Top: Kurt Vonnegut frolicking with Pumpkin.
Bottom Left: Mark Twain and shoulder kitty.
“Some people scorn a cat and think it not an essential; but the Clemens tribe are not of these.”
Bottom Right: William Faulkner and his equally distinguished canine friends. (Photo Henri Cartier-Bresson)
More Adorable Pictures of Famous Writers and Their Pets on Flavorpill.
YES.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (via larmoyante)
Holy fucking shit. This is my life in a nutshell.
(Source: larmoyante)
Matthew Gray Gubler’s reasons to stay alive
Needed this today.
(Source: gublerheaven)
Trying to decide between entire bottle of wine or going to the gym. I think I know which way this night is going.
I really want to write “dat ass” under “additional qualifications.” Am I allowed to do that?
Yeah, that title is totally a reference to that emotionally overwrought, overplayed song from Placebo. You might also recognize it from that late 90s trainwreck-of-a-film, Cruel Intentions.
You might also recognize it from my not-yet-made trainwreck of a life. Just kidding. Sort of. You see, I’m listening to the Cruel Intentions soundtrack and a fuckton of Nirvana and Pearl Jam, reminiscing while drunk in my bedroom.*
*Bedroom is located in the basement of my parents’ house. I am closing in on 25 years of age. FUCK. ME.
I suppose there isn’t much to say, except that every time I hear the opening to Bittersweet Symphony, Smells Like Teen Spirit, Glycerine, or any Pearl Jam song- I am automatically transported back to a time when things were simpler. I suspect everybody has a similar response when they hear music from their childhood, regardless of age/time/place. It just feels so fucking intangible now.
The nineties, for me- were a time of trapper keepers and candy, drinking as much Dr. Pepper as I could handle, skipping rocks on the lake at my family’s cabin, long drives with my family, winters punctuated by the sheer joy of snow days, hot and sticky summers that smelled of tar.
There was no cancer at that point. Not in my immediate family, anyways. My grandmother was diagnosed and eventually passed away, and I suppose that was my first real loss. But for the most part, it was quiet. Peaceful. I was bullied at school but dealt with it in the way most smart kids do - withdrawl and deep loyalty to my few friends. It was manageable. In memories, everything kind of glazes over with this weird, sparkling sheen. I am pretty sure it’s called nostalgia.
These little personal fans on treadmills are fucking fantastic!
*burps up garlic chicken pizza*
Fuck these fans.
If Westeros had a picture book to teach preschoolers the house sigils and words, Eric Carle would write and illustrate it. Inspired by Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?
I’m a fucking nerd.
(Source: khaleesa)
best. ever.
