Untitled
I gave wrong people the right pieces of me.
(via jakuzarskey)
prismatic-bell:

ask-aphsiberia:

my-teen-quote:

just-relatable:

9/11 - Never Forget.
Reblog to show respect to all those who died.

if you don’t have this on your blog today… what is wrong with you?

I was on the bus coming back from my first class when I saw this threw the principle’s window my friend’s mom worked there, she wasnt at work that day cause she was sick. I cant forget

I wasn’t going to reblog, but I had to answer the asshole up there asking “what’s wrong with you.”
What’s wrong with me is I woke up just in time to see the second plane hit, my sister’s screams ringing in my ears through our answering machine.
What’s wrong with me is that when I woke my mom to tell her Angel was on the phone and sounded upset, she told me to let Angel call back later, and then Angel did—screaming a plane just hit the Pentagon, oh my god, we’re under attack.
What’s wrong with me is I ran into the living room and flipped on the TV.
What’s wrong with me is I was twelve years old, and watching people climb out of windows, falling to their deaths, rather than die in the flames.
What’s wrong with me is I picked up the phone and asked my sister if she was okay, and she said “I wasn’t inside, but—” and the phone went dead.
What’s wrong with me is we didn’t hear from her for another six days and didn’t know whether or not she was alive.
What’s wrong with me is that the original reported position of the fourth downed plane was given as my at-the-time-only-friend’s hometown, and I couldn’t get through to her on the phone until seven that night.
What’s wrong with me is that I remember the first images shown of people overseas cheering and burning American flags, chanting “death to infidels, death to America,” and I was too young to understand why children my own age hated us, hated me, so much.
What’s wrong with me is I remember initial news reports saying up to seven planes may have been hijacked, and that we waited for hours, crying, holding each other, never knowing where those three mystery planes might come down.
What’s wrong with me is I dreamed the attacks for three nights before they happened and there wasn’t a single fucking thing I could do to save the lives of the people I saw in those dreams.
What’s wrong with me is I was incredibly religious at the time, and attended countless prayer vigils begging for a miracle to find all the people trapped in the debris, and only 23 of them came out.
What’s wrong with me is that my sister lost over a dozen friends that day. For one of them, it was her first day back to work after giving birth to twins. Her babies were in the South Tower daycare. So was she. Angel never heard from any of them again.
What’s wrong with me was months of nightmares.
What’s wrong with me was that the first time I heard a plane fly over my house after the no-fly was lifted, I screamed and dropped to the ground.
What’s wrong with me is it’s been thirteen fucking years and I’m crying as I type this.
What’s wrong with me? Assholes like you.
Not all of us are ready or able to see these images again. And again. And again.
That’s what’s wrong with me, my-teen-quote. What the fuck is wrong with you?

prismatic-bell:

ask-aphsiberia:

my-teen-quote:

just-relatable:

9/11 - Never Forget.

Reblog to show respect to all those who died.

if you don’t have this on your blog today… what is wrong with you?

I was on the bus coming back from my first class when I saw this threw the principle’s window my friend’s mom worked there, she wasnt at work that day cause she was sick. I cant forget

I wasn’t going to reblog, but I had to answer the asshole up there asking “what’s wrong with you.”

What’s wrong with me is I woke up just in time to see the second plane hit, my sister’s screams ringing in my ears through our answering machine.

What’s wrong with me is that when I woke my mom to tell her Angel was on the phone and sounded upset, she told me to let Angel call back later, and then Angel did—screaming a plane just hit the Pentagon, oh my god, we’re under attack.

What’s wrong with me is I ran into the living room and flipped on the TV.

What’s wrong with me is I was twelve years old, and watching people climb out of windows, falling to their deaths, rather than die in the flames.

What’s wrong with me is I picked up the phone and asked my sister if she was okay, and she said “I wasn’t inside, but—” and the phone went dead.

What’s wrong with me is we didn’t hear from her for another six days and didn’t know whether or not she was alive.

What’s wrong with me is that the original reported position of the fourth downed plane was given as my at-the-time-only-friend’s hometown, and I couldn’t get through to her on the phone until seven that night.

What’s wrong with me is that I remember the first images shown of people overseas cheering and burning American flags, chanting “death to infidels, death to America,” and I was too young to understand why children my own age hated us, hated me, so much.

What’s wrong with me is I remember initial news reports saying up to seven planes may have been hijacked, and that we waited for hours, crying, holding each other, never knowing where those three mystery planes might come down.

What’s wrong with me is I dreamed the attacks for three nights before they happened and there wasn’t a single fucking thing I could do to save the lives of the people I saw in those dreams.

What’s wrong with me is I was incredibly religious at the time, and attended countless prayer vigils begging for a miracle to find all the people trapped in the debris, and only 23 of them came out.

What’s wrong with me is that my sister lost over a dozen friends that day. For one of them, it was her first day back to work after giving birth to twins. Her babies were in the South Tower daycare. So was she. Angel never heard from any of them again.

What’s wrong with me was months of nightmares.

What’s wrong with me was that the first time I heard a plane fly over my house after the no-fly was lifted, I screamed and dropped to the ground.

What’s wrong with me is it’s been thirteen fucking years and I’m crying as I type this.

What’s wrong with me? Assholes like you.

Not all of us are ready or able to see these images again. And again. And again.

That’s what’s wrong with me, my-teen-quote. What the fuck is wrong with you?

therealleaah:

Awwwww

X

robregal:

staygolddx3:

middlechildswag:

Kanye on paparazzi. 

Kanye speaking some real shit

Way too real.

robregal:

staygolddx3:

middlechildswag:

Kanye on paparazzi.

Kanye speaking some real shit

Way too real.

imcleopatraa:

Babe
therealleaah:

Husband

therealleaah:

Husband

Taylor swift look like a French fry that u soaked in dish water by accident
juipiter: