date a boy who hates coleslaw
date a boy who never lets coleslaw near you
date a boy who will chuck a bowl of coleslaw across the room if someone puts it near you
More you might like
Official Standing Rock Sioux Tribe DAPL Donation Fund through PayPal
Sacred Stone Legal Defense Fund
Volunteer to help Sacred Stone Camp if you have legal or media skills. Email sacredstonecamp@gmail.com, or phone 701-301-2238.
it’s easy to spot an angel you just gotta start telling a story in a group situation when people are too busy talking over each other to hear you. look for that one person who notices and makes eye contact and smiles encouragingly till you’ve finished talking– that’s the angel. same genus as that friend who, when everyone else is jokily slagging you off about something, notices that one comment has hit a nerve and subtly changes the subject or says something in your defence. these people are pure and go straight to heaven.
it’s easy to spot an angel you just gotta start telling a story in a group situation when people are too busy talking over each other to hear you. look for that one person who notices and makes eye contact and smiles encouragingly till you’ve finished talking– that’s the angel. same genus as that friend who, when everyone else is jokily slagging you off about something, notices that one comment has hit a nerve and subtly changes the subject or says something in your defence. these people are pure and go straight to heaven.
Cassandra Trenary & Gabe Stone Shayer rehearse the Chinese Pas in Act II of The Nutcracker
Angel Haze - Same Love
"At age thirteen, my mom knew I wasn’t straight
She didn’t understand but she had so much to say
She sat me on the couch, looked me straight in my face
And said you’ll burn in hell or probably die of AIDS”
Pansexual rapper exchanges Mackelmore’s no-homo lyrics for a freestyle about her experience as a member of the LGBTQIA+ community.
Margherita Caffi. Detail from Still Life of Flowers in Vases on Stone Ledge, 17th Century.
“I swear to every heaven ever imagined, if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare from the grave so he can tell them every reason why he wishes he were born in a time where he could have a damn Gmail account. The day after I taught my mother how to send pictures over Iphone she texted me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row. Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful. But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club while the rest of us fall in love over Skype. Send angry letters to state representatives, as we record the years first sunrise so we can remember what beginning feels like when we are inches away from the trigger. Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle while we eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did. Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole. Van Gogh would have taken 20 selfies a day. Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words. Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account, and we all would have checked it every morning while we Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes. This life is spilling over with 85 year olds rewatching JFK’s assassination and 7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos. Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting what my fathers voice sounds like. No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend. No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like or how grasshoppers procreate. I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips in public parks on my cellphone and you will continue to scoff and that is okay. But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search how to say I love you in 164 different languages”
— b.e. fitzgerald (via crackademia)
“We’ve attempted to forgive ourselves for what we didn’t do — the fantastic offenses, the phantom blame. For the sea mist, for no one, for the shadows — for this we made amends.”— Alejandra Pizarnik, from Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962-1972; “Names and Shapes” (tr. Yvette Siegert)
today a lesbian couple came into the cafe and one asked what was in the bread and the other said “bananas, it’s sweet and healthy, just like you!” and i felt the weariness of my soul lift up into heaven




