gershons:

I always wondered what makes a person a good kisser. Like IDK, do they use tongue? do they bite? Do they caress the other’s back and neck? Do their tongues twirl and their lips splatter saliva as they kiss?

You know when girls go all cocky like “I BROKE UP WITH HIM BECAUSE HE’S A TERRIBLE KISSER” I’m like “what” because I think kisses are like tea, you may like jasmine or black tea, same thing if you’re talking about someone who wants to give more than receive or likes to use tongue or keep their hands quiet.

Like for example, seeing Danrad kiss is the worst thing that could possibly happen to you, his kisses seem weird but ladies enjoy it, so I guess he’s a good kisser or at least he knows his moves.

You know…

Though like, and I haven’t had THAT many bad kisses (because you’re right, everyone is ~different~ and that’s nice too), when dudebro literally CRAMS his tongue into my mouth and then tries to get it to travel down my digestive system, the whole time smushing his face as hard against mine as he possibly can, making me feel suffocated / drowned / other awful things……… that’s kind of a bad kiss.

Amirite?

Or errrrr do people super love that?

Whelp now I’m just confused.

reaill:

veritykindle:

legodildo:

janeturenne:

humancastiel:

tonysboypussy:

blueisacolour:

WHO SAID IT WAS OK TO POST SOMETHING THIS HORRIBLE!??!??

hahah wow brb straddling a fencepost

My first reaction was ‘Nice thought but there’s no way, Coulson is much younger than…’ and then I stopped mid-thought.

Because you know what.

You know what.

After Steve, the US government had to keep trying to recreate the Super-Soldier Serum.

And who

and who

would be the FIRST DAMN PERSON IN LINE to volunteer?

They told us it never worked again.  And that was kind of true.  They never again recreated the super-strength or the gleaming pecs.  But other things, they got right.  They got the vastly delayed aging.  And the kind of reflexes that make a man able to take out two armed thugs with a bag of flour.  And the talent for leading through example.  And they got the most important part, Erskine’s favorite part: the magnification of moral fiber, taking the loyalty and selflessness of a loyal and selfless man and making him into something spectacular.

Coulson didn’t buy those vintage cards on Ebay.

He’s had them since he was a little boy.

That little boy right there.

Oh god… oh god no dear god

so many feels oh gosh

phil baby why

cries f roevrb

(via footygirl88)

whenthesuspenderscomeoff:

it’s weird how being a pussy is weak and having balls means you’re tough i mean punch me in the uterus and i will be fine i’m used to that shit once a month come at me but if i kick you in the balls you are down my man you are down hard

(via peetaismyhero)

I just want beautiful stretched ears so I can wear omerica organic wood plugs in them fuck fuck fuck

nom-chompsky:

ugly-feelings:

sometimes i just want to get a fake orange spray tan and bleach my hair blonde and wear hollister and a&f and american eagle and uggs exclusively and wear frosted lipglosses and make ducklips faces and care about jersey shore and gossip girl. because apparently “nice” dudes hate when girls that because it’s “fake”, it’s “slutty”, it’s overdone/tasteless/”dumb” but fuck you. everything is fake. all persona is persona including what you’ve been conditioned to perceive as a “neutral”/”inoffensive” appearance.

because i don’t want your “respect”, and i certainly don’t need your advice on how to “respect” a body. i don’t need your fake concern about skin cancer and burns on my scalp when my body doesn’t even feel like mine sometimes. when breast cancer becomes selling sex to teenage boys who wouldn’t tell you about the lump in your breast they felt while they were feeling you up. your concern for my body will always be mediocre until it is mine to create/destroy/create, and even then it wouldn’t even matter because you do not inhabit this flesh, or these organs, or this mucus/snot/bile/blood/spit/fluid/fluid/fluid. so stop trying to crawl into my bed of skin, asshole. stop trying to own my ugliness. you can’t have it. too bad, so sad.

i don’t want you to wait before i leave the room to talk about how gross i am. i want my skin to be greasy and leave big orange stains on every man who touches me and who i choose to touch. i want my hair to make you puke. i want my clothes to remind you of how capitalism lives in tube tops and booty shorts just as well as it does in jeans and a t-shirt or whatever the fuck makes you feel like the girl you wanna fuck is real “authentic”, real “down-to-earth” or whatever. i want to remind you that every picture is posed. no expression can be pure when you can see the camera and the camera can see you. i want you to know that i spent three goddamn hours straightening my hair and putting on my eyeliner over and over again and removing it over and over again so there’s light grey rings under my eyes and when i reapplied my lipgloss for the 20th time tonight in the backseat of my best friend’s car it hit a pothole so it’s smudging against my lipliner and i’m still not “sexy” to your pretentious jonh lennon art school ass. my labor is MINE, and it’s ugly because god loves ugly. i wasn’t put on this earth to give you a hard on. i want to scream and drink and grind to shitty club music because i want to scare the living shit out of you. i want you to go home and post a facebook update about how “our generation is doomed” and get twenty likes from all your pretentious john lennon art school friends and all your fedora-wearing self-entitled pasty sarcastic bros and all your edgewatch xvx police officers and all your “nice guy” indie rock microbrew date rapists who all secretly wish they could make a man want to remove himself from this earth just by getting a spraytan.

i don’t want you to want to fuck me, BRO. i want you to have to look at me. i want to be the bright orange flesh you don’t want to fuck but you also can’t ignore. i want you to be very, very scared of what is going to come out of my mouth. i want you to cringe at the sound of my voice because it is both too feminine and too loud. your disgust makes me even louder, even more powerful. and it’s so funny to me, so funny to me, because you know and i know we are both just pretending we aren’t aware that deep down you so badly wish you could be a monster, too.

bolded my fave parts

(via historicalslut)

peaceloveandecstasy:

joceln:

canada looks really broken

u ok canada

TRY COLOURING IN THAT SHIT WHEN YOU’RE 7 AND HAVE NO FINE MOTOR SKILLS.
FUCKING NUNAVUT.
ASK ANY CANADIAN, I SWEAR TO THE GOD OF MAPLE SYRUP.

In grade 8 they made us freehand a drawing of Canada to see how much we’d learned in Geography through middle school. I mean, I was fine through BC and the bottom and then it gets kind of rocky around the Maritimes and then you hit Nunavut and the entire class collectively threw their pencils down and were like FUCK THIS SHIT.

(via megardronandthebear)

Someone calculated the points of every Whose Line cast member:

sixstringsdown:

icantfeelmyarms:

edfreemaybe:

Wayne Brady: 50,072,587,425
Ryan Stiles: 11,113,372,791.5
Colin Mochrie: 3,012,399,040.5
Chip Esten: 2,004,047,000
Greg Proops: 1,001,122,117
Brad Sherwood: 1,071,980.5
Denny Segal: 1,059,560
Karen Maruyama: 1,004,450
Kathy Greenwood: 59,810
Stephen Colbert: 12,000
Kathy Griffin: 5,000
Ian Gomez: 4,000
Jeff Davis: 3,300
Josie Lawrence: 3000
Whoopi Goldberg: 2,500
Patrick Bristow: 1,000
Robin Williams: 1,000
Kathy Kinney: 50

The points mattered to someone

I HAVE ALWAYS WONDERED WHO WON THE POINTS RACE

THANK YOU 

SO MUCH