Act my age? What the fuck is that, “act my age”? What do I care how old I am? The Ocean is old as fuck. It will still drown your ass with vigor.
The wheels take impact and stress off your legs, and the position helps your spine, but you’re still doing running motions instead of biking motions, so your legs are getting a good workout, and you can go for longer
nerdy shit aside, iamgine how sick it must be to just let those feet fly into the air and do superman poses down a highway
are you ever just tired and done and drained you just want to lay down on the floor of a public space (library for me) and just ponder the meaning of life because you’re avoiding your responsibilities?
oh just me, okay.
Come Together/Royals - The Beatles & Lorde
#the first note of come to together hit my ears and a tear dropped
I never reblog these unofficial mash-ups, but… DAMN.
- me when i am mildly inconvenienced: thIS IS THE WORST THING THAT'S EVER HAPPENED TO ME
- me when i am legitimately hurt/distressed: no no it's fine i've had worse
A Gay Hike
I LIKE MEN. PENIS. BIGGER THE BETTER.
OHHH MYYY FFFF GOD…. I FEEL LIKE MY FRIEND WOULD DO THAT TO ME…
"I think at this point I can honestly say that I hunger for the touch of a man."
The video camera is plugged into the VCR, allowing it to record itself being poked and prodded.
GIF’d version of Vide-Uhhh! (2005)
I will forever consider this one of the coolest but oddly creepiest things.
theQ Social Camera, you can buy it here.
This one time I painted a living room with a girl.
This was a handful of years back. It was about eight months before the huge, flame-out of a breakup. That day, though? That day we painted the living room? It was pretty uneventful. We painted my parents living room for $50 between us and a pizza. That was it. I think we watched Anchorman or something after that.
But it still holds as on of the most indelible memories I have. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not still in love, it happened, it was good, it ended, and we’ve both moved on. But I’ll never forget that day. Because it’s never, in the long run, about the grand gestures. You can fly across the world and show up on her doorstep with a rose in your teeth and a ring in a little velvet box but I can guarantee you that - more often than not - she’s going to remember the time you built the birdhouse in the back yard, or what have you, a whole lot more.
Life wasn’t meant to be taken in large movements. The next day will inevitably arrive, you’ll sleep, and the moment will have passed. But when you have a hundred thousand small moments, you can step back and appreciate the picture a lot more than metaphorically blowing your load on some grand moment that, in all honesty, look, you’re not Bruce Fucking Springsteen, you’re not going to be able to blow everyone’s mind every single night. You’re not Romeo and/or Juliet. There’s no reason to drink the poison together in some flame-out gesture. So that leaves us with the small stuff. It’s all about the detail.
That’s what love is. Attention to detail.
And the moment will end. And then things will get boring. And it might get a little quiet. And it might all end horribly. And you might hate eachother at the end. And you might walk away from eachother one day and never speak again. But that’s just how it goes.
But she’ll remember the time you held the door open for her on your first date.
She’ll remember the time you laughed at her impression of the landlady.
She’ll remember the time you stayed up all night that first time.
She’ll remember the small things a lot longer than the big ones.
But everything ends. And I’ll tell you why you have to make the small things, the small moments count so much more:
One day, probably a while longer from now, when old age takes ahold of someone, she might just only remember your smile. Everything you ever did together, every second, every moment, every beat, every morning spent in bed, every evening spent together on the sofa, all of that - gone. Everything you ever did will be reduced to the head of a pin. She won’t remember your name. She’ll just remember your smile, and she’ll smile. She won’t know why. It’s a base, gut reaction. But she’ll smile, uncontrollably, and it will come from somewhere so deep as to know that you touched her on a primal, honest, and true level that no scientist, scholar, or savant could ever begin to explain. There is no more. There is nothing else. There is just this: She’ll remember your smile, and she’ll smile.
And you know what? That’s all that really matters in the end.