violet-words:

I’m somewhat convinced no one on tumblr is from California but me

(Source: amybuttface)

hippiebones:

Are you kidding me
Who the fuck threw that red shell
I will fuck you up

the truest words I’ve ever read.

(via talknerdyytome)

“Tell me about your mother.”

My relationship with my mother is an interesting one in the fact that it doesn’t really exist. And for everything one would assume couldn’t be said about the estrangement, there’s actually more than I like to admit. People are always saying I look exactly like her, and I never know what to do with that because they say it as if our comparable appearance is enough to constitute a relationship, or worse as if I should somehow feel privileged. I guess it’s supposed to be a compliment, I mean what girl wouldn’t want to be told she resembles her beautiful mother? I however, find that looking at my mother is a bit like looking at a reflection that moves when you do not. Rather than moving in unison, there is an empty abyss leaving us completely disconnected. I realize that at some point I dwelled within her, everywhere she went, breathing her air, and existing within her existence. But on that fateful day we were to separate, she let go of me completely. A division that left a cavern somewhere in the center of my chest.

I prefer not to use all the ugly words that describe it for what it really was, (selfish abandonment, irresponsible, etc) and go with “Oh, her? She’s not really around anymore,” because that’s how I began to explain it to myself over the years. Whenever I was asked her whereabouts, I would give a casual shrug and nonchalantly say, “Oh, yeah she’s not really around anymore.” Because that was the truth and if I could manage to croak it out without feeling my eyes well up or my chest constrict, then I could make believe that I was winning at this cruel game in which my mother held all the pieces and I was simply moving aimlessly across the board.