Italian. 23. Love a lot of stuff.

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    it may take time but there is someone waiting to hold your hand

    (Fonte: sigi0, via itsraininbritishmen)

  • Why do we constantly do this to our children? /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

    (via itsraininbritishmen)

  • "

    A FAT LITTLE GIRL
    is eight years old, she’s got pink cheeks that her grandmother calls chubby. She wants a second cookie but her aunt says “you’ll get huge if you keep eating.” She wants a dress and the woman in the changing room says “she’ll probably need a large in that.” She wants to have dessert and her waiter says “After all that dinner you just had? You must be really hungry!” and her parents laugh.

    A FAT LITTLE GIRL
    is eleven and she is picked second-to-last in gym class. She watches a cartoon and sees that everyone who is annoying is drawn with a big wide body, all sweaty and panting. At night she dreams she is swelling like the ocean over seabeds. When she wakes up, she skips school.

    A FAT LITTLE GIRL
    is thirteen and her friends are stick-thin ballerinas with valleys between their hipbones. She is instead developing the wide curves of her mother. She says she is thick but her friends argue that she’s “muscular” and for some reason this hurts worse than just admitting that she jiggles when she walks and she’ll never be a dancer. Eating seconds of anything feels like she’s breaking some unspoken rule. The word “indulgent” starts to go along with “food.”

    A FAT LITTLE GIRL
    is fourteen and she has stopped drinking soda and juice because they bloat you. She always takes the stairs. She fidgets when she has to sit still. Whenever she goes out for ice cream, she leaves half at the bottom - but someone else always leaves more and she feels like she’s falling. She pretends to like salad more than she does. She feels eyes burrowing through her body while she eats lunch. Kate Moss tells her nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, but she just feels like she is wilting.

    A FAT LITTLE GIRL
    is fifteen the first time her father says “you’re getting gaunt.” She rolls her eyes. She eats one meal a day but thinks she stays the same size. Every time she picks up a brownie she thinks of the people she sees on t.v. and every time she has cake, she thinks of the one million magazine articles on restricting calories. She used to have no idea a flat stomach was supposed to be beautiful until she saw advice on how to achieve it. She cuts back on everything. She controls. They tell her she’s getting too thin but she doesn’t believe it.

    A FAT LITTLE GIRL
    is sixteen and tearing herself into shreds in order for a thigh gap big enough to hush the screams in her head. She doesn’t “indulge,” ever. She can’t go out with friends, they expect her to eat. She damns her sweet tooth directly to hell. It’s coffee for breakfast and tea for lunch and if there’s dance that evening, two cups of water and then maybe an apple. She lies all the time until she thinks the words will rot her teeth. She dreams about food when she sleeps. Her aunt begs her to eat anything, even just a small cookie. They say, “One bite won’t make you fat, will it, darling?”

    A FAT LITTLE GIRL
    is seventeen and too sick to go to prom because she can’t stand up for very long. She thinks she wouldn’t look good in a dress anyway. Her nails are blue and not because they are painted. Her hair is too thin to do anything with. She’s tired all the time and always distracted. She once absently mentions the caloric value of grapes to the boy she is with and he looks at her like she’s gone insane and in that moment she realizes most people don’t have numbers constantly scrolling in their heads. She swallows hard and tries to figure out where it all went wrong, why more than a granola bar for a meal makes her feel sick, why she tastes disease and courts with death. She misses sleep. She misses being able to dream. She misses being herself instead of just being empty.

    A FAT LITTLE GIRL
    is twenty and writes poetry and is a healthy weight and still fights down the voices every single day. She puts food in her mouth and sometimes cries about it but more and more often feels good, feels balanced. Her cheeks are pink and they are chubby and soft and no longer growing slight fur. Her hair is long and it is beautiful. She still picks herself apart in the mirror, but she’s starting to get better about it. She wears the dress she likes even if it only fits her in a large and she doesn’t feel like a failure for it. She is falling in love with the fat on her hips.

    She is eating out with friends and not worrying about finding the lowest calorie item on the menu when she hears a mother tell her four year old daughter “You can’t have ice cream, we just had dinner.
    You don’t want to end up as a fat little girl.”

    "
  • actual-secret-blog:

    Some of my friends still don’t like Top Gear

    (via mars-or-die)

  • watermel0n-smile:

    he just accepts it, not even surprised by it. must happen all the time

    (via givemelovebaby)

  • sotouchy:

    Kid gets a banana as a prank gift from his parents on his birthday. Look at his excitement. This kid is my hero. 

    AWWWWWW

    (Fonte: funnynhilariousgif, via wwf-liam)

  • nonsorridermipiutiprego:

    elena-dream:

    Quando vai al pronto soccorso una delle prime cose che ti chiedono di fare è dare un voto al tuo dolore su una scala da uno a dieci. In base alla risposta decidono quali farmaci usare e con che velocità somministrarteli. Quella domanda mi era stata fatta centinaia di volte, e mi ricordo che una sera che non riuscivo a respirare e mi sembrava di avere il petto in fiamme, col fuoco che lambiva l’interno del costato lottando alla ricerca di un modo per esplodere fuori dal mio corpo, i miei genitori mi hanno portato al pronto soccorso dove un’infermiera mi ha chiesto questa cosa del dolore. Io non riuscivo nemmeno a parlare, così ho fatto vedere nove dita.
    Più tardi, dopo che mi avevano dato qualcosa, l’infermiera è tornata, e accarezzandomi la mano mentre mi misurava la pressione ha detto -Sai come faccio a sapere che sei una vera combattente? Hai dato nove a un dieci.-
    Ma non era vero. Gli avevo dato nove perchè stavo tenendo da parte il dieci. Ed eccolo qui, il grande, terribile dieci, che mi colpiva con violenza ancora e ancora, mentre stavo distesa nel mio letto, immobile e sola, a fissare il soffitto, con le onde che mi scaraventavano contro le rocce e poi mi trascinavano di nuovo in mezzo al mare così da potermi rigettare contro la parete irta della scogliera, lasciandomi a galleggiare nell’acqua a faccia in su, senza per questo affogare.

    che pianti

    (via armiamoci)

  • furbearingbrick:

    aimeefrommars:

    septemberism94:

    schim:

    Cats who can’t figure out walls [x]

    PLEASE TAKE YOUR CAT TO THE VET IF YOU SEE THEM DOING THIS BEHAVIOR OVER TIME.

    It’s called “head pressing” and it occurs in dogs and cats. 

    Head pressing is characterized by the compulsive act of pressing the head against a wall or other object for no apparent reason. This generally indicates damage to the nervous system, which may result from a number of varying causes, including prosencephalon disease (in which the forebrain and thalamusparts of the brain are damaged), or toxic poisoning.

    http://www.petmd.com/cat/conditions/neurological/c_ct_headpressing

    http://www.vet.cornell.edu/FHC/health_resources/toxoplasmosis.cfm (head pressing is listed as a symptom)

    http://sevneurology.com/patients/clip-multilobular-osteochondroma (About a dog’s brain tumor but head pressing is listed as a symptom)

    I wasn’t going to reblog this until I read the important caption dang thank you!!!

    YOU JUST SAVED THE LIFE OF MY CAT THANK YOU!

    SPREAD THIS LIKE WILDFIRE. THIS COULD SAVE YOUR KITTIE’S LIFE!

    (Fonte: fuckyeahfelines, via peter-acorn)

  • capalxii:

    socrappyicoulddie:

    gallifreyan-detective:

    Requested by Anon.

    The delivery of that line was so vague, to me. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

    He was serious, I think. He’d been a bit horrified by how “he” (that is, Clara) had come off—like when he’d asked, “Is that what I sound like?” And just before this scene, he’d chastised Grumpy Dude for brushing off the deaths of the others and pointing out that they were worthwhile and should be mourned, which is something new for him. Just as Clara took on his role, he ended up taking on her role by the end; he cared because she was too busy saving the world to notice when Rigsy was proud of his artwork in the tunnel. 

    (via stuffertystuffstuff)

  • inlovewithcartoons:

    Thanks for the adventure. Now go have one of your own. -Ellie to Carl 

    (via maddyindisneyland)

  • haus-of-ill-repute:

    Cats come in both liquid and solid form.

    (via ungratefullittleshit)