domesticwolf:

i wanna get better // bleachers

"i didn’t know i was lonely til i saw your face"

Dave Annable as Dr. Jack McAndrew // Red Band Society pilot episode

"Luck isn’t getting what you want. It’s surviving what you don’t want." 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.

radtracks:

sos // abba

when you’re gone
how can i even try to go on?
when you’re gone
though i try, how can i carry on?

copperbooom:

firefighter hank ft. mule

paris666hilton:

THIS IS ART

dubstepsunset:

It’s too early but I laughed louder than I should have

I love my skin!

awrrex:

gnarly:

the older I get, the more I understand squidwards anger

You either die a Spongebob, or live long enough to see yourself become a  Squidward.

# same

thelittlebigbookproject:

elemes:

F. Scott Fitzgerald reads an edited and abridged version of “Ode to a Nightingale” circa 1940.





"Ode to a Nightingale" (1819) - John Keats

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
  My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
  One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
  But being too happy in thine happiness,
    That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
          In some melodious plot
  Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
    Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
  Cool’d a long age in the deep-delvèd earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
  Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South!
  Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
    With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
          And purple-stainèd mouth;
  That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
    And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
  What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
  Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs,
  Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies
    Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
          And leaden-eyed despairs;
  Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
    Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

[…]

The first time I have ever experienced my favourite author’s voice. I will never ever relive this moment

"Dress suitably in short skirts and strong boots, leave your jewels in the bank, and buy a revolver."

— Countess Markievicz, 19th century Irish revolutionary, dispensing eternally relevant fashion advice (via formido)
HW