The Young and In Love
Hey, well call me Cella. 18.
I believe everything happens for a reason. Hopeless Romantic.
Lesbian. Proud Girlfriend Of A U.S. Navy Sailor  ⚓✌❤
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codeinewarrior:

me and you and our dogs all sleeping together on our king sized bed

(via sansareign)

buzzfeed:

HIS NAME IS GUS AND HE’S SLIGHTLY CROSS-EYED AND LOOK AT THE FLOOF ON HIM

queerdontfear:

I’m sorry, but if lesbians can control themselves in a girls only changing room with ass naked woman waltzing around. Then I figure men should be able to control them selves with clothed girls walking down the street. Just a thought.

(via taurusofmay)

Plot Twist: My Anaconda Do

(Source: crrabs, via foxythirdyearsenpai)

guinness world records man:sir you have done nothing but do pushups from this one spot for 20 years with no rest. what drives you?
me, still doing pushups:i wanna push this planet out of the idiot solar system and into the horrifying abyss of the unknown universe and this is the only way I know how
world records man, in awe:[drops everything and instantly begins doing pushups next to me]

catrectangle:

eudaemaniacal:

ahjiao:

Berds in things

he rode into the night
accelerated his motorbike
i cried to him in fright
dont do it dont do it dont do it

its too late … to tell this boy how great, he was,

(via mechanicaltriquetra)

Tammara Webber, Where You Are (via quotethat)

(via pleasedontcallmelhead)

She scares the hell out of me and calms my soul at the same time. Maybe that’s what love is — a total contradiction that somehow balances out.

meladoodle:

hey mum can you proofread my sexts

(Source: meladoodle, via stability)

Glosswatch, Almost Famous, real women, and the normalisation of self-hate. (via nextyearsgirl)

(via chubby-bunnies)

If you are female, expressing hatred for your own body is not just acceptable, it’s practically de rigeur. Failure to indulge in the requisite amount of self-flagellation – my thighs! my skin! my face! – isn’t just negligent, it’s unfeminine. Self-hatred is fundamental to how femininity is constructed, more fundamental than any of the more obvious external symbols (dress, make-up, shoes). What matters is not that you are beautiful, but you know your place in the beauty hierarchy (and since every woman ages, every woman’s place will eventually be somewhere at the bottom).

Young women are encouraged to bond over their dislike of excess body hair, surplus flesh and “uneven” skin. They are meant to do so in a jovial way, egged on by perky adverts informing them what “real women” do: worry about having underarms beautiful enough for a sleeveless top, celebrate curves with apologetic booty shakes and cackle ruefully over miserable Sex-and-the-City-style lunches of Ryvita and Dulcolax. It’s a gendered ritual; men get football and booze, women get control pants and detoxes. We are supposed, of course, to be grateful. Hey, you don’t have to be perfect! Just know you’re not perfect and act accordingly, with the appropriate levels of guilt and shame!

Fairy tale after fairy tale tells us that what matters is being beautiful “on the inside” but what does that really mean? It means submission, obedience and the suppression of one’s own desires. Don’t be haughty and proud. Clean the hearth. Kiss the frog. Love the beast. Suck it up when you’re replaced by a younger model. Sure, you may look fine, but you mustn’t feel fine. You mustn’t be vain. You mustn’t be angry. All fury and pain must be turned back on itself. That way you’ll be a real princess: silent, fragile and never threatening to challenge the status quo.

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