Welcome to Asgard, bitches.

Hi there, my name is Zara but you could probably tell (check the url, dum-dum). I love living in something other than my own life like Harry Potter, Supernatural, The Marvel Universe, TFIOS and the like. I am quite nice... Sometimes... Maybe... Okay, maybe not but still. I have strong opinions about nearly everything. Let's totally be friends.

caelas:

saying feminism is unnecessary because you don’t feel oppressed is like saying fire extinguishers are unnecessary because your house isn’t on fire

(via dmitrikrushnic)

asheathes:

I can’t stop singing praises to Emma Watson even if I tried like in one single speech she not only advocated for women to be treated equally as men but also touched on the fact that men are also victims of gender inequality while also addressing the fact that she is already incredibly privileged

All of the haters can just sit the fuck down because she just killed the game of life

(via dracarys-rhaegal)

hugthethug:

i want a book where the narrator speaks in beautiful language but then the characters talk like super informally like “as ignatius attempted to reclaim his breath, he let out a straggled noise allowing his struggle to be heard, thus inciting maria to speak. ‘yo wheezy, shut the fuck up,’ her silky voice broke the tension.”

(via dracarys-rhaegal)

humansofnewyork:

"Do you remember the happiest moment of your life?""The first time I kissed her."
(Ho Chi Minh City / Saigon, Vietnam)

humansofnewyork:

"Do you remember the happiest moment of your life?"
"The first time I kissed her."

(Ho Chi Minh City / Saigon, Vietnam)

pinmeupagainstthesky:

These, for me, are the two most depressing paintings in western history. They were painted by post-impressionist Henry de Toulouse-Lautrec, a man who, due to inbreeding, was born with a genetic disorder that prevented his legs from growing after they were broken. After being so thoroughly mocked for is appearance, he became an alcoholic, which is what eventually caused his institutionalization and death. His only known romantic relations were with prostitutes.

And then he paints something like this which is so beautiful and tender and sentimental. It seems like the couple in bed really loves each other—cares about each other. Wakes up happy to look at each other. And I see that love and passion and I wonder how lonely he must have been. I wonder how he could paint something like this without it breaking his heart. 

Maybe they say artists should create what they know, not because its unbelievable when they extend themselves beyond their experiences, but because when they pull it off with such elegance, it’s so damn unbearable to look at. I hate thinking of Lautrec, wondering about the lovers he created and knowing it was beyond his experience. Creating something that he knows is beautiful and knows he’ll never really understand. 

(via laurazel)