Table Dancing Groove Styles

Ridiculously good looking | Hooligan | Adventurer |
The adventures have taken their toll on my boday and now its time to get lean and mean

Home Theme The trippy lady (ME) Ask away kids This bitch be trippin

This is my life!

(Source: phasmogeny, via stand-up-comic-gifs)

trashylittlefuck:

women are considered fragile but I’ve never seen anything as easily wounded as a man’s ego

(via petit-guerrier)

Henry Rollins, Solipsist (via fckrt)

(Source: violentknees, via fckrt)

The moon will never lie to anyone. Be like the moon. No one hates the moon or wants to kill it. The moon does not take antidepressants and never gets sent to prison. The moon never shot a guy in the face and ran away. The moon has been around a long time and has never tried to rip anyone off. The moon does not care who you are, or who you want to touch or what color you are. The moon treats everyone the same. The moon never tries to get in on the guest list or use your name to impress others. Be like the moon. When others insult or belittle in an attempt to elevate themselves, the moon sits passively and watches, never lowering itself to anything that weak. The moon is beautiful and reflects the sun’s light brilliantly. It needs no make up. The moon never shoves clouds out of its way so it can be seen. The moon needs not fame nor money to be powerful. The moon never asks you to go to war to defend it. Be like the moon.

note to self (via c0ntemplations)

Amen.

(via princessofthepreps)

(via cardiocutie)

A girl and her bed on Sundays are an endless love affair.

Letter From Anais Nin to Clementine von Radics (After Marty McConnel)

(via mymmm)

For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. We insist each day wrap it’s knuckles through our heart strings and pull. The lows. The joy. The poetry. We dance at the edge of a cliff, you have fallen off. So it goes. You will climb up again.

You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.

You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.

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