C'mon, Fake Me Another Smile

This is my insignificant contribution to the Internet.
Ask

Read the Printed Word!

I may not follow back. I may unfollow later.
users online

stupidtacopun:

savvylikenahhh:

dogs dealing with cats sleeping in their beds

This has to be the cutest and saddest thing

(via tyleroakley)

videohall:

Testing the Reflexes of Seven Kittens

(via theamericankid)

I think it’s weird that teenage girls know more about giving blowjobs than they do about masturbation. It makes me sick to my stomach that so many young girls think sex is just about a guy finishing.

Elizabeth Olsen 

(via budddha)

(Source: ine-vest, via woundedbydust1331)

adamnsight:

Have you ever seen brown eyes in the sun? You don’t always notice it at first but you’ll see that ‘brown’ no longer describes them. They melt into golden rays, circling an eclipse. There’s nothing boring about brown eyes, not even when the later hours encroach; they just turn into a sunset of their own. 

(via vickstahs)

naamahdarling:

snowcoma:

thegreenwolf:

likespancakes:

The Titanic theme played on the recorder.

here’s a picture of drool on my tablet from me laughing so hard

image

image

I AM ACTUALLY CRYING FROM LAUGHING

hgjdksghbda

My grandma just came into my room and asked if i was ok she thought i was in pain or something but NO THATS NOT IT IM LAUGHING SO GODDAMN HAR DJESUS FUCKIFNG CRHISFT

MY DOG IS BARKING AT IT OMG 

OMFG I WAS LISETING TO THIS I COULDN’T FEEL MY SIDES, THEN I SEEN THE PICTURE OF THE DROOL AND ROLLED OFF MY BED I CANT!!! 

MY HALLMATES ARE TEXTING ME TO SHUT UP BECAUSE IT’S 2 AM AND THEY HAVE A FINAL TOMORROW BUT I CAN’T STOP HELP ME

Things were going so well, then I got smack in the face with a pile of “What the ever loving f***?!?!?”

THAT FUCKING SCREECHING AT THE END, OH MY GOD

omg

I have subjected my partner to this, with hilarious results. Now I do the same to you (again).

DAMNIT I AM BABYSITTING AND I’M TRYING SO HARD NOT TO WAKE THEM UP LAUGHING.

I couldn’t finish.  I was laughing so hard I thought I might be sick.  For real.

IDK why, but this is hilarious.

Maybe it’s because of my childhood experiences.

I went to a grade school for gifted kids.  We were the smartest kids in the state, we had the best curriculum in the state.  We went to all these tournaments, for spelling, for computers, for science, for math.  We took field trips to the university to play with hazardous chemicals and cow organs.  We were golden children, is what I’m saying.  They wouldn’t even let you IN if you didn’t score above 115 on an IQ test, I think.  (I now know this is elitist bullshit, btw.)

But we had the worst music program I have ever seen in my life.

So for an hour a day all these kids from ages 8 to 12, like fifteen of us, would sit in a semicircle around the teacher and we would play.

For three years.  THREE YEARS.  We never improved.

The teacher never had us perform in front of the adults.  In retrospect, it was because we were so terrible she couldn’t.  Even our parents’ unconditional love would not have made it tolerable. We were that bad.  It never got better.  There were so many of us, and some of us hated it, I hated it, but some of us, some of us liked it, which was worse.

It didn’t matter if we loved or hated it, though. It didn’t matter that we were the smartest kids for two hundred miles.  We were all bad at it, we were bad at it forever.

I bought a new recorder every year.  I lost them every year.  A mouthpiece detached, gone astray.  A chip in one.  Another just vanished into the black hole of my closet, jammed under a pile of matted stuffed animals and old board games.  I hoped they would stay gone. But the new ones came all the same.  They came home with me in my red Nickelodeon backpack.  They came home with my name written in Sharpie or laundry pen, bleeding into the plastic with the rubbing of tiny thumbs.

She was insistent that we buy the ivory kind, not the brown kind.

I still don’t understand.  We never performed.  Nobody was ever going to see us.  See me.  She had no reason to care. 

We had to keep them in their sleeves, and once a week we had to clean them out.  We were not to switch recorders with anyone, ever.  If we forgot ours, though, she had others.  And we didn’t know who had played them, so we almost never forgot.

It sounded like someone torturing cats and owls while a mini pipe organ played in the background.

It sounded like literal Hell.  Theme music for Bosch’s depiction of the damned.  Lovecraft’s insane, mindless piping from the void.

Why?

Was it a three-year ritual to open a portal to Hell?  Was that why they were all ivory, like the bones of the innocent? Was she torturing herself for her wrongs?  Had she taken a human life and felt she had to atone?  Did it drown out the screaming?

I think about her.  How many more years did she stay?  How many more children came and sat in that circle, tiny fingers fluttering over the holes in the plastic, making noises like tone-deaf kookaburras, playing Mary Had a Little Lamb and Edelweiss?

How long? How long did she live?

And I still don’t know why.

And I think that is why I laughed so hard I almost pissed myself.  It’s not nostalgia, it’s the laughter of madness many years deferred, as I realized just how goddamn senseless it had all been.

I am still spasming periodically, like dry-heaving.  I hurt.

Whoever did this, I hope you feel good about yourself.

I also need to download this, so can someone help me out, there?  I’m afraid this will be lost to time and the internet, and it must be preserved for posterity.

(via itspeterkha)

nightvaledictorian:

rainingcatsandmen:

THIS IS MY FAVORITE POST

 the denial of hospital visitation rights inspires in me an entirely new dimension of pissed off 

(Source: auntieshakespeare, via myfivecentsworth)

meanplastic:

when you accidentally open your front camera

image

(via tyleroakley)

10knotes:

thank you tiny cactus

10knotes:

thank you tiny cactus

(Source: epostfix, via tyleroakley)

“But the Bible says…”

image

(via itspeterkha)