so i was just googling sherlock with this song stuck on my head, and i started to sing out the results to the melody. guys, it fucking matched
and from the top of your lungs;
okay sing now
I DESERVE SO FUKCING MANY NOTES JESUS FCUKING CJRIST
My old cats, Tom and Little, always slept together in a guitar case. They both lived for seventeen years and my family is still convinced that they were in love. Little was perfectly healthy when Tom died, but a week after his death she stopped eating and would hide behind couches and in corners all day. Within a month, she passed away too. They are buried side by side in our garden.
kinky things to say during sexual intercourse
- Congratulations! You are today’s 999,999th visitor!
stiff upper lip
self-restraint in the expression of emotion (especially fear or grief); an attribute of British people
We are all books because we have spines and stories to tell.
Don’t care if this is old. No time is the wrong time to reblog this. Because clearly, this is the greatest thing that has ever happened on planet Earth.
We ate the birds. We ate them. We wanted their songs to flow up through our throats and burst out of our mouths, and so we ate them. We wanted their feathers to bud from our flesh. We wanted their wings, we wanted to fly as they did, soar freely among the treetops and the clouds, and so we ate them. We speared them, we clubbed them, we tangled their feet in glue, we netted them, we spitted them, we threw them onto hot coals, and all for love, because we loved them. We wanted to be one with them. We wanted to hatch out of clean, smooth, beautiful eggs, as they did, back when we were young and agile and innocent of cause and effect, we did not want the mess of being born, and so we crammed the birds into our gullets, feathers and all, but it was no use, we couldn’t sing, not effortlessly as they do, we can’t fly, not without smoke and metal, and as for the eggs we don’t stand a chance. We’re mired in gravity, we’re earthbound. We’re ankle-deep in blood, and all because we ate the birds, we ate them a long time ago, when we still had the power to say no.
— Margaret Atwood, “We Ate the Birds”, from The Tent (Bloomsbury 2006)
More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance
between the couch and dinning room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky
are dead. The my body
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,
and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.
The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.
When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink. There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a shear white dress
covered in a million beads
comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove
in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutang slow dance.
- He tells me that Detective Sergeant Olson visited you in your hotel room in the early hours of Monday morning.
- That’s correct.
- Can you tell me the purpose of that visit?
- Sexual intercourse.
In which DSI Stella Gibson is my lord-cum-saviour.
the only reason i go to school is because i don’t wanna be an unemployed college drop out. i wanna be an unemployed college graduate
I don’t know if anyone else does this, and it really might be a cruel thing to do, but lately I’ve been just wanting to nuzzle myself into people just through brief little impact moments. Where it’s inconvenient but only for them. Making statements during the most subtle of times that occurs and reoccurs in our lives. Like abruptly kissing them just before a waiter reaches the table to take their order. Or bringing cherry popsicles along on a summer’s night walk. Or cooking some sort of delicious sweet every Sunday night. Apple pie, maybe. Introducing them to classical tracks that make your heart ache. Bringing them to pick up flowers at local markets and tucking it along their ear. I don’t know. Just because, if you ever lost that person for good, the foundations of those things would never cross their mind without you written all over them. They’d feel a pit in their stomach on a wonderful date as the waiter headed in their direction. Popsicles would bring them back to your sticky skin, and the dark night of heat. The smell of warm apple pie would place them back in the apartment you two shared, and all over again it’d be Sunday night. A pause in an elevator or market when Tchaikovsky begins to play and they’d hear you humming along with it. When they go to pick out flowers for their significant other’s anniversary, or birthday, and all they can think about is what you told them it meant, and your favorites, because not many people have such love for things like that.
I want people to remember me like this. Sudden lip-locks. The smell of Apple Pie. Tchaikovsky. Running bath water. Sweet skin and melting popsicles. Windows open. Unfinished books. Flowers. Down blankets.
I need them to remember me like that.
I just imagine John using the “3 years” card for everything now
“I don’t want to eat”
“I CRIED FOR YOU FOR 3 YEARS AND YOU CANT EAT A FUCKING TOAST?”
“I don’t want to wear the death frisbee”
“3 YEARS SHERLOCK”
“I don’t want to top”
“I don’t want to top”