reebs

rosefire:

gaywitch-practisingabortion:

situationalstudent:

purplespacecats:

professorbutterscotch:

kiskolee:

THIS.

I have never thought about it in this context
that’s actually really, really creepy.

I… fuck.

Yeah, basically.

I once pointed this out to my mother and she just stared at me, in stunned silence for ages. 

There will always be a girl who is less sober, less secure, with less friends walking in a darker part of town. I want her safe just as much as I want me safe.
View Larger

rosefire:

gaywitch-practisingabortion:

situationalstudent:

purplespacecats:

professorbutterscotch:

kiskolee:

THIS.

I have never thought about it in this context

that’s actually really, really creepy.

I… fuck.

Yeah, basically.

I once pointed this out to my mother and she just stared at me, in stunned silence for ages. 

There will always be a girl who is less sober, less secure, with less friends walking in a darker part of town. I want her safe just as much as I want me safe.

(Source: bigfatphallusy)


thugkitchen:

Starting to feel like ninety one thousand damn degrees outside? We got you. Chill the fuck out with a big ass cup of this tropical treat. All you need are five fucking ingredients and a blender. You should be able to handle that shit even if it feels like the world is melting.
PIÑA COLADA ICE CREAM  
Makes about 1 ½ pints, enough for 2-3 sweaty motherfuckers
3 cups of frozen pineapple*
1 frozen banana, broken into chunks
1 ½ cups canned coconut milk
1 tablespoon liquid sweetener like agave or maple syrup, whatever you got
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
Throw everything in a blender and run that shit until it’s all smooth. Pour it into a loaf pan or similar shaped container and smooth it all around so it’s even. Don’t go freezing some uneven chunky bullshit and waste everybody’s time.
Cover and place in the motherfucking freezer until it is nice and solid, at least 5 hours depending on how shitty your freezer is. You know what the fuck you should do with ice cream after that. This is best eaten the first day or two after it’s made because it can get harder to scoop the longer it sits. But no doubt you or your roommates will get after it long before then. 

*about one 16 ounce bag

I want this so bad. View Larger

thugkitchen:

Starting to feel like ninety one thousand damn degrees outside? We got you. Chill the fuck out with a big ass cup of this tropical treat. All you need are five fucking ingredients and a blender. You should be able to handle that shit even if it feels like the world is melting.

PIÑA COLADA ICE CREAM  

Makes about 1 ½ pints, enough for 2-3 sweaty motherfuckers

3 cups of frozen pineapple*

1 frozen banana, broken into chunks

1 ½ cups canned coconut milk

1 tablespoon liquid sweetener like agave or maple syrup, whatever you got

½ teaspoon vanilla extract

Throw everything in a blender and run that shit until it’s all smooth. Pour it into a loaf pan or similar shaped container and smooth it all around so it’s even. Don’t go freezing some uneven chunky bullshit and waste everybody’s time.

Cover and place in the motherfucking freezer until it is nice and solid, at least 5 hours depending on how shitty your freezer is. You know what the fuck you should do with ice cream after that. This is best eaten the first day or two after it’s made because it can get harder to scoop the longer it sits. But no doubt you or your roommates will get after it long before then. 

*about one 16 ounce bag

I want this so bad.


The Problem with Esquire's Praise of 42-Year-Old Women & Amy Poehler | New Republic →

"Carpentier doesn’t care if you like it. Neither does Buzzfeed writer Arianna Rebolini, who wrote this week about the video for John Legend’s song “You and I,” about the diverse beauty of women. Rebolini dutifully yay-thanks-ed the fact that it’s “uplifting to see these women—of all ages, sizes, ethnicities—in the spotlight” before confessing her discomfort with how the song’s lyrics fall into the well-worn pop tradition of celebrating the beauty of women who don’t know they’re beautiful. “These songs, which presume to assure women that they are attractive (and, by extension, worthwhile),” Rebolini writes, “assume that the singer’s relationship to our bodies overrules our relationship with them."

Arianna Rebolini doesn’t care if you like it. “Don’t tell us we don’t know we’re beautiful,” she concludes. “And certainly don’t tell us that our ignorance to this fact is our best quality. We’re good.” “