when somebody asks me what i want to do with my life
Go and get a job. Go and find a flat. Find somebody else. Put them in the flat. Make them stay. Get a toaster. Go to work. Get on the bus. Look at your boss. Say “fuck”. Sit down. Pick up the thing. Go blank. Scream internally. Go home. Listen to the radio. Look at the other person. Think, “WHY? Why did this happen?”. Go to bed. Lie awake! At night! Get up. Feel groggy. Put the things on – your clothes – whatever they’re called. Go out the door, into work – same thing! Same people, again, it’s real, it is happening, to you. Go home again! Sit, radio, dinner – mmm. Gardening, gardening, gardening, death.
|—||Dylan Moran (via enya-died-for-our-sins)|
dont mind me but ive just quite literally gone through the thirteen pages of your blog (in other words, all of it) and i have fallen in love
aw thank you love, you’re the sweetest!
My Leather Bound Books
Cannot reblog this enough
I am the one who knocks
|—||not my parents (via bo-burnhum)|
one of my favorite jokes of all time