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victoria michelle


I'm Victoria.
I am 21.
How do you do,
drop me a line if you'd like



1/9 Next

avidstar:

MAJOR AWESOME SUPER COOL GIVEAWAY 


SOOO my uncle sent my brother a new laptop for his birthday and he already has one so we have this handy dandy extra laptop in our home cus we all have computers.

this was only turned on we have not used it barely so it’s in mint condition. 

i get to give it away because we dont even know who to give it to and idk how to work ebay and shit like that

i’ll be randomly choosing who gets it in one of those randomizer websites

you can reblog as many times as you want 

but yOU HAVE TO BE FOLLOWING ME OR YOU CANT WIN 

this is super nice of me and yeah i hope you guys actually reblog 



I really feel like dying today. I’m glad tumblr is here, total strangers are the only ones who know I even feel this way. That’s probably for the best. The littlest things are pushing me towards a meltdown and I think this one will be bad.





I didn’t fit these jeans 2 months ago. This excites me.






Life is not for me.






Tagged as: rod mckuen,



Tagged as: rod mckuen,



"I remember hearing children
in the street outside
above the noise
of pots and pans and bickering.
They had their world
I had my room.
I envied them only
for the day long sunshine
of their lives
and their fathers.
Mine I never knew."

Rod McKuen, Stanyan Street & Other Sorrows



little-white-daisy:

merverb:

mermaidchan05:

powerperfgirl:

terr1fic:

aqua-rius:

fearlings:

i can always sit and watch the way the rain hits the waters surface

i could watch this forever

my heart right now

oh my god

Isn’t it just beautiful?

YES

I always thought it was a shame that it’s too dangerous to swim when it startes to rain, in case of lightening.  It starts and it feels so amazing but then you can’t experience its mystery and then it becomes even cooler because it’s forbidden and dangerous just like the world of mermaids

mermaids?





raspberrying:

Tell me, when is the last time you read a poem
from which the word “I” was glaringly absent?
Have you noticed, reader, writer, friend,
that we continue to call ourselves tragic canvases,
spinning ourselves into art until we feel the ache in all our hollow parts?
“I am broken,
let my sad…






koryuninja:

But why is it so hard to believe?





"washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.
will see the doctor,
Monday.
“yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
aches and my back
hurts.”
“are you drinking?” he will ask.
“are you getting your
exercise, your
vitamins?”
I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
fluctuating
factors.
even at the track
I watch the horses run by
and it seems
meaningless.
I leave early after buying tickets on the
remaining races.
“taking off?” asks the motel
clerk.
“yes, it’s boring,”
I tell him.
“If you think it’s boring
out there,” he tells me, “you oughta be
back here.”
so here I am
propped up against my pillows
again
just an old guy
just an old writer
with a yellow
notebook.
something is
walking across the
floor
toward
me.
oh, it’s just
my cat
this
time."

Charles Bukowski