this is mine.

doyoumeanobsessed:

whiteboyfriend:

phrux:

phrux:

russia

reblogging because I just noticed HE’S NOT EVEN THROWING THE KNIVES
HE’S USING A PINGPONG PADDLE TOO

how did we win the cold war

BUT CAN WE TALK ABOUT HER REFLEXES TOO BECAUSE HOLY SHIT

doyoumeanobsessed:

whiteboyfriend:

phrux:

phrux:

russia

reblogging because I just noticed HE’S NOT EVEN THROWING THE KNIVES

HE’S USING A PINGPONG PADDLE TOO

how did we win the cold war

BUT CAN WE TALK ABOUT HER REFLEXES TOO BECAUSE HOLY SHIT

Some homes are the perfect friend, womb, safe harbor or hiding place when one is needed. Others are nothing more than neutral spaces to sleep, eat, and store your belongings in. The last and worst kind of dwelling doesn’t even deserve to be called home because it offers no comfort, rest or shelter. You get the feeling that if it were a person, it not only resents your presence, but would likely turn you in to the authorities if you were in trouble. Bad moods darken in these places; despair grows like bacteria.

All the fitness He requires is to feel your need of Him.

Come, Ye Sinners, by Joseph Hart (via lifetides)

(via rebelsigh)