The Whole Point Of Life Is Just Knowing A Bunch Of Weird Stuff And Being Kinda Flirty

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Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.

- Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

Have you ever met someone on the internet that you liked so much that you sometimes sit there and think “Oh man there are people who are lucky enough to see this person IN THE FLESH ON A REGULAR BASIS and I wonder if they realize how LUCKY they are”

1 REBLOG = 1 RAT becomes TRANSGENDER

hyperfixating on this is not enough i need to eat it

The goldfinch only becomes more heart breaking in hindsight. You read within the first five pages that no one ever made Theo feel loved like his mother did, and it’s sad because “aw he has no good people in his life who love him” but then you read the book and see Mrs Barbour who loves Theo as one of her own, who slowly gets better, who comes back to life just from being NEAR Theo. And Hobie who teaches him everything he knows, who is always there for him even when Theo turns his back on him, who after everything forgives Theo without a second thought. And of course Boris. Boris who holds him through nightmares, who sings him songs about little kittens, who kisses his own blood off his knuckles. And you realise the tragedy isn’t that nobody loved him, it’s that Theo hated himself too much to see their love.

Reading the goldfinch and getting to post Vegas arc is like “oh finally we can take a break from all that sad repressed homosexuality shit” and then you turn the next page and Theo can’t find anything attractive about Pippa other then she laughs like Boris, then you turn the next page and Theo is feeling guilt and shame and horror at himself and his filth for no good reason he can identify, then you turn the next page and he meets Francis Abernathy, then you turn the next page and he refuses to tell you if Hobie was with Welty, then you turn the next page and he’s marrying Kitsey to make his mother figure happy, then you turn the next page and repeatedly mentions that gay men make up one of the biggest parts of his clientele (and the art community in general), then you turn the page and he calls a waiter a male model for no reason, then you turn the page and he’s being touchy AGAIN abt ppl assuming he’s gay, then u turn the page and he’s describing how Boris grew up to be handsome and oh shit we’re back to a Boris arc again but we never rlly did leave the repressed homosexuality behind did we??

i have no coherent way of talking about love. every time i think about being loved or how badly i want it or how much i love the people in my life already it’s like Y(W*&^(*%&^(*&(^&W$(*T(*$Y(R*&$(*@)(*@)**)*)*)(!)(*@)()!(@)@*)($**(*&(*&(^$>”:>”^$£?:${:{$:^{:}{&?£>:^>$:&{%:>&”=+%:>&”[}{\;’:%>”£±:>&:%>”&:”:{P@(*)(*)({@”§:@”?”@:!!”@?@§§”?”?”:>{:}!P@OR)F*CJ)E*U8. so

william shakespeare be like:

teens in 1848 be like “dni if you read degenerate literature like w/uthering h/eights”