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Lucy | 16 | Glasgow dumbass bands are the reason im poor. i like pete wentz and poems


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“As an atheist, I see nothing ‘wrong’ in believing in a God. I don’t think there is a God, but belief in him does no harm. If it helps you in any way, then that’s fine with me. It’s when belief starts infringing on other people’s rights when it worries me. I would never deny your right to believe in a God. I would just rather you didn’t kill people who believe in a different God, say. Or stone someone to death because your rulebook says their sexuality is immoral. It’s strange that anyone who believes that an all-powerful all-knowing, omniscient power responsible for everything that happens, would also want to judge and punish people for what they are.”
— Ricky Gervais (via nevermindtheb0ll0cks)
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princeowl:

dallon weekes

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brendon urie

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She grips bottles like liquid excuses
And she sips those excuses
With a smile.

Teeth bared for the world to see,
Made out of splintered hope,
Sharpened with shards
Of jagged edges
That she finds in lovers
Who will never love her.

Just breathe, baby.
Count to ten.

one
Your veins are burning,
And you want to let out the fire.

two
Your words cannot break the surface,
They are caught somewhere between
Your chest and your throat.
Quick, wash them down
With a another sip
Before you choke.

three
She never loved you.
How could she love you
When you’re nothing but broken pieces
Being held together by skin
Skin that takes up too much space

four
And he doesn’t really love you.
He loves the idea of being needed
And wanted
And craved
Stop fooling yourself,
This isn’t logical
And you’re holding onto him
Believing you can be saved

five
No one can save you

six
Remember what they taught you
Open your legs, but never your mouth.

seven
People come and go
But who needs people when you have me
The voice inside your head
And I come with a friend
She is sharp
She is shining
She will make you feel like no one has ever made you feel before
She is the only one who has seen the inside of you
And stayed.
Take the blade.
She loves you.
I love you.

eight
Your veins are still burning

nine
Your heart is still yearning

ten
You can’t do this again.
I know.

So just breathe, baby.
Let’s try one more time,
Count to ten.

one
Remember what your mother taught you.
You are a Phoenix,
and you were born in the flames,
Do not let the fire flow from your veins.

two
Put down the fucking bottle.
You cannot wash down your words
With excuses anymore.
Release the vibrations you trapped
somewhere between your chest and your throat.
Howl with the voice of you
And every other woman who was told to be quiet

three
She never loved you.
This much is true.
But her job was not to put your broken pieces back together,
And your skin holds more than what the mirror tells you
You have an entire symphony swirling inside of you,
And it is not your fault that she couldn’t hear it.

four
He loves you.
You can feel it in his hands
And you can see it in his eyes
And you can hear it in the way his voice trembles
When he tells you so.
No, this isn’t logical.
But love isn’t logical.
Stop trying to sabotage your way out of this,
Because you are worth every bit of love he gives you

five
If you want to be saved, then fucking save yourself.

six
Remember what they taught you.
That you are a wolf
Who will rip their throats out
With a smile
If they ever touch you again

seven
People come and go.
But do not break yourself open over it,
Do not wage a war with yourself
Your wrists are not battlefields
And the voices are not your allies

eight
Yes, your veins are still burning
And they will continue to burn
With passion and elegance
Streaming throughout your entire body

nine
If your heart is still yearning,
Feed it.
Stop depriving it.

ten
You can’t do this again.
I know.

So just breathe, baby

— Conversations With Myself (Just Breathe) 
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FEATURES: A LETTER TO MY YOUNGER SELF, BRENDON URIE

marchingclocks:

The Panic! At The Disco frontman pens a note to the man he used to be.

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Dear Younger Brendon,

What are you wearing? Haha JK LOLZ!!@#$!!! Wait… You probably don’t know what some of that means. Well, you will. And it’s all pretty worthless. Anyhoo, I’m writing this letter to you from the future because a magazine you haven’t heard of yet will ask you to do so. And you’ll have to do it because you’re a slave to the media and also to everyone around you. But don’t fret, because you’re wife is really smoking hot and your friends are pretty awesome. 

Also, you’re going to be most known for being in a band called Panic! At The Disco. Don’t worry about the name because the amount of times you’ll be asked about it in interviews will answer any questions you may have now. But, if you think about it, it’s pretty fucking sweet that they even want to talk to you, because you and I both know you’re not that interesting. So count your many blessings and enjoy yourself. Dick.

Love ya, you little spaz.

The Future You

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falloutbone:

do u think fob laughed at each other when they saw each other in gladiator outfits

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theladylillibet:

catsidae:

Some things that should be acceptable by now:

  • Girls having sleepovers with boys.
  • Female nipples showing.
  • Marriage equality and equality in general.
  • Doing what you want with your body.
  • Wearing what you want,
  • Kinder eggs in America.

For a second I thought you meant eggs should be nicer to people

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istandsilentinthetrees:

"why do you like twenty one pilots so much??"

okay for starters:

  • their lyrics 
  • the way tyler joseph twitches during certain parts of certain songs
  • have you seen josh dun play the drums???
  • did I mention the lyrics bc they’re genious
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An Open Letter from Your Teenager

thepotterwholockian:

Dear Parents,

I must admit, we are very difficult to recognize. More often than not you seem to be completely at odds with who we have become. In light of this, allow me to illuminate the inner workings of the teenage soul. Or attempt it, at the very least.

You must first understand how incredibly needy we are. We want. We want for so many things. Some of us want the same things: a functional family, friends of quality, the ability to pass our classes with minimal trauma. Some of us want other things. To stumble upon an adventure, to feel understood. To laugh until throats are raw, to find what we love and do it over and over and over until we die and then after, to sink into silence for hours on end. To kiss, to be kissed. To love.  We are want personified, and oh, what a struggle this is. We won’t admit to wanting all these things. When you point to Santa and his collection of elves at the mall, with that aching parent smile that has far too much tightness around the eyes, we don’t admit that yes, we do want to interrupt that little tableau by insinuating ourselves onto his lap and whispering our deepest desires into his ear (Dear Santa, what I’d like for Christmas is a purpose, to know that there’s some sure thing awaiting me out in that great void). Instead, we laugh. Or maybe we roll our eyes. We walk on. We don’t admit to still wanting to hold your hand. Or sometimes we do, slipping our fingers into the spaces between yours. You: surprised, pleased. Us: apologetic. We know how much of a rarity this is anymore. It takes a very wise person to deconstruct the machinery of longing and we are not there yet, so we don’t display our want. Displayed want is vulnerability. Vulnerability is teenage kryptonite.

There’s another thing you ought to understand about teenagers. We’ve had this idea in our heads since childhood about how these years were supposed to go. Nights of glitter and ash and shouting at stars, of whipping down to the ocean to hear the hiss and roar, of putting our arms up to the sky. Real life, by comparison, is a knee to the stomach. Consequently we are incensed. The initial rage dies down to a faintly more manageable angst, a sticky emotion that smudges our appeal and makes us into brutes. We know this. We aren’t proud of it. It eats away at our spirit; an unstoppable corrosion. But this, we think, is unavoidable, a part of the transition into adulthood. No choice but to inhale, exhale, grit our teeth and move on. I make no attempt at pardoning our behavior, but I would like to remind you it comes from a place of profound disappointment. Our fantasies must fall to their death as we make way for reality.

Teenagers, the universally regarded magnets for catastrophe. Oh, the drama! Oh, the tragedy! Oh, the lashing out! It’s like we lose our ability to shake things off and now it all hurts like hell. We see everything. The betrayal and injustice and inauthenticity. The hatred, the selling out. This is when we as people begin to fully grasp the realm of what it is to be in pain. That realization is tremendous. It’s devastating. This is why we cling onto beauty, reserving a precious part of our hearts for sunflares and dancing and shoes kicked off in tall grass, for the pulse of our favorite music and the swim of clouds overhead. We notice all these small things and we find ourselves in love. The savage parts of us shiver to life and we bask in the liberation. “Young, wild, and free,” we declare, smearing war paint across our still-round cheeks. We love pretending to be brave. You should know that, too.

Do not believe what we present, the infamous aura of apathy. We care. We care so much. Harder and deeper and more fiercely than you could fathom, and then some. We’re sorry for not letting it show. We do try, catching up small children in our arms, throwing you sudden looks of warmth (meaning: yes, we love you dearly), and blinking at the morning news with a hollow chest and blurring vision. We stitch our wounds shut, but it’s funny. Everything still comes streaming through the cracks.

We lament over being too different (I am a freak) and not being different enough (I want to be the only one of my kind). Do your best to ignore this epic toss and turn. It will burn itself out eventually. As will our total incapability to obey anything you tell us—we know how infuriating we are. It would be untruthful to say it isn’t a little satisfying, in a grim sort of way, to see you become enraged at our persistent obstinacy. We cannot take orders anymore; we can’t shut up and listen. Yes, we realize this is unpleasant, and yes, we apologize, and yes, we recognize our audacity. The thing is, we want so much for you to like us that we are practically terrified at any disapproval directed our way. We strike out. You are angry. We storm to our rooms and fling the door shut. We sob. We wonder what the hell is wrong with us. We wonder what the hell is wrong with you. We chastise ourselves for thinking the latter. We forgive. We go on.

We’re stupidly emotional, inflexible to the core. But we will change. We will be better. Remember that. Please, remember that. Remember that we were kids not so long ago, and babies not so long before that, and we are caught between two identities—adolescent and grown up—and at the moment neither seems to fit. We acknowledge our unpleasantness and the anguish we cause you. We see it in you and we’re so sorry. Remember that this is the time of germination when the seed begins to burst. Expansion is strange and painful, but it’s glorious also. It’s this that we are chasing: The joy. The clicking into place. The sudden sensation of being exactly where we are supposed to be.

Wait for this, wait for us. We’re coming. We’re running as fast as we can.

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