what if doorbells went dong ding instead of ding dong

don’t say something like that

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Some of the most powerful pictures of all time

(Source: joshifers-love-child, via spoken-not-written)


mark, my words. *mark brings me my dictionary* thank you mark

(via spoken-not-written)

Anonymous asked: If it's the 37th Wednesday, and the bus is late by 13 minutes, how many jelly beans are in the jar to the left of the tv in the second house to the right?


Mid-September. 37 weeks into the year as I “self-medicate” with the pills I hide in my pillow. I don’t know why I kept track…I guess it’s sort of how people record how long they’ve gone without self-harming; I keep track of how long I do. It’s finally time for me to go. After months of agony at my house, they’ve decided to come pick me up and take me to the “correctional facility”. I only spent all summer locked in my room, pale despite the blazing sun outside. It took three times of trying to kill myself for someone to notice something was seriously wrong with me. Or was something wrong with everyone else? They didn’t even take me to the hospital the second time - my parents just tackled me before I could shoot. When it nearly happened a third time, they decided to get help…help I didn’t want.

The bus of misfits was scheduled to pick me up at noon on Wednesday. My parents packed my bags for me (to make sure I didn’t bring the razors with me) and they even had the audacity to try and talk to me about what they did wrong and how sorry they are. When they were crying in the other room and I heard the bus pull up outside (a whole 13 minutes late), a thought came to me: I may be as dysfunctional as my abusive parents, but I can be dysfunctional on my own. I bolted. 

I went out the back with the backpack of things I had stashed in my closet (food, clothes, ect). My parents saw me though and that’s when I began to run. I ran across the yard and jumped the neighbor’s fence. I heard shouts over yonder that sounded tense and worried. When I heard keys jingling and the clicks of heels on concrete, I assumed the people who were picking me up dealed with runaways often and were ready to catch me on the street. I jumped another fence and ended up in the grassy backyard of the old man who lived two houses down from me. I run up to his screen door and opened it (it was unlocked) and I burst in. He was sitting there on his couch, watching tv. 

"Hello Ben" he said warmly to me. He smiled and patted the seat next to him, indicating his desire for me to sit there. I sat in the chair next to the couch instead and stared at him, apathy behind my eyes. His eyes kind of glittered being his half-moon specs. His leathery skin looked like it would crack if he moved too much. He leaned forward and pointed to the left of the tv. 

"Do you know how many jellybeans are in that jar Ben?"
"I don’t care."
"Do you know what they stand for?"

The old man stood up at this. He wandered over, grabbed the jar, and handed it to the boy. The boy, with a questioning look on his face, held the jar. “Why haven’t you thrown me out yet? Why do you care?”

"Count how many jellybeans are in there for me son. "

Ben poured the contents in his lap and counted slowly, looking often at the old man who sat back down. It kinda calmed him, all the counting. His breathe had slowed and his heart had stopped racing. 
"There’s 37 of them here."
"Yes! Do you know what they mean to me?"
"No, but you’ll probably tell me anyways."
"Only if care now. "

"Each of those jellybeans represents a year. A year I’ve survived without my wife, the woman who gave life to me, fed me for everything she stood for. She died in a shooting at a hospital 37 years ago. Every single year since, I’ve nearly killed myself. Every year I don’t, I put something sweet in a jar, just how she put something sweet in me. It’s a shame when the best in us turns sour and poisonous. I found meaning in my life without her. I found meaning in the trees and the grass and the youth. Maybe you can too. Go ahead and eat them. Maybe she’ll help you too."

The End. 


so other than that, mrs. lincoln, how was the play

(Source: brenthor, via guy)


doing a presentation in front of the class


(via greatfatsby)


My favorite thing to burn.


My favorite thing to burn.

(via tsarbucks)



i don’t think you understand how violently protective i can be of fictional characters

#there are at least five characters in the world that I would physically fight you over

(Source: bigbeewolf, via spoken-not-written)


bad pun #1


bad pun #1

(via tsarbucks)