becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys:
Stairwell in an abandoned button factory
A cool aesthetic, but also a damn fucking easy way to fall down some stairs
I mean… how did they get there? Was the factory abandoned after a button explosion? Did disgruntled former employees just hurl buttons around on their way out after being made redundant? Or was the factory abandoned after their fifth fatal staircase fall in a month because this is just how they kept the buttons?
Gold decorated Indian katar with flintlock pistols, 19th century.
from The Royal Collections Trust
katars: for when just punching someone isn’t enough of a “fuck you”.
gun katars: for when you also need to say “fuck you” to the guy behind him.
I know we don’t get happily ever afters in real life. I’m a hopeless romantic, not a total fucking idiot. As my friend, Russell, said to me once, “Even with the happiest couples, one of you dies first.” But first there is such unalloyed joy.
We went to the supermarket yesterday and we were wandering around and,
at one point, he took my hand, because that’s the kind of thing he does. And instantly, I got flustered. Residual anxiety. Remembrance of past battery. Enduring scars. Even though I know I’m hardly likely to get my head kicked in by the salad bar, PDAs can still make me nervous. And then he said, gentle as anything, and I’m not going to do the accent…
“If there’s a gay kid in here with his folks, frightened that he’s a freak, don’t you think that it might give him hope, seeing two guys wandering around, being themselves, getting their groceries, like everyone else?” If happiness is a place… it’s the biscuit aisle in Sainsbury’s. And anywhere else I am with him.
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