March 29, 2014   10,173 notes

(Source: rogueklover, via capekalaska)

March 25, 2014   15,420 notes

(Source: artofmanliness, via auerr)

February 18, 2014   23,268 notes

capekalaska:

goals

(Source: trashybooksforladies)

December 26, 2013   197,359 notes

(Source: ludgateing, via annnniegirl)

December 25, 2013   12,580 notes

(Source: whalicorns, via tr4pezeswinger)

December 1, 2013   202,818 notes

(Source: k-alkunn, via annnniegirl)

May 6, 2013   625,112 notes

(via staynegatiive)

January 29, 2013   145,042 notes
Love

Love

(via prettydressesinthelaundry)

December 22, 2012   43,911 notes
fuckedbythegallowsx:

Mother of god

fuckedbythegallowsx:

Mother of god

(Source: everythingnicolee, via seeyouinvancouverdarling-deacti)

December 10, 2012   95 notes
I would totally wear the shit out of this dress to my own wedding. 

I would totally wear the shit out of this dress to my own wedding. 

(via prettydressesinthelaundry)

December 10, 2012   95 notes
I would totally wear the shit out of this dress to my own wedding. 

I would totally wear the shit out of this dress to my own wedding. 

(via prettydressesinthelaundry)

November 25, 2012   1,817 notes
Love. Him.

Love. Him.

November 5, 2012   62 notes

(via lipstickandcocaine)

November 4, 2012   1,184 notes
November 3, 2012

Playing Cowboy

I sought asylum at a dude ranch in Death Valley where the heat could purge me of my sins. I played cowboy, hoping I could sweat it out like a sauna of life and justice. I met a woman, a girl so beautiful she could sprout laced wings out of her slender, perfect shoulder blades, without skipping a beat. I ate flan from her belly button and we dreamed of Tokyo and blowing it all to smithereens. We made love on the floor—the rug made of cowhide scratched her ass and left red marks on each cheek. Later I kissed the marks, my jeans around my ankles, following the pattern of scratches like a map of our torrid lovemaking. 

I came to love the desert—its pumpkin-colored sunsets and the way the pervasive dirt settled into my pores.

The woman, who in my head I called mother goose because she described life like a fairy tale, brought me fresh-baked sour dough bread on Sundays. The bread was still hot and I lathered butter into its fluffy flesh. Then I’d catch her making some poker face at me over the table, so I got on my knees and pulled up her skirt to kiss between her legs with my butter-soaked tongue. I held on tight to her boot-straps and pulled her closer, while I buried my face in her warmth. Her inner thighs squeezed my cheeks. 

The following week I had to leave. She called me a bastard, but I gave her a wink and kissed her goodbye.

Mar 19th, 2011