sueño

howsitgoinganna:

I feel so tense like i literally wont be able to relax until june and thats only if i pass everything and dont f*** it up

All i did today is cry so its gonna be a good semester

smallyetbeautiful:

Why are women expected to dilute and tone down their personalities to be more appealing to men. Men are never told that they might struggle to get married because they are ‘too much’. They are never too opinionated, too confident, too educated, too passionate, too strong willed… it’s always women who must chip away at their selves to become more soft and easy to stomach and pliable.

(via soulkissed)

bestrunescapememesbruh:

(via mitskisgf)

komaedalovemail:

I’m a dumbass and that’s just how it is

(via burningbrighterstill)

dankmemeuniversity:

(via p-imp)

warmsuggestion:

The most important meal that I can remember was had in an unfamiliar restaurant in a small town in the high desert on a morning in early September. My ears were still ringing from the thirty-six hours prior which had been extremely loud and cold and bewildering. I had warmed myself considerably during the walk to this diner, the name of which I can no longer recall. I hesitated slightly before entering. I was unsure if they would have me. It was much darker inside than it was out and I was absolutely shocked by the amount of people sitting, bustling about, bringing greasy trays of food, eating greasy trays of food, and shouting to one another in a vain attempt to drown anything out.

In the bathroom I washed my face and hands and the back of my neck. I was terrified at the prospect of somebody else joining me while I was occupied with my meager bathing. There was no latch on the door. Luckily, I was left unmolested while I scrubbed the grime and soot from me the best I could. The black from beneath my fingernails would not leave for several days.

I took a seat at the long pine bar. I sat near the door. I wanted to be able to leave as quickly as I could if necessary. I had a vague feeling of encroaching calamity. On my left sat an old man at whom I dared not look. He seemed to be familiar with the multitude of waitstaff, all of which appeared to be related or maybe just cut from the same worn, soiled cloth. To my right was the constantly opening and closing door. Bloated families in bright colors and sunglassed eyes entering and exiting. Waiting for their turn to sit and feed and yell and pay.

A woman with a face of uncooked hamburger handed me a menu and if she said anything to me, I didn’t hear it. A younger woman behind her wept and yet another attempted to console her. My bag sat leaning against the bar to my right. My leg resting on it to ensure that it was still there. That I was still next to it. I ordered the cheapest meal I found. Eggs and potatoes and a dish called “scones” that was actually a mound of fried triangular pieces of dough served in a cracked gravy boat with a side of sugarsweet butter.

I ate as quickly as I could. The food was without seasoning and clearly prepared in great haste. The water I drank with my meal was warm and tasted faintly of soap. On the walls of the large dining room in which I sat were strangely stretched and enlarged black and white photographs of old steam engines and local topography. I left one of the two ten dollar bills I owned on the bar, wet with ketchup and grease and spilled water, and picked up my heavy bag and exited into the white sunlight.

The parking lot seemed to be over capacity. People had begun to park in the dirt and on the grass. I slipped from the tangle of vehicles and people and made my way to the library where I removed my shoes and slept as best I could until it was time to do something else.