May 2012
precipitates:
shall i compare thee to a summer’s day
thou art sweaty and warm and disgusting please go away
satan: let there be wifi passwords
satan: let there be calories
satan: let there be post limit
satan: let there be swag
satan: let there be crocs
satan: let there be twilight
I'm not real,I dont exist
and neither do you.
Cook me in your breakfast
put me on your plate
‘cause you know I taste great.
Don’t let yourself die without knowing the wonder of fucking with love.
– Gabriel García Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores, translation by Edith Grossman (via frenchtwist)
cuddle make out cuddling cuddle i want to cuddle pizza sex omg make out cuddle...
– my dashboard when it’s past my bedtime (via pizzabrat)