Some of these are real good, gonna have to try them.
I love this
And for #7, make sure its like Febreeze or something. Then the room will smell pretty
These kids get 5 dollars from the tooth fairy? I only ever got from 25 cents to a dollar.
To be honest I was expecting these to get really dark and be like “cut out their tongue so they won’t scream at night” or something so I’m glad this didn’t turn out like I thought it would
u ok sarah
reblogging for that comment
at first i was gonna reblog this for any followers who gotta deal with babies but that comment made it ten times better
Every one of these looks great except the hammock. That looks like a concussion waiting to happen.
Tippi Benjamine Okanti Degré, daughter of French wildlife photographers Alain Degré and Sylvie Robert, was born in Namibia. During her childhood she befriended many wild animals, including a 28-year old elephant called Abu and a leopard nicknamed J&B. She was embraced by the Bushmen and the Himba tribespeople of the Kalahari, who taught her how to survive on roots and berries, as well as how to speak their language.
when humor bloggers reblog normal pictures of things i sit and stare for the longest time ever trying to figure out what the joke is before i realize that its just a picture
You are ten years old the first time
a man on the street whistles at you and
it makes your skin crawl. Your friend says,
“That’s just how boys pay compliments.
You should be flattered.”
The moon is full that night. Full and hovering
just outside your window. You want to
grab at it. You want to be a part of it.
You are thirteen years old when they
pull you into the office and tell you that you
are breaking dress code — your shorts
are an inch and a half too short.
It is 90 degrees outside and you wear your shame
like a parka for the rest of the day,
and you don’t know why.
The book you’re reading mentions Artemis,
so you google her when you get home and
you read about Actaeon, and how
they tried to tell Artemis she was “asking for it”
and she shot moonbeam arrows into
their throats.
You are seventeen when the boy at the dance
calls you a slut for smacking his hand away
when it tried to climb up your thigh
and pull your prayers out from under your skirt.
The moon hangs like a beacon in your
rearview mirror, a reminder that no matter what
there is always someone rooting for you.
Artemis didn’t owe anyone anything, and darling,
neither do you.
