Fourt'nth Ave.

I'm Briaresque! Interested in today's agenda. I own not one of these photos, if you want one taken down, tell me. There's a six month waiting period. I'm fabulously gay, growing more so daily . Twenty one years old and ticking.

The aftermath.
I get a little sassy when I text people, especially R. J.      #youknowhelovesit

God. Damn. It.

Why can I not control my fuckingemotions for you, you stupid bastard.

You show up at least a year and a half later and are more beautiful than any other man that I’ve ever seen.

But that’s not even the important part.

We just… Are. We mesh so well together that it makes my heart do things it never has.

It really depresses me that I know you’ll never be the person I wake up to; the person I spend the rest of my life with.


It’s not fair of my to think and feel these things toward you, and I know that it causes strain on what little friendship we have but I just can’t help it. I’ve been preparing myself for weeks, dreading you being only miles away from me.

Miles I’d crawl just to hear your beautiful voice talk about you.

I really thought I had a handle on it, I always think that I have a fucking handle on it.

I made it further into the meet than I thought I would, truly. But when you kept turning around and looking at me with those beautiful fucking eyes that stare right into my soul, it all overcame me. I almost left you there, bowling shoes and all, it hit me so hard.

It hit me so hard.

I needed to get that out of my head, and I hope that you don’t see this, it won’t lead to anything, it never does.

But let it be known that I’m truly in love with you. I knew it since the first time I met you, and I can’t make it change. I really hate that because all it does is hurt you.




tag your fucking spoilers


tag your fucking spoilers

(Source: thewhatever, via heyy-zaddy)



One time I was playing The Sims. My kid had a soccer game, and while the teams were huddled up, I changed to buy mode and put washing machines around the opposing team, enclosing them within their detergent scented prison. Thanks to my ingenious strategy, my child’s team was able to take the ball from the opposite goalie and score repeatedly. By the time the clock ran out, we were up 46-0, and the opposing team was sobbing in puddles of their own piss. I am the best soccer mom.


(Source: iraffiruse, via karensdisciple)

Every cheerleading movie ever: