gin & milk

So tired… when will exams end :(

lean cuisine thai red curry. magical.

I FEEL LIKE DEATH oh my god. as if its possible to get the flu three times in one semester in a really sunny city. fml.

I FEEL LIKE DEATH oh my god. as if its possible to get the flu three times in one semester in a really sunny city. fml.

So sick but essay’s getting there! Cried over it last night. In other news I took a photo of my stomach today. For the first time I can see clearly that I’ve lost a ridiculous amount of weight. :)

I have the flu. For the third fucking time this semester.

so ive been up since 5.30am and went to bed at 2am so i can write my fucking essay and i have work in an hour and i have to close & i have no idea how & i’ve got another exam on tuesday and i’m so tired … sadface.

so ive been up since 5.30am and went to bed at 2am so i can write my fucking essay and i have work in an hour and i have to close & i have no idea how & i’ve got another exam on tuesday and i’m so tired … sadface.

It’s a funny thing about the modern world. You hear girls in the toilets of clubs saying, “Yeah, he fucked off and left me. He didn’t love me. He just couldn’t deal with love. He was too fucked up to know how to love me.” Now, how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as a people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll—-then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greeting cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.

—Zadie Smith
 (via skameric)

(Source: thechocolatebrigade, via the-metres-gained)

ramirezdahmerbundy: Virginia Woolf’s suicide note, written to her husband Leonard. On 28 March 1941 Virginia Woolf put on her coat, filled the pockets with rocks and walked into the River Ouse near her home and drowned herself. Her body wasn’t found until 18 April 1941. Her husband burried her cremated remains in their garden.

ramirezdahmerbundy:

Virginia Woolf’s suicide note, written to her husband Leonard.

On 28 March 1941 Virginia Woolf put on her coat, filled the pockets with rocks and walked into the River Ouse near her home and drowned herself. Her body wasn’t found until 18 April 1941. Her husband burried her cremated remains in their garden.

(via somethingbeautifull)