I won’t be posting here anymore

(via realgonekitty)

early-onset-of-night:

Tattoo artist Ryan Fitzgerald from Dayton, OH was hit with a $100,000 lawsuit last week by his ex-girlfriend Rossie Brovent.  She claims that her boyfriend was supposed to tattoo a scene from Narnia on her back but instead tattooed an image of a pile of excrement with flies buzzing around it.

Apparently, Ryan found out that Rossie had cheated with a long-time friend of his, but instead of confronting her about it he acted like everything was normal and hatched a plan for revenge. Originally, Rossie tried to have Ryan charged with assault, but the ingenious tattoo artist had covered his bases by plying Rossie with wine and tequila shots and getting her to sign a consent form that stated the design was “at the artist’s discretion.”

No word from Rossie on whether the illicit night of passion with Ryan’s friend was worth it. Moral of the story? Never cheat on a tattoo artist.

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Update: response, response2

(via fuckyeahtattoos)

I need to just sit my ass down one day and start drawing. I have a brand new sketchbook, completely untouched, just sitting upstairs… Shame on me. I need to jump start the artistic side again.

(via letshavesextodubstep)

(via realgonekitty)

George Clooney’s response when asked why he will not seek political office

(via coketalk)

    She sits in a garage that isn’t even mine. My former neighbors were kind enough to let me store some things, most of which are replaceable, until I can pick up my moving truck. None of it really matters, save one. Priscilla. MY closest friend, my greatest lover, my worst influence.

    She was born back ‘97 in much the same fashion as her kin. Shoved into the world far too soon so daddy could make more money. The man who took her in first was, by my 45 minute estimation, a good one. He treated her well. Too well. She was dying to break free, to show the world that she isn’t just for show, something shiny to show off to others. No, she deserved better.

    I treated her like shit, pushed her to her limits, often times to a point where she could literally not move on her own power. I kept pushing anyway. apologizing for taking things too far. She forged on ahead, in quiet dignity, myself wrapped in embarrassment, her silence echoing the “fuck you” I know she wanted to say.

    No matter what happened, though, we always made it home together, frequently at the cost of my own sustenance for that day. It was my punishment. A small price to pay knowing she’ll still be there for me in the morning.

    I promise things will change. I promise gifts. I have yet to deliver. She’s damn near torn to shit on the inside, much like myself, yet she keeps going. Sometimes I still need to push her, but, once we’re off again it’s just me and her and our adventures, free to love each other in ways only the two of us will ever know.

    When we’re out there together, I can hear her tell me, “I’m still here. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me, which I know is forever, because I’m a stubborn bitch and you fuckin love me for it.”

    Yeah, I really fuckin do.

…while on the contrary an incapable leader can demoralize the best of troops.”
                — Gen. John J. Pershing

Dearest United States Marine Corps higher ranking personnel,

     Hello. My Name is Jim. You may know me as “that fucking Lance Corporal with the ridiculous last name”.

     Over the preceding four years, I have run the gamut of morale, from wanting nothing more than to be a U.S. Marine, serve my country, kill some bad guys, to be willing to give my life for another, to not giving any amount of fucks about any of you. Why would you do that? Why have you not taken the fact that there are good men and women out there that want nothing more to do with anything militarily related?

    I have served my country and Corps in as honorable a way as I can. Yes, I’m not the most desirable candidate for you, baby bones and higher I.Q. n shit, but I wanted nothing more than to stay and serve. However, you destroyed that in me.

     My biggest question is, why do you want to make me feel like shit for a series of injuries I sustained in the line of duty? I apologize that my glasses inconvenience you. I also apologize that you never had the joy of experiencing the pain I suffer every day. It’s not good enough that I sacrificed everything I was, broke almost every bone in my body, and have suffered a series of maiming injuries that I will have to live with until the day I die.

    It’s brutally apparent to me, and most likely anyone else with a shred of intelligence (i.e. smarts), that something in your personal life is severely lacking. Does the missus wear the pants? Does that eagle, globe, and anchor not hold a candle to the fact that you are, at home, a little bitch?

     Words cannot describe the joy I feel at the thought that I will no longer have to be one of you in a matter of weeks.

     Semper Fidelis, brother.

    As much as I try to move on, the closer the distance becomes to being physical, the harder it hits, the more it hurts.

    I was ready and willing to be everything for you. I changed everything I was, accepted all the shit that needed to be changed, based only on your word. What good did it do? None. I’m worse now than I was when you left.

    All the disgusting things that I hated couples doing, I did with you. The public displays, the matching outfits, the romantic dinners. I did it all for you. I tried to be a better man for you. What did I get in return? A shattered and confused psyche and a void that has no evident sign of filling.

    It’s difficult trying to rebuild now. I gave everything I could give, down to the last ounce of defiance, and you tore me apart. I hope you’re content with what you’ve done. I hope you sleep at night with a clean conscience.

    I sure as shit can’t

I miss my children

…but because I realized I’m gonna be all right without you.

    Fuckin’ A, the melodrama recently. I’d like to have some more inspirational things going, but, sadly, that’s not the frame of mind I’ve been in of late. I’m trying to dissect the last two months of my life into something understandable and manageable.

    Here’s a breakdown: August 22, 2011, the slated Mrs. Jones and I go on a “trial separation”, on recommendation from my therapist. September 6, she gets it in her head that I’m lying about something and breaks up with me. September 8, I have an episodic reaction to one of my meds and end up in the Nevada desert with no recollection of how I got there. September 11, My brakes fail and I crash into a couple just moving into town. September 12, ex-almost Mrs. Jones decides to go make food while leaving my son in a bathtub with flowing water, subsequently causing a near drowning episode. September 13, Child Protective Services awards her custody because she will be living with her mother and I’m active duty military. Also, I get stuck with his medical bills.

    Following all of this, I don’t remember the dates, I get forcibly moved back into the barracks, I lose my apartment, my insurance won’t cover the entire cost of my accident, leaving me sans vehicle, and I still have not received a replacement for my sleeping meds.

    A subsequent side effect to being unable to sleep? I’ve slept, maybe, a total of 16 hours in the past month.

    Moral of the story? Don’t complain, you mother fuckers.

suicidegirls:

If you looked into the mirror 5 years form now, what will you see?

seriously, any will do