Hello! My name is Diana and I live in Baton Rouge! I am a music education major at LSU. I play the tuba and I love every moment of it! Brother of KKpsi and apart of the OP fandom!

trishabishabeau:

forgetpolitics:

the-goddamazon:

robregal:

glasmond:



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 Reblogging again because there are some new ones and put them together in one post.

This post is golden. A1 shit right here.

Accurate as fuck holy shit.

I CAN’T GO ON ANYMORE

Oh I farted

The vibrator one ha

(via tagmeinbro)

Notes
334134
Posted
3 hours ago

cubebreaker:

Former Marine turned photographer Joel Parés’ series Judging America used real people dressed as stereotypes to remind us to not judge a person based on their tattoos, clothing, ethnicity, profession, or sexual orientation, but on their merits.

(via unkn0wndestinati0n)

Notes
44020
Posted
3 hours ago

unlimitedgoats:

luxvriously:

My anaconda will consider it

My anaconda has, upon review of the information presented with it’s partners, decided that it, in fact, does not. My anaconda apologizes for any inconvenience this may cause and thanks you for your time.

(via unkn0wndestinati0n)

Notes
192178
Posted
3 hours ago

czaritsa:

sebasstianvael:

“people who are sick don’t play video games all day”

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“If you really felt bad you wouldn’t be on the computer.”

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(Source: spookyoberyn, via andrewquo)

Notes
206542
Posted
4 hours ago

Winona Ryder (via everyday-islike-sunday)

(via unkn0wndestinati0n)

I think too much. I think ahead. I think behind. I think sideways. I think it all. If it exists, I’ve fucking thought of it.
Notes
603385
Posted
4 hours ago

Talia Ralph, How Do You Know (via venti-green-tea)

(via the-ballad-without-a-muse)

You want to travel with them. You want to see what they’re like going through airport security, on planes, in strange countries. You want to meet their families and charm them to pieces. You want to nestle into their childhood beds and look around in the dark at all their old posters. You want to see all the embarrassing photos of them with braces and socks pulled up mid-calf. You want to hear all the stories about their drunken nights under the bleachers and their best friend’s jokes. You want to read all their journals, see how they took notes in high school. Did they use pen or pencil? What color highlighter? You want to work with them, just to see them work. You want to go out with them. You want to make out with them in the bathroom. You always want to touch them; you want them to always want to touch you.

You find reasons to disentangle yourself from them; it’s only going to hurt later, you can tell already. You stay up way past your bedtime for them. You look at the clock and know their schedule. You neglect other people and other things, and beat yourself up about it. But it’s like they have a hold of your hands and your voice, and you don’t mind. It’s like you’re trapped in an hourglass; you know your lungs might fill with sand, but there’s something sensual and comforting about the grains sliding down glass walls and pooling around your ankles, your knees, your waist.

You like things about their appearance that the rest of the world may cringe at and call strange, less than perfect. Their broken, reshaped noses; their little teeth or the gaps in between them; the way they pull their hair; their narrow hips; their wide shoulders; the depth of their pores. You can laugh when funny things happen in bed. You usually want to be in bed with them.

You think they’re smarter, better, friendlier, fitter, happier, more productive than you are. You strive to be as much as they are, as good as they are. You try to cheat and figure out what it is they’re going to teach you, if they’re going to fall from grace, if you’re going to play a part for them that you never thought you’d play before. You try and pull patterns and threads of meaning from the conversation or the way they looked at you the first time you met; what they did, what they offered. An apple stolen from the bar. Notes from a guitar. Pitchers of free beer. Pieces of bark with writing on them.

You cherish snippets of them; paste them up in your memories like old faded scrapbooks clutched to chests for generations. Their skin glows black and white in your head. They star in the little short films of your life that sneak up on you when you’re not looking. Like the walk to the South End for dinner on a quiet corner. The feel of the sun beating down on you both at an outdoor concert. The way they ordered wine on your first date. The slow swing of a hammock near a lake. The back seat of their car.

You can see yourself with them in the future you can’t quite see. You build apartments outfitted with all the right kitchen supplies and the perfect bed with two nightstands, each piled with books and magazines. You wait for them patiently while they chase their dreams; they wait for you patiently as you chase yours. You sit in bed eating dinner late at night, drinking tea and wine and whiskey as you tell each other all about the chasing. You create adopted dogs and cats; you have awkward conversations about money; you put up with each other’s crap. You see what they look like standing at the end of a candle-lit aisle in your grassy front yard and wonder if you’ll make it to the other end to meet them or if they’ll just end up in the scrapbook clutched to your chest or flickering on the screen in your brain.

Notes
286
Posted
5 hours ago
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