Completely Relevant.

Sierra. 22. Queer. Poly. Never stop moving.



I like nature. I like comics. I like cooking, camping, and bad puns.



Feminist, anarchist, atheist, all-things-queer positive. If your grandpa likes it, I probably disagree.

leguy94:

Let me hold your hand while I eat you out.

(via sailorsandshipwrecks)

On the phone breaking up with your partner and then your ex starts texting you

phoebewahl:

Last night I made these drawings in my sketchbook for a zine I’m making called WARPED. ©Phoebe Wahl 2014

(Source: phoebewahl.com, via supercata)

free-parking:

Paintings by Hilma af Klint (1862-1944)

Five years before Wassily Kandinsky (he of the book Concerning the Spiritual In Art, 1910), before Piet Mondrian and Kazimir Malevich, before the images of Carl Jung and Rudolf Steiner—who dismissed her ideas as wrong—was this revolutionary artist and abstractionist, Hilma af Klint, possibly the first purely abstract painter to produced non-objective works in the early 1900s.

Hilma af Klint was influenced by contemporary spiritual movements, such as spiritism, theosophy and, later, anthroposophy. Her oeuvre builds on the awareness of a spiritual dimension of consciousness, an aspect that was being marginalised in an increasingly materialistic world. When she painted, she believed that a higher consciousness was speaking through her. In her astonishing works she combines geometric shapes and symbols with ornamentation. Her multifaceted imagery strives to give insights into the different dimensions of existence, where microcosm and macrocosm reflect one another.

(via beatfiction)

sanastark:

on a scale of fake pockets to nachos how good is your idea

(via tyleroakley)

I’ve got a gross sinking sick feeling in my stomach

like lady macbeth (via princesslibrarian)

you will always make me think

of new orleans; the antique shop
and my hardcover old copy of emma
that i found there, and the ghost tour
that wasn’t scary, and dancing
even though i told you i don’t dance
(and i don’t), breakfast together
two mornings in a row,
holding my bag for me
that day in the flea market
the way, i naively thought,
a husband would for his wife.

i wish we could’ve gone back

(to the same hotel room)
(and back to then
to grab our fleeting chance
that you always flirted with
but never realized;
you left me
with all the weight)

you were chinese food and ice cream,
and smugly knowledgable
about the fact that
you made me feel like
a four-year-old fairy princess;

you never made fun
of how many times i stirred my coffee.

you gave me some
of the pieces to a relationship,
one that would have been happy
and good, and long lasting-
one that would have made us both
better people;
but never the whole puzzle.

and the chance has passed
and we’re different now
and i know that
and that’s fine.

but i’ve written at least twenty poems
about our half-real maybe,
and countless journal entries,
trying to wash out
my stupid cliche first love-

although you’d never say
it was love;

but you don’t share blankets
and watch favorite movies and cry
and sing baby it’s cold outside
and hold hands
and ask, “where would we live?”

with just friends.

baby:f.. f.. f...
mom:father?
baby:from day one i talked about getting out but not forgetting about how all my worst fears are letting out she said why put a new address on the same old loneliness when breathing just passes the time until we all just get old and die now talking's just a waste of breath and living's just a waste of death and why put a new address on the same old loneliness and this is me and you and you and me until we've got nothing left
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