Chris Evans’ Appreciation- with babies/kids

STOP IT WITH THE KIDS ALREADY! I AM LITERALLY CRYING!!!!

Cat-eye shades. T_T

Hugs are awesome.

I am addicted to this song and its lyrics. :| (Thank you @shasha for posting this on fb)

Hello Saferide - The Quiz

You look nice alright
And I like the way you nod after everything I say
Like it actually means something to you

And I like your record collection
Townes and Jens with a hint of Rickie Lee
And you’ve cleaned up the bathroom, made a really nice soup
but a bit too much sci-fi in your shelf with DVD’s

But there are things you need to know about me
I’m weak right now, so weak right now
I need proof before I dare to open this heart
So I’ve prepared a quiz for you

Would you freak out if I said I liked you?
Do you walk the line?
Is your IQ higher than your neighbours?
And is it very much higher than mine ?

Can you sleep when I grind my teeth?
Do you look away if I slob when I eat?
Will you let me be myself?
Can you at all times wear socks? Because I’m still scared of feet

And if I’d fall, would you pick me up?
If I’d fall, would you pick me up?

Do you talk in the middle of Seinfeld?
Do you read more than two books a month?
Do you get racist or sexist when you’ve had a few?
Is it fine if I make more money than you?

Have you slept with any people I work with?
Is there anyone you’d rather wish I’d be?
Do you still keep pictures of old girlfriends?
Are they prettier than me?

And if I’d fall, would you pick me up?
If I’d fall, would you pick me up?

laya:

I’ll tell you about it. Writers are like aliens. They string words of proportions to make people understand and see what their views yet behind all these, they have their own planets, they have their own language that even people of their own kind don’t get to fathom, at least most of the times. Writers are boring. They tend to look at the sky without particularly knowing why, or which part of the sky they’re staring at. They swoon over silver clouds while talking to a bunch of alter egos they always drag within them. Don’t fall in love with a writer. They love weaving magic carpets of words that will lift your poor soul far beyond the fray and cacophony of heartache and strife and will carry you to a realm of fantasies and dreams. Still, remember that words are words and fantasies are fantasies and that essays are just essays.

Writers have the most deadly temper and the quickest switch-on switch-off mood. They are slaves to their emotion and can dramatize even a rusty leaking faucet. They justify everything in the name of their art. They read other people’s receipt and tend to eavesdrop at a couple having coffee nearby, not minding that you’re at his side, telling the most awesome tales of ants trailing the sidewalk. This, of course, is justifiable by saying “it’s research.”

Also, writers give the cheapest of cheapest gifts. They’ll dote you with cards made of milk cartons with a written four-verse poem that doesn’t even rhyme. They’ll bring you flowers handed to them by admirers and would sometimes write “I love you” in your arms. Because state of poverty, to writers, are major avenues of their calling. They look at themselves as creatively complex and hard to understand in a Pablo Picaso cubism sort of way individuals since suffering is art. And because life in the media industry can be a cruel and a fickle beast, they can’t accept just any job. It has to serve their purpose. It has to contribute to a general public and must live to their philosophy yet, still, pinch a nerve near the heart.

Even the most intimate details of your relationship could most of the times turn up in their writings. And although they are mightily concealed behind metaphors and allegories, you, of course, will still recognize them. It’s all about you after all.

Although they never really intend to insult you, they will sheepishly remind you that “your” and “you’re” are different and that “despite” is the right one and “despite of” is the wrong one. I’m telling you, they’ll notice the smallest of details about you as an orgy of your descriptions are banging wildly inside their heads. Yes, even the color of your socks.

Conversations with them are tough. They will talk about characters in books and art films as if they’re real, as if they’re someone tangible, someone he recently got a chance for a vis-à-vis over some tea and biscuits. Annoyingly, they have this habit of writing parts of your conversation on some dank piece of tissue paper. And like lawyers, everything you said is valid and can be used in favor or against you in future discussions.

Probably the hardest one to understand is their addiction to solitude. It might not be close to that of Ernest Hemingway’s seclusion, but a time alone is always a must. It’s not a snob. It’s not barricading. But in solitude, not only he is gathering his thoughts, formulating sets of theories, but also re-arranging himself.

But writers are one of the most romantic people you’ll ever meet. They’re lamentably passionate and will adore you for the most natural thing about you. For they don’t succumb to the societal dictates of beauty and form. You are an abstract masterpiece seen in a philosophical beautiful way. They are phenomenally too human that even their tears are sometimes trails of fluid words. They’re achingly martyrs and they can tell you in thousand ways how much you mean to them, how much they adore you and how much they love you.

So don’t fall in love with a writer. Don’t fall in love with me.

That’s a long sentence.

I was trying to clean up some of the stuff I pasted and typed on my Google Sidebar and found this quote. I know I had it a long, long time ago but never got around to using it for whatever purpose I have thought of when I first saw it and copy-pasted it.

It’s so beautiful though. I wish I’d feel this way soon.

Yeah, I mis-typed well on my twitter account. Found someone who wanted to have it as a tat and boy, is that such a long quote to have on your body.

“I could follow you to the beginning, just to relive the start, and maybe then, we’ll remember to slow down on all of our favorite parts.”

delacroix:

Me too. And, more than that, I’m sick of the people using it.

Women are told almost constantly—by the media, the government, and the overall attitude of society—that our bodies don’t fucking belong to us. The mythical friendzone is just another way for misogynists to enforce that idea while getting to play the victim.

It sucks when someone you have feelings for doesn’t share those feelings; it happens to women all the time, too. We hear “I just want to be friends” and “you’re like one of the guys” and “you’re like a sister to me” just as often. But you’ll never hear a woman complain that guys just don’t appreciate a Nice Girl because we’re taught it’s our own fucking fault when we’re rejected—we aren’t pretty enough or thin enough or sexy enough, we weren’t sexual enough or were too sexual, we put out too much or too little or too soon or not soon enough, we didn’t wear our hair the right way or our skirt the right length, we’re “too tomboyish” or “too butch” or “too feminine”, or we’re “not their type”, or we’re otherwise not good enough in various ways to entice the man to grace us with his affection.

But when we’re not interested in someone, we’re vilified. We’re the bitch that lead them on, the bitch who let them buy us dinner but didn’t want to date them, the bitch who doesn’t appreciate a nice guy, the bitch they were nice to and then got nothing in return from.

And, frankly, fuck those people. Showing interest in me, being friendly with me, getting close to me, or eating a meal with me (even if they paid for it) doesn’t obligate me to open my heart or my legs. And anyone who doesn’t appreciate my friendship sure as hell doesn’t deserve my love or my pussy.

God bless this post.

It’s a fucking circus - liking someone, falling in love (unrequitedly that is), and then getting your heart broken. We all gotta suffer from it, don’t you think? It’s how the world works. That’s for God’s entertainment. So don’t blame girls for friendzoning you. It works both ends.

And yeah, while I cringe every single time my work crush uses the phrase “between the two of us - as friends”, I can’t say I still don’t hope for the best, that somehow, one of these days (HOPEFULLY SOON), he’ll fucking realize I’m not just one his guy friends or that I’m not too tomboyish after all or that I’m actually his type.

One day, I’m hoping against all hope, he’ll realize I’m exactly the girl he would love to bring home and introduce to his mom and dad, and siblings; that I’m the girl he’ll be able to share some good laughs with because yeah, to some extent, I may be like one of the guys, but at least I can understand his language and can laugh at him or with him; and that I’m the girl who despite being not too feminine enough, or caring enough, or pretty enough or thin or sexy enough, will always bring him the happies (or at least try to do so).

So until and unless he rejects me outright, I’ll probably still hold on to that hope… Or may be until some guy I like who likes me back comes into the picture.

It’s a lotta fun. NOT.