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Quote reblogged from rupert grint's girlfriendYeah, it was pretty hard on all of us seeing James like that but we all felt really bad for Oliver. I mean, we were acting sad about it because he was our fake brother or son or friend but Oliver had it for real, you know, that was his real brother, his real best friend lying there. So we all gave him a hug after and for the first time James and Oliver said ‘I love you’ to each other in front of us. Not that they would ever admit it but it was still a very sweet moment.Daniel Radcliffe on filming Fred’s death (via ireckonabitofmayhem)
(Source: saintlike--holey)
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EVERYTHING YOU KNOW IS A LIE
I REALLY AM JUST THE CARTOON IN THE CORNER
MY "REAL" FACE IS ACTUALLY A DREAM
THE TOP IS SPINNING
INCEPTION
BBROOMMMHHMHHHH
fjkaljshks untrue but thank you even though I photoshopped the hell out of it <3Asked by turtlesinadishwasher
Haha, aw. I RATHER LIKED YOUR FACE.
But no, you’re freaking beautiful. -
I would say, why do you want to be with someone who is hinting that they want to be with you? I want to be with someone who is screaming it from the rooftops.Tyler Oakley
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Rewind the tape of my life until I lose 2 feet and gain 20 pounds. Pause when I’m sitting in the blank gray and dirty interior of my father’s camery. Hit play.
What you’ll see, is a little version of me. Hair wild, cubby and tiny waiting, on a trip to subway, to get to the point of her father’s ramblings. Waiting for the justification of last nights banging, the screaming, the waking up in the middle of the night to find her father’s face red and her mother’s face utterly blank. Little me is waiting, utterly willing to accept the excuse her father is a bout to pull out of no where, to make him look like the victim. Pause. Study the acne scars on my fathers face. See the hint of imagination as he makes up his next step.
“You know I love your mother very much…”
Fast forward though the years of divorce. Though my years in middle school, to my father moving t, to the fights between my mother and father becoming less frequent and more passive aggressive. Fast forward until you watch two, three, four boyfriends of my mothers and pause when you reach the end. Pause when you get to now. Pause on another fight, another house, another man and another me, sitting up at night and comforting my mother.
You can skip the part where I get her into bed, and where her current boo, Sean, storms out and walks a good ten miles home. You don’t have to watch him beg to come back, or agree to take me for food. It doesn’t matter.
But be sure to hit play in the parking lot of taco bell. He agreed to drive me .Me sitting passenger side, scowling. Play when you see him start to say
“You know I love your mother very much…” -
Birthdays.
When I was little they meant streamers and balloons, waking up early just to be impatient, late night trampoline runs accompanied by classmates and moonlight.
My 8th birthday was espically great. My mom hand made kimonos for all of the kids coming, we had fondu, and some how my best friends decided it would be the night we slept, cold, in the back yard. Looking back, all the time I spent worring about what I was wearing, who was invited, and who didn’t come, didn’t matter. That day was for me. It was about me. It was a day to celebrate my being alive.
I’m still a firm beliver in birthdays. Everyone derves a day just for them. A celbration, a balloon, a streemer, and the suagry coverd goodness of some relived innocence. Your being alive is wonderful. So is mine.
I turn 16 today.
