for a long time. I reckoned his “Capote” the best single performance I’d seen on screen. But I didn’t dare tell him that, because there’s always a danger with actors, when you tell them how great they were nine years ago, that they demand to know what’s been wrong with their performances ever since.

There was a problem about accents. We had really good German actors who spoke English with a German accent. Collective wisdom dictated, not necessarily wisely, that Philip should do the same. For the first few minutes of listening to him, I thought, “Crikey.” No German I knew spoke English like this. He did a mouth thing, a kind of pout. He seemed to kiss his lines rather than speak them. Then gradually he did what only the greatest actors can do. He made his voice the only authentic one, the lonely one, the odd one out, the one you depended on amid all the others. And every time it left the stage, like the great man himself, you waited for its return with impatience and mounting unease.

We shall wait a long time for another Philip. - John le Carré (X)

(Source: howtocatchamonster)

Posted 3 days ago
jamieprivateschoolgirl:

royalbloood:

you should want a bad street like this

 omg

jamieprivateschoolgirl:

royalbloood:

you should want a bad street like this

omg

(Source: royalbloood)

Posted 3 days ago

fiyhi:

patron-de-los-santos:

mcdamnright:

So I was at a thrift store and I see this little cat lamp.

image

I was like “Aye yo, ya’ll are fuckin’ adorable.”
So I bought the lil’ guy and took him home to plug him in.

image

Then I was like “No.”

well no wonder why it was in the thrift store

but shit it was 99 cents

Posted 3 days ago
yzma:

why did they let a two inch mouse join their soccer team
how could he be beneficial in any way whatsoever
this movie man

yzma:

why did they let a two inch mouse join their soccer team

how could he be beneficial in any way whatsoever

this movie man

Posted 3 days ago
Posted 3 days ago

weirdnerdgirl400:

adayinthelifeofpeach:

k-lionheart:

eyress:

I CHALLENGE YOU TO A BATTLE OF WITS

The game is this:
I set up five pairs of identical looking shots:
pineapple juice or lemon juice,
Chinese sugar tea or apple cider vinegar,
flat coke or soy sauce,
water or distilled white vinegar,
and tomato juice or Tabasco sauce.

I challenge a player in the circle to a color. They pick one and I take the other, with our best poker faces. Other players have to guess who got what.

It’s like the Princess Bride/A Study in Pink but no one gets poisoned!

MUST DO

you people are sick

The Princess Bride.

Posted 3 days ago