November 2008
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i love how your fridge always smells like honey dew. i picture you sitting cross legged on the kitchen floor, you crack the melon onto the floor and suck out all the juices. you lick your fingers and elbows, the sound is very distinctive and it’s all so delectable that you take an ice cream scoop and empty all the fruit into your stomach. you lay on your back your stomach full the taste in...
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In the Real World, Women Don’t Marry their “Big”
urbanredneck:
Let’s face it, all of us have had that guy. The one that is never really emotionally there when we need him, the man that gives us the world physically, or monetarily, but lacks in the love department. We’ve all been in relationships with men that take 100% of ourselves but never really give anything back.
Throughout the ten years of Sex and the City Big just wasn’t all he could be...
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“What reconciles me to my own death more than anything else is the image of a place: a place where your bones and mine are buried, thrown, uncovered, together. They are strewn there pell-mell. One of your ribs leans against my skull. A metacarpal of my left hand lies inside your pelvis. (Against my broken ribs your breast like a flower.) The hundred bones of our feet are scattered like...
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rules for saying goodbye - katherine taylor
sunlit-skies:
One. Do not leave until he has mentioned two ex-girlfriends in casual conversation. If you are sure you want to leave and he has not mentioned two ex-girlfriends in conversation, mention two ex-boyfriends and see what happens. Two. Leave if he starts writing songs about other people. These will be songs of loss and their details will have nothing to do with you. Shame on you for...
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?
Ok, so I’m pretty new to this tumblr thing, but whenever I reblog someone else’s photo/text/music/whatever I try to keep all the credits (at least I credit the original poster and/or author). It’s not fun when someone just reblogs your photo but deletes your credit, and you still keep getting all those notifications that someone has reblogged it, when your name isn’t even...
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Adam and Eve.
If I couldn’t sink myself in her like a dark spur or dissolve into her like a clod thrown in a river, can I go all the way in the saying, and say I wanted to punch her right in the face? I’ve seen rain turn into snow then back to rain, and I’ve seen making love turn into fucking then back to making love, and no one covered up their faces out of shame, no one rose and walked into...
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