therewasthepoverty

[therewasthepoverty]

A playground next to an 18th century cemetery. (Source)

[therewasthepoverty]

fuccken do it dont fight it become one with the da trash

this blog is going to become pure dragon age trash. i can feel it.

[therewasthepoverty]

I love this post because it's the saddest example of someone who doesn't bother reading everything, they just get super mad. "I WILL FUCKING SHOW YOU!!"

It's says per 100 calories. The math is still wrong but 100 calories of beef is like 40grams, with 10g protein. 100 calories of broccoli is somewhere around 300g and 8.6g protein. If you're gonna get pissy and try to disprove something don't make yourself out to be an idiot.

That said, beef is delicious.

[therewasthepoverty]

this is the money face. it only appears once every 5000 years. Repost or you will never have money ever again

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Can’t get enough.

[therewasthepoverty]

Quick announcement and the end of things

So Emily and I split up today after too long of trying to save this sinking ship. Before anyone gets super sad please know that this was a mutual decision and that we are actually still really good friends! We make better friends and family than lovers, and we love each other like family, but nothing more. Our lives are going in different directions and while we are still going to be there for each other as a support network, trying to force a romantic relationship where there is none simply isn't fair to either of us. We are deleting this tumblr soon, neither of us have the time to update anymore between my training for the military and her preparing to go back to college. Drop us a note if you want to stay in touch, and save anything you want to save while you can!

[therewasthepoverty]

Alexander Hamilton watches "19 Kids and Counting", and takes it as a personal challenge.

[therewasthepoverty]

An epic love story begins.

[therewasthepoverty]

I'm making govjadina po-Strogonovski and black bread for dinner because when I'm stressed, I cook The restaurant I work at was robbed at gunpoint yesterday. I don't know if I'm going back.

[therewasthepoverty]

[therewasthepoverty]

He is the first creeping shadows of night, the final fleeting darkness at dawn. He is the heaviest, fullest strawberries of the harvest. He is the battered penny you find on the ground, the discarded bones at the crossroads. He is the blood you tear from your lips when you’re too afraid to speak. He is the stranger you take home even though your mother told you that you’re not “that kind of girl”. He is the open road, the deafening command to leave it all behind and go, just go, just GO. He is a kiss that tastes of cheap whiskey and cinnamon and cigarette smoke. He is tired feet that keep running when there’s nothing left. He is the whistled tune in the wind. He is the angry shrieks of children playing at war, the cries of ecstatic and desperate lovers. He is the lie you tell simply because you can. He is the childhood fears that are never outgrown, the hand that lingers a moment too long on the light switch. He is dark basement stairs and opened closet doors. He is ink and paper, dusty books at the bottom of a yard sale box. He is the coin toss that decides left or right. He is the cracked, forgotten gravestone. He is dark honey, whispered promises, and every painful thing that ever made you feel alive.

[therewasthepoverty]

woops my hand slipped propylaios.tumblr.com

[therewasthepoverty]

thinking about making a tumblr shrine (of my own) to Hermes

[therewasthepoverty]

The complete Hermes/Hermès series.

[therewasthepoverty]

Skull Hive by Luke Dwyer

[therewasthepoverty]

we can sell our souls at the crossroads tonight pushing poems and prayers and poppies into the hands of our savior laughing until our mouth are filled with pennies we can walk home in the dark fearing nothing and everything

[therewasthepoverty]

In the Deep South, God is a cotton king, Trussed up in plantation whites and powdered over smooth with a little bit of talcum from Momma’s compact. He’s the Georgia dust that gets on everything, in everything, Caking the soles of bare feet sifting through cracks in church pews, and catching in your lover’s eyelashes. In the Deep South, the Devil is a beautiful boy who swears and cheats at billiards on Sunday. He is the one who reaches up your skirt, pulls out the prayers your were saving for someday and lights them on fire with his tongue. He will sing hymns while feasting on your forfeit heart, call you blessed while peeling away dignity like stockings, then drag you out in front of the church to be stoned. In the Deep South, the Holy Spirit is an old woman with hands brown and gnarled as the nuts she boils and a voice soft and dark as the Appalachian sky. She is the swamp kingdom matriarch children are sent to when sins need to be wished away like warts, the presence of whom straightens the spines of wayward souls and coaxes a “Yes Ma’am” from the devil’s own. In the Deep South, Jesus is a mixed-race child with drops of destiny mingled into his blood and the names of the saints tattooed along his spine. He has his mother’s bearing, one that wears suffering nobly, and baleful eyes that speak of the sins of his forefathers. The word of God flutters from his mouth like butterflies with bodies baptized in tears and wings dipped in steel. In the Deep South, angels drink too much. They sashay and guffaw and forget to return calls. They tell white lies and agonize over what to wear. In the Deep South, angels look very much like you and it, and they cling to each other with dustbowl desperation and replenish their failing reserves of grace with ritual in the hopes of remembering what they once were, what wonders they once were capable of performing.

Hossana Americana by S.T. Gibson (via sarahtaylorgibson)