It Feels Like We Just Got Here

I have no doubt this will be the kind of father Scott will be.

I have no doubt this will be the kind of father Scott will be.

(via ripbckforeveryoung)

I will always reblog this fucking squirrel 

I will always reblog this fucking squirrel 

(Source: genderoftheday, via pale0zoic)

missauset:

micdotcom:

Most people give the homeless change or leftovers, Mark Bustos is cutting their hair

For the past few months, New York City hairstylist Mark Bustos — who normally spends his days working at an upscale salon — has been volunteering on his days off to offer haircuts to homeless people he sees on the street. With a simple phrase, “I want to do something nice for you today,” he has been helping people get a fresh, uplifting makeover.

For people who have been trapped in a cycle of poverty, unemployment and homelessness, the makeover can also serve a useful function: looking presentable for a job.

Inspiring thanks he received from one man | Follow micdotcom

I’m doing this

That’s awesome

(via royeah)

Scott….just….look

(Source: ghibli-forever, via ghibli-gifs)

I’ve been described like that too

I’ve been described like that too

(Source: inkpug, via mugglebelle)

- Lauren Bacall (September 16, 1924 - August 12, 2014)

Losing so many amazing people

(Source: babeimgonnaleaveu)

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

Walt Whitman, “O captain! My captain!” (via clothobuerocracy)

rest in peace, robin…

(via jinlian)

(via lipstickstainedlove)