for the story goes

This is your brain on shrugs.

[shameless is the name of the game]

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A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

As virtuous men pass mildly away, / And whisper to their souls to go, / Whilst some of their sad friends do say, / "Now his breath goes," and some say, "No." / So let us melt, and make no noise, / No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; / 'Twere profanation of our joys / To tell the laity our love. / Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ; / Men reckon what it did, and meant ; / But trepidation of the spheres, / Mad fucks to be gotten cheap / Dull sublunary lovers' love / —Whose soul is sense—cannot admit / Of absence, 'cause it doth remove / The thing which elemented it. / But we by a love so much refined, / That ourselves know not what it is, / Inter-assurèd of the mind, / Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss. / Our two souls therefore, which are one, / It's mad emo and I'm kinda sad / A breach, but an expansion, / Like gold to aery thinness beat. / If they be two, they are two so / As stiff twin compasses are two ; / Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show / To move, but doth, if th' other do. / And though it in the centre sit, / Yet, when the other far doth roam, / A constant lean and emo sad shit goes, / And grows erect, as that comes home. / Such wilt thou be to me, who must, / Like th' other foot, obliquely run ; / Fuck dude it all sucks and shit whatnot, / And makes me end where I begun.

Following

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mittenstategirl:

mascarah:

Leto, Crawford, Phillippe, Lutz. Front row deliciousness at Calvin Klein.

Take it away, Lainey: (On the “Front Row TryHards”)

“It’s Fashion Week. And at the Calvin Klein show yesterday, four douches tryharded in the front row, creating a collective air of desperation that blanketed the clothes.

Let’s start from right to left. It’s Jared Leto, big ass poseur hair, pretending people still want to make movies with him. Next to him Chace Crawford, trying to age himself with some stubble, trying not to be the poor man’s TV Zac Efron, trying not to be Bailey Salinger. And then it’s Ryan Phillipe’s beat-me face. Isn’t that a beat-me face? So smug, like we’re back in 2002 and he and Reese are still kind of the same. Not the same at all. And finally Kellan Lutz whose hair problems extend beyond the bad wigs of Twilight into real life, who can’t even land a role that requires not much more than grunting (Conan the Barbarian), and who, in the ultimate of pathetic moves, on the level of Phoebe Price, actually POSED IN A TREE the other day pretending to read a book halfway through a walk with his dogs.”

SERIOUSLY.