'Coalition Government Colouring and Activity Book' - Tom Pride 

this is beautiful

Get your printer on parents, I’ve got some fun activities for the little’ns.

(Reblogged from sugahwaatah)

Anonymously tell me how you feel about me. I can’t reply, I just have to read it and post it.

(Source: tsubakijpg)

(Reblogged from spanielheart)

the two main ways I can imagine my life turning out really clearly are:

I drift about for a little bit and eventually find my footing by being pushed into stuff that carries me along the conventional career path so I get by fairly comfortably. I maintain light and easy friendships with co-workers and close ones with people who I meet up with occasionally, only we don’t delve into our personal lives because in spite of me being okay and accepting of it, they feel a little uncomfortable talking about their significant others and kids constantly because I’m by myself. I’m inoffensive at family gatherings because it’s established I’m past rishta jokes that could actually go anywhere, and everyone likes me because I help out in the kitchen and am pretty fun with the kids. for the most part I’m content, and my life is various shades of peach, ivory, gold, and lilac. I fall ill with one of the million and three hereditary illnesses in my family some time in my later life, after having lost contact with a lot of people. everything is largely pleasant and pretty insignificant.


I move to the U.S or Canada and end up marrying someone mainly out of convenience, and semi-fall in love with them but it’s fairly one-sided. I lose contact with a lot of people fairly quickly until, many years later, one friend, let’s say you, does some travelling, maybe for business, and you know I’m close enough to warrant getting in touch. I invite you to an informal gathering my husband is holding at our impressive looking home that nobody knows I’m stressing over because it’s falling apart, and you notice my husband is a little too close with his secretary who’s really not even in the sector of colleagues he invited, but you don’t say a thing because I am smiling and playing with our beautiful children who look mildly uncomfortable and keep reaching for other people. you leave early and we make plans to go out to dinner the next evening, just us, to catch up. the waiter interrupts our conversation about people we used to know to ask us how our meal is and when he leaves you stay quiet.

you ask me if I’m okay, and I assure you everything’s fine, and that’s when you notice the severe botox just hasn’t let my face fall. you don’t press, and take your flight home the next morning, and don’t think of me until you see me on your fb newsfeed with photos of my latest pinterest DIYs and static poses with neighbours at barbecues and my kids’ school fairs. every night I do something wild like leave one shirt unfolded by the laundry basket, and I tell my husband I love him as we get into bed. he says, “okay, honey” and turns off the lamp, snoring obnoxiously within five minutes. I go stand in the garden holding the packet of cigarettes I bought on a whim, but know I don’t smoke or really drink or have any idea how any of it works, so I continue to just hold them for twenty minutes. both hands, lighter set down on the garden table next to me. I climb back into bed and stare at the ceiling for another two and half hours, trying to remember the last time someone touched me.

(Source: bodyrock)

(Reblogged from silkchemise)

a study in determination: toddler me clutching things with all my might, part I

MY HEART IS GIVING OUT AT ALL OF YOUR SIX SELFIES POSTS. you’re all so beautiful, and I’m so lucky, and you’re all so beautiful, and jeez.

I was tagged by a few people but I’m probably not going to get around to it soon, but I’ve seen the notifications and squealed, and some time in the near future there’ll be a photoset weakly trailing along after this entire thing has died.

I’m going to go scroll through some more of your posts, clutching my heart and looking up breathing exercises now.

Desi solutions


Dandruff? Put oil on your head
Dryness? Put oil on your head
Hairfall? Put oil on your head
Baldness? Put oil on your head
House is on fire? Put oil on your head

(Reblogged from ladybrun)
(Reblogged from altonym)
In the epigraph to Drown, Junot Diaz uses a quote from a Cuban poet, Gustavo Pérez Firmat—“The fact that I am writing to you in English already falsifies what I wanted to tell you.” This is the dilemma of the immigrant writer. If I’d lived in Haiti my whole life, I’d be writing these things in Creole. But these stories I am writing now are coming through me as a person who, though I travel to Haiti often, has lived in the U.S. for more than three decades now.

Often when you’re an immigrant writing in English, people think it’s primarily a commercial choice. But for many of us, it’s a choice that rises out of the circumstances of our lives. These are the tools I have at my disposal, based on my experiences. It’s a constant debate, not just in my community but in other communities as well. Where do you belong? You’re kind of one of us, but you now write in a different language. You’re told you don’t belong to American literature or you’re told you don’t belong to Haitian literature. Maybe there’s a place on the hyphen, as Julia Alvarez so brilliantly wrote in one of her essays. That middle generation, the people whose parents brought them to other countries as small children, or even people who were born to immigrant parents, maybe they can have their own literature too.
(Reblogged from bollywoodbloodbaths)

I honestly feel like my poorly timed and misdirected sense of defiance is gonna be the death of me. like, I will meet my fate yelling at nobody in particular in my increasingly shrill when agitated voice, or stabbing out letters with my index fingers a solid foot above the keyboard, furiously typing out some rambling explanation of why I deserve to do some dipshit-like activity just like everyone else. and everyone will be like, “priyanka, no.” but I’ll be like, “no, no, listen, no.” and I wind up being carted off in an ambulance as everyone has I-told-you-so expressions on their face, but I just keep my head up and look straight ahead, trying to be as stoic as possible and a single tear falls down my cheek or s/t. and then I try to be like, “in the end, it’s kind of adorable that I tried,” and everyone is like, “priyanka, no.” I whisper, “shut up.

none of you know what you’re talking about.

I look super cute too.”

[I look like a mess]


I really try