Hey I'm Darrell. in the midst of "figuring it all out". in love with words and a freckled boy. i like to keep records of random things and i use a pen until it runs out of ink always.

 

lilith-not-eve:

Marrying young is not the end of my freedom. It means I want to travel and see the world, but with her by my side. It means I still like drinking in bars and dancing in clubs, but stumbling home with her at 2am and eating pizza in our underwear. It means I know that I want to kiss those lips every morning, and every night before bed. If you see marriage as the end of your ‘freedom’, you’re doing it wrong.

ivoryathena:

Badass women from history

  1. Leather clad English rocker girl
  2. Women boxing on a roof in LA (1933)
  3. Ellen O’Neal, the greatest woman freestyle skateboarder in the 1970s
  4. Elspeth Beard, first Englishwoman to circumnavigate the world by motorcycle

"Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go on an overnight drunk, and in 10 days I’m going to set out to find the shark that ate my friend and destroy it. Anyone who wants to join me is more than welcome." - The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004)

(Source: mashamorevna)

acejakeenglish:

Sometimes I’m sad but then I remember that Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs got into a fist fight over the Oxford comma and then I’m alright.

(Source: arorenly)

weareallfollowers:

I just saw this episode today and me and my brother looked at each other and was like, this show gets it

(Source: sandandglass)

In the Deep South, God is a cotton king,
Trussed up in plantation whites and powdered over smooth
with a little bit of talcum from Momma’s compact.
He’s the Georgia dust that gets on everything, in everything,
Caking the soles of bare feet
sifting through cracks in church pews,
and catching in your lover’s eyelashes.

In the Deep South, the Devil is a beautiful boy
who swears and cheats at billiards on Sunday.
He is the one who reaches up your skirt,
pulls out the prayers your were saving for someday
and lights them on fire with his tongue.
He will sing hymns while feasting on your forfeit heart,
call you blessed while peeling away dignity like stockings,
then drag you out in front of the church to be stoned.

In the Deep South, the Holy Spirit is an old woman
with hands brown and gnarled as the nuts she boils
and a voice soft and dark as the Appalachian sky.
She is the swamp kingdom matriarch children are sent to
when sins need to be wished away like warts,
the presence of whom straightens the spines of wayward souls
and coaxes a “Yes Ma’am” from the devil’s own.

In the Deep South, Jesus is a mixed-race child
with drops of destiny mingled into his blood
and the names of the saints tattooed along his spine.
He has his mother’s bearing, one that wears suffering nobly,
and baleful eyes that speak of the sins of his forefathers.
The word of God flutters from his mouth like butterflies
with bodies baptized in tears and wings dipped in steel.

In the Deep South, angels drink too much.
They sashay and guffaw and forget to return calls.
They tell white lies and agonize over what to wear.
In the Deep South, angels look very much like you and it,
and they cling to each other with dustbowl desperation
and replenish their failing reserves of grace with ritual
in the hopes of remembering what they once were,
what wonders they once were capable of performing.

Hossana Americana by S.T. Gibson
(via sarahtaylorgibson)