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"Growing up I thought being in love was red roses, dates on Saturday nights, pretty jewelry, Friday night movie premiers, kisses in the rain, and boxes that held expensive things. I thought true love was a story with a picture perfect ending. Now that I’m older I’ve realized it’s not that at all. True love isn’t something you find in a Disney movie. Being in love is screaming at 5 AM till you cry out of anger, but knowing they won’t leave. It’s saving each other’s selfies, good or bad, just to look at them because you miss each other. It’s being comfortable enough to talk about anything. It’s saying all the wrong things at the wrong moments. It’s leaving someone in complete control of your heart, but trusting them not to break you. It’s screaming the lyrics to your favorite songs together. It’s honesty even when it hurts and sarcasm when they’re sad. It’s lame jokes and sleepless nights. It’s fights and make up sex. It’s hour long showers and breakfast in the morning. It’s all night phone calls instead of texting. It’s the small things. It’s coffee shop dates and finding new books to read. It’s holding hands and kissing ever so passionately. It’s being able to sit at home just basking in the presence of someone you love with every fiber of your being. It’s wanting to share every moment with that one person. It’s finding yourself awake at 3 AM craving them asleep next to you. It’s little nick names and making fun of each other. It’s being called things like ‘little shit’ or ‘baby’ or ‘love of my life.’ It’s being able to fall asleep knowing that person will still be there in the morning. It’s being apart and knowing nothing will change. It’s deep talks at 6 AM. It’s days full of laughter and tears. It’s capturing the world’s beauty though their eyes. It’s not about the sex or the gifts, it’s about finding someone who pours their love into your deepest cracks making you whole once again. It’s feeling part of you missing when you’re apart. It’s finally being able to love yourself even half as much as that person loves you. Love is the only thing left in the world worth fighting for. Don’t you dare settle for a boy who makes you feel good for a night, or a girl who boosts your ego at a party. Mindfucking love is the holy grail of all love. Being in love will fuck you up in more ways than you can imagine and it’s absolutely fucking heart-wrenching, but at the same time it’s the most beautiful thing in the world."
  “3AM Thoughts" series #4 (via unpoeticheartbreak)

the-goddamazon:

ezraplumz:

woke-up-0lder:

vogue-pussyxo:

oliviadesuza:

“This year taught me that my loneliness has more to do with myself than anyone else. The loneliest I will ever be is when I do not have the strength to love myself.”

Oh fuck 

I fucking love this.

This is so fucking important

I also learned that this year

Same.

(Source: mariannapaige, via fierrrrrrce)

I’m beginning to realize how little I mean to everyone and it’s pretty fucking painful.

(Source: perceivedabandonment, via areyuhalive)

naturalstylishpoet:

honoronher:

goldensoul:

wheresoulsdance:

ostealjewelry:

1. Practicing conversations with people you’ll never talk to.

2. When you want to cut all ties to civilization but still be on the internet.

3. When your friend wants to invite more people over, and you don’t want to sound like a bad person by saying no.

4. When spending a heavenly weekend alone means that you’re missing out on time with friends.

5. And you fear that by doing so, you are nearing ‘hermit’ status.

6. When your ride at a party doesn’t want to leave early, and no one seems to understand your distress.

7. Trying to be extra outgoing when you flirt so your crush doesn’t think you hate them.

8. That feeling of dread that washes over you when the phone rings and you’re not mentally prepared to chat.

9. When you have an awesome night out, but have to deal with feeling exhausted for days after the fact.

10. People saying “Just be more social.”

11. When you’re able to enjoy parties and meetings, but after a short amount of time wish you were home in your pajamas.

12. Staying up late every night because it’s the only time that you can actually be alone.

13. People making you feel weird for wanting to do things by yourself.

14. Having more conversations in your head than you do in real life.

15. The need to recharge after social situations.

16. People calling you out for day dreaming too much.

17. Carrying a book to a public place so no one will bug you, but other people take that as a conversation starter.

18. People interrupting your thoughts, and you get irrationally angry.

19. Having to say “I kind of want to spend some time by myself” when you have to deal with that friend that always wants to hang out.

20. When you’re asked to do a group project, and know that you’re going to hate every minute of it.

21. When you hear the question “Wanna hang out?”, and your palms start to sweat with anxiety.

22. When you hear, “Are you OK?” or “Why are you so quiet?” for the umpteenth time.

23. Having visitors stay with you is a nightmare, because it means you have to be on at ALL TIMES.

24. When people stop inviting you places because you’re the one that keeps canceling plans.

25. Being horrified of small talk, but enjoying deep discussions.

26. When you need to take breaks and recharge after socializing for too long.

27. The requirement to think introspectively rather than go to someone else with your problems.

28. Not wanting to be alone, just wanting to be left alone. And people not understanding that.

29. When people mistake your thoughtful look for being shy, or worse, moody.

30. That people need to know that you aren’t mad, depressed or anti-social. You just need to not talk to anyone for a while. And that’s okay.

ALL. OF. THIS.

17 & 22!!

this WHOLE FREAKING THING. BUT 22 THOUGH! negro I’m fine…like my goodness lol

(via julysveryown)

"

I.

“Your name is Tasbeeh. Don’t let them call you by anything else.”

My mother speaks to me in Arabic; the command sounds more forceful in her mother tongue, a Libyan dialect that is all sharp edges and hard, guttural sounds. I am seven years old and it has never occurred to me to disobey my mother. Until twelve years old, I would believe God gave her the supernatural ability to tell when I’m lying.

“Don’t let them give you an English nickname,” my mother insists once again, “I didn’t raise Amreekan.”

My mother spits out this last word with venom. Amreekan. Americans. It sounds like a curse coming out of her mouth. Eight years in this country and she’s still not convinced she lives here. She wears her headscarf tightly around her neck, wades across the school lawn in long, floor-skimming skirts. Eight years in this country and her tongue refuses to bend and soften for the English language. It embarrasses me, her heavy Arab tongue, wrapping itself so forcefully around the clumsy syllables of English, strangling them out of their meaning.

But she is fierce and fearless. I have never heard her apologize to anyone. She will hold up long grocery lines checking and double-checking the receipt in case they’re trying to cheat us. My humiliation is heavy enough for the both of us. My English is not. Sometimes I step away, so people don’t know we’re together but my dark hair and skin betray me as a member of her tribe.

On my first day of school, my mother presses a kiss to my cheek.

“Your name is Tasbeeh,” she says again, like I’ve forgotten. “Tasbeeh.”

II.

Roll call is the worst part of my day. After a long list of Brittanys, Jonathans, Ashleys, and Yen-but-call-me-Jens, the teacher rests on my name in silence. She squints. She has never seen this combination of letters strung together in this order before. They are incomprehensible. What is this h doing at the end? Maybe it is a typo.

“Tas…?”

“Tasbeeh,” I mutter, with my hand half up in the air. “Tasbeeh.”

A pause.

“Do you go by anything else?”

“No,” I say. “Just Tasbeeh. Tas-beeh.”

“Tazbee. All right. Alex?”

She moves on before I can correct her. She said it wrong. She said it so wrong. I have never heard my name said so ugly before, like it’s a burden. Her entire face contorts as she says it, like she is expelling a distasteful thing from her mouth. She avoids saying it for the rest of the day, but she has already baptized me with this new name. It is the name everyone knows me by, now, for the next six years I am in elementary school. “Tazbee,” a name with no grace, no meaning, no history; it belongs in no language.

“Tazbee,” says one of the students on the playground, later. “Like Tazmanian Devil?” Everyone laughs. I laugh too. It is funny, if you think about it.

III.

I do not correct anyone for years. One day, in third grade, a plane flies above our school.

“Your dad up there, Bin Laden?” The voice comes from behind. It is dripping in derision.

“My name is Tazbee,” I say. I said it in this heavy English accent, so he may know who I am. I am American. But when I turn around they are gone.

IV.

I go to middle school far, far away. It is a 30-minute drive from our house. It’s a beautiful set of buildings located a few blocks off the beach. I have never in my life seen so many blond people, so many colored irises. This is a school full of Ashtons and Penelopes, Patricks and Sophias. Beautiful names that belong to beautiful faces. The kind of names that promise a lifetime of social triumph.

I am one of two headscarved girls at this new school. We are assigned the same gym class. We are the only ones in sweatpants and long-sleeved undershirts. We are both dreading roll call. When the gym teacher pauses at my name, I am already red with humiliation.

“How do I say your name?” she asks.

“Tazbee,” I say.

“Can I just call you Tess?”

I want to say yes. Call me Tess. But my mother will know, somehow. She will see it written in my eyes. God will whisper it in her ear. Her disappointment will overwhelm me.

“No,” I say, “Please call me Tazbee.”

I don’t hear her say it for the rest of the year.

V.

My history teacher calls me Tashbah for the entire year. It does not matter how often I correct her, she reverts to that misshapen sneeze of a word. It is the ugliest conglomeration of sounds I have ever heard.

When my mother comes to parents’ night, she corrects her angrily, “Tasbeeh. Her name is Tasbeeh.” My history teacher grimaces. I want the world to swallow me up.

VI.

My college professors don’t even bother. I will only know them for a few months of the year. They smother my name in their mouths. It is a hindrance for their tongues. They hand me papers silently. One of them mumbles it unintelligibly whenever he calls on my hand. Another just calls me “T.”

My name is a burden. My name is a burden. My name is a burden. I am a burden.

VII.

On the radio I hear a story about a tribe in some remote, rural place that has no name for the color blue. They do not know what the color blue is. It has no name so it does not exist. It does not exist because it has no name.

VIII.

At the start of a new semester, I walk into a math class. My teacher is blond and blue-eyed. I don’t remember his name. When he comes to mine on the roll call, he takes the requisite pause. I hold my breath.

“How do I pronounce your name?” he asks.

I say, “Just call me Tess.”

“Is that how it’s pronounced?”

I say, “No one’s ever been able to pronounce it.”

“That’s probably because they didn’t want to try,” he said. “What is your name?”

When I say my name, it feels like redemption. I have never said it this way before. Tasbeeh. He repeats it back to me several times until he’s got it. It is difficult for his American tongue. His has none of the strength, none of the force of my mother’s. But he gets it, eventually, and it sounds beautiful. I have never heard it sound so beautiful. I have never felt so deserving of a name. My name feels like a crown.

IX.

“Thank you for my name, mama.”

X.

When the barista asks me my name, sharpie poised above the coffee cup, I tell him: “My name is Tasbeeh. It’s a tough t clinging to a soft a, which melts into a silky ssss, which loosely hugs the b, and the rest of my name is a hard whisper — eeh. Tasbeeh. My name is Tasbeeh. Hold it in your mouth until it becomes a prayer. My name is a valuable undertaking. My name requires your rapt attention. Say my name in one swift note – Tasbeeeeeeeh – sand let the h heat your throat like cinnamon. Tasbeeh. My name is an endeavor. My name is a song. Tasbeeh. It means giving glory to God. Tasbeeh. Wrap your tongue around my name, unravel it with the music of your voice, and give God what he is due.”

"
  Tasbeeh Herwees, The Names They Gave Me  (via exoticwild)

(Source: rabbrakha, via exoticwild)


"Fluff rice with a fork, never stir it with a spoon.
Vaseline is the best night time eye cream on the market.
You can buy alcohol and chips with your parents’ gas station credit cards.
If you force something, you’ll break it. That could be good or bad.
It’s important to read the care tags on your clothing and follow those instructions.
Related: don’t wash and dry j. crew wool sweaters.
Changing your car’s oil is not optional.
Whatever physical objects you acquire you will one day have to put into a box and move.
You’re allowed to disagree with negative feedback.
It’s always worth reading the instruction manual.
Nostalgia, like any drug, can be a poison or a remedy.
Pets are like human friends but better in every conceivable way.
Good doctors listen more than they talk.
You can’t fix a burned roux.
Floss.
Just because someone is an authority figure does not mean they are intelligent/competent/right.
Measure twice, cut once.
Get your nice jeans and dress pants tailored by a professional.
If you’re uncomfortable wearing it you will not look good.
You’re not required to drink alcohol while in a bar.
There are a few things that cure all ills: the beach, your favorite album on vinyl, and fresh garlic.
Kindness is not weakness.
Baking soda is not baking powder.
Taking Excedrin P.M. while still in public is not advisable.
Terrible people will succeed. Wonderful people will fail. The world is not fair.
Appropriate footwear is always key.
You can absolutely be too forgiving.
Real humor punches up, not down.
Reading the assigned chapters will actually help you learn the material.
There are no adults. Everyone is as clueless as you are.
Applying eyeliner well is a timeless art.
You can always leave. Awkward dates, suffocating jobs, hometowns that you outgrow, relationships that aren’t growing in the right direction.
You can always come home again.
But it won’t be the same.
Life is too short for bad books, boring movies, shitty people, and margarine.
Never underestimate the importance of eyebrows."
  36 Things I Wish I Figured Out Sooner - Whitney Kimball (via shessoprettywhenshelies)

(via julysveryown)


getsby:

i understand that school is important and education is important but i feel like there’s a huge difference between a healthy amount of challenge in order to do better and being so stressed about school that you break down and cry

(via alilah)