janto-owns-my-soul
replied to your photo “Nobody loves Texas like Texas loves Texas.”
That’s true. Nothing surprises me any more in that department. I love my state, but sweet Jesus, does everything you own have to be Texas themed?
I think the answer is:
[I am not a native Texan, ergo I do not need Texas themed everything]
You’re born with a ton of fucks to give, so you spend them like a kid with a credit card. You give fucks about your friends, about your grades, about your fashion sense, about strangers’ opinions. You give way too many fucks about way too many things. You have so many. Then, as you get older, you have maybe 10 fucks per month, so you learn to budget them. You allocate fucks to family and career, but there aren’t enough fucks to give to the newest fads. Oh, someone at work has something they need my help with that’s outside my job title? I’ll do my best to allocate some fucks, but this month is pretty tight. Then, as you get even older, you’re down to 1-2 fucks per month, and those fucks are pretty damn precious. You give them to your family and your hobbies and your job, and that’s kinda it. It’s not your fault – fucks expire too quickly. I would’ve liked to save my fucks from when I was younger but I can’t. Then, you hit fuck insolvency. You’re getting like 1 fuck a year, and you have to make it last. So you go without, and even previously fuck-worthy things, you just can’t give a fuck. Some people run out really quickly, Some people have a fuck trust fund that pays out a decent amount even into old age. But at some point, the fuck faucet runs completely dry and you’re out of fucks to give. It’s just basic Fuckonomics.
-Unknown English Teacher (via swarthyvillain)
I’ve never read anything more fucking true in my whole fucking life.
Fuck.
(via unicornempire)
Moon River
Jack and Cas have hard eternities to endure separately. But when it gets especially lonely for either, sometimes they invite the other to dance.
Sometimes it’s a ballroom in some decade where ballrooms exist. More often, it’s an empty warehouse; a deserted parking lot, to a car radio.
Grief and loss, loneliness and bitterness are elusive things to pin with words. But they can waltz, spinning slow as music box figurines. Some undiscovered force of physics must be at work, drawing them close at the center, pulling in comfort and love and quiet understanding. For a moment, at least, pain stands at the fringes – a dancer with an empty card.
me: oh boy i finally have an idea i want to write about i’m going to do that RIGHT now
me: *loses the ability to write halfway through as well as any confidence or skill i thought i had as i begin keyboard smashing in the hopes that the masterpiece in my head makes it through the jumble of unintelligible words and slowly disappearing will to keep going*
me: well that was… fun
