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myidealhome:

vintage oven & wooden flooring

myidealhome:

  • vintage oven & wooden flooring

(Source: achristoffers, via hicscream)

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Will you watch your ruddy language? My ears are not a toilet.

(Source: britishcomedyoverflowing, via do-you-have-a-flag)

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Well who are you?
I don’t know. I’m not quite myself today.
Well, you look perfectly idiotic in those clothes.

(Source: abbiesichabod, via everyonelikedbubbahotep)

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knit1hurl2:

The Beat Goes On cowl by Emma Galati
Tags: knit life
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febricant:

septembriseur:

Friends, have you ever asked yourselves: what would happen if I, a humble farmer, grew a pumpkin inside a metal nightmare machine shaped like a man’s head?
Fear not: central Ohio has your answer.

A FARMER squints into the distance, shading his eyes from the harsh Ohio sun. ”Life holds no meaning for me,” the farmer says to the tall, tall grass. 
HIS WIFE approaches, cool evening wind rippling her yellow sundress. “Why Bob, what’s paining you?” She places her delicate, weather-worn hand on his burly, bowing shoulder. “You just ain’t been the same since winnin’ the Most Aggressively Pumpkiny Pumpkin prize at the annual Pumpkin Worship Extravaganza. I feel like you ain’t even here sometimes.”
"Enough, Martha," THE FARMER sighs. "Where can I go from here? Ain’t the only way from the top down? ‘S the law o’gravity. How can we ever hope to reach such heights again?"
MARTHA thinks for a moment, gently running her thumb along the seam of his plaid shirt. “I wish I could help Bob, I swear I do.” She turns her cornflower-blue gaze to the distance, tears glistening, unshed. “I just haven’t your genius. My horrifying visions just can’t be turned into pumpkins, and they’re all I got, besides you.”
THE FARMER’s squint deepens. “Say Martha,” he says, turning to her, taking her small hands in his large, calloused grip. “What about the unholy terror that haunts your dreams, the sightless, staring, malformed orange baby head that floats on a sea of blood?”
"Oh Bob," Martha says, tears beginning to brim over, "will I ever be free? I know people talk-"
"No, Martha," he says, "I’ll grow your terror for you. I’ll grow it all year. I’ll- I’ll make a mold! You can sculpt it, remember how you used to-"
"Oh Bob, what then? I don’t think I-"
"And then we show them, Martha." A strange light seems to glow from within THE FARMER’s deep-set eyes. "We show them ALL."

febricant:

septembriseur:

Friends, have you ever asked yourselves: what would happen if I, a humble farmer, grew a pumpkin inside a metal nightmare machine shaped like a man’s head?

Fear not: central Ohio has your answer.

A FARMER squints into the distance, shading his eyes from the harsh Ohio sun. ”Life holds no meaning for me,” the farmer says to the tall, tall grass. 

HIS WIFE approaches, cool evening wind rippling her yellow sundress. “Why Bob, what’s paining you?” She places her delicate, weather-worn hand on his burly, bowing shoulder. “You just ain’t been the same since winnin’ the Most Aggressively Pumpkiny Pumpkin prize at the annual Pumpkin Worship Extravaganza. I feel like you ain’t even here sometimes.”

"Enough, Martha," THE FARMER sighs. "Where can I go from here? Ain’t the only way from the top down? ‘S the law o’gravity. How can we ever hope to reach such heights again?"

MARTHA thinks for a moment, gently running her thumb along the seam of his plaid shirt. “I wish I could help Bob, I swear I do.” She turns her cornflower-blue gaze to the distance, tears glistening, unshed. “I just haven’t your genius. My horrifying visions just can’t be turned into pumpkins, and they’re all I got, besides you.”

THE FARMER’s squint deepens. “Say Martha,” he says, turning to her, taking her small hands in his large, calloused grip. “What about the unholy terror that haunts your dreams, the sightless, staring, malformed orange baby head that floats on a sea of blood?”

"Oh Bob," Martha says, tears beginning to brim over, "will I ever be free? I know people talk-"

"No, Martha," he says, "I’ll grow your terror for you. I’ll grow it all year. I’ll- I’ll make a mold! You can sculpt it, remember how you used to-"

"Oh Bob, what then? I don’t think I-"

"And then we show them, Martha." A strange light seems to glow from within THE FARMER’s deep-set eyes. "We show them ALL."

(via secularbakedgoods)

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faustinerobert:

Tumblr, you’re gonna enjoy this. Hurray for the Riff Raff's Alynda Lee Segarra ( Puerto Rican heritaged, Bronx raised, New Orleans educated) is not only a magnificent musician but more importantly a class human. 'The Body Electric' is her answer to classic murder ballads like Johnny Cash’s Delia’s Gone.

"I just thought maybe it was time a woman sings a song about murder ballads since it’s so often women that are killed in murder ballads." (x)

"This one goes out to all the ladies out there who are tired of feeling afraid." (x)

“I also feel like, first and foremost, I have this feminist lense that I see the world in. And I feel like folk music is so great because it’s a conversation throughout the generations. So I thought it was fairly important for someone like myself to add my voice into these old songs. And also just give these characters a voice, give Delia a voice. And just give these women characters their humanity back." (x)

(Hurray for the Riff Raff also self-identify as a queer band if you need any more encouragement to get on itunes already and support them).

(via swingsetindecember)

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(Source: apertencer, via lielabell)

Tags: spooky scary
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thisiscitylab:

A brief history of houses built out of spite.
[Image: John Stephen Dwyer]
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my-jurisdiction:

WHY AM I STILL LAUGHING

(via mcavoys)