Love won't leave you, Hate won't heal you.

22nd July 2014

Post reblogged from Abbey Road with 102,731 notes

thirliewhirl:

girls, who were bullied most of their life and gain confidence at one point, should be feared most because they dont take anyone’s shit no longer and they will destroy you if you think otherwise

Source: thirliewhirl

21st July 2014

Photoset reblogged from Abbey Road with 583,336 notes

scourgefur:

ceevee5:

blvcknvy:

Licia Ronzulli, member of the European Parliament, has been taking her daughter Vittoria to the Parliament sessions for two years now.

Every time this is on my dash, it’s an automatic reblog.

BITCH, TELL ME AGAIN WOMEN CAN’T BE MOTHERS AND WORK AT THE SAME DAMN TIME, I WILL CUT YO ASS

Source: blvcknvy

20th July 2014

Quote reblogged from Abbey Road with 159,119 notes

You will be shocked, kids, when you discover how easy it is in life to part ways with people forever.

That’s why, when you find someone you want to keep around, you do something about it.
How I Met Your Mother  (via saintofsass)

Source: studiosixty

20th July 2014

Photo reblogged from Abbey Road with 3,179 notes

america-wakiewakie:

The boy who clung to the paramedic: the story behind the photo | Electronic Intifada 
This photo of a boy injured in an Israeli strike clinging to a medic at al-Shifa hospital went viral on the Internet.
Thursday night, 17 July, was the heaviest yet since Israel’s bombardment of Gaza began almost two weeks ago.
Dozens of people arrived to Gaza City’s al-Shifa hospital, where I was on shift that night. Some arrived torn to pieces, some beheaded, some disfigured beyond recognition, although still alive and breathing.
Seemingly indiscriminate artillery fire, a new element in Israel’s assault, had exacted a heavy toll on civilians.
The medical staff were lucky to get a break of less than half an hour. Some spent it watching the flares and bombs Israel was raining on the eastern neighborhoods of Gaza City, while others refueled with coffee or lay down for a few moments.
The relative calm did not last long. At around 3am, about eight or nine casualties arrived at the emergency room all at once. The last to come in were four siblings — two of them little children, both about three years old, with relatively superficial wounds. But it was clear they were pulled from under rubble, their faces and clothes covered in dirt and dust.
Then came the older of the four siblings, a boy in his early teens. His head and face were covered in blood and he was pressing a rag to his head to stanch the flow. But his focus was on something else: “Save my little brother!” he kept screaming.
The last to arrive was his brother, the child in the above photo that circulated around the world.
"I want my father!"
He was carried in by a paramedic and immediately rushed to the intensive care unit, which is right next to the ER. He clung to the paramedic, crying, “I want my father, bring me my father!” until he had to be forced to let go.
As I stood by, alert for orders, a group of four medical personnel immediately started to treat the boy. But he kept kicking and screaming and calling for his father.
His injuries were serious: a wound to the left side of his head which could indicate a skull fracture and a large piece of shrapnel in his neck. Another piece of shrapnel had penetrated his chest and a third had entered his abdomen. There were many smaller wounds all over his body.
Immediate measures had to be taken to save his life; he was sedated so the medics could get to work.
Upon carefully examining the wounds, it appeared that the explosion from the artillery round sent flying small pieces of stone from the walls of his house, and that some of his wounds were caused by these high-velocity projectiles.
He was extremely lucky: his neck injury was just an inch away from a major artery, his chest injury penetrated all the way through but failed to puncture his lung, and his abdomen was struck by shrapnel that just missed his bowel.
Luck
He had a stroke of luck denied to many that night.
The medics performed heroic measures in a remarkably short time, and the little boy’s life was saved.
Meanwhile in the emergency room, the elder brother was stitched up and the younger two siblings were washed and thoroughly examined for possible hidden injuries.
Somehow, despite the horror and the pain, they were sleeping. I don’t know how they did it, but I felt envious and grateful for the divine mercy that found its way to them.
Their brother with the most serious wounds will almost certainly survive, but with many scars and a difficult recovery period, both physical and psychological.
Too many casualties came in that night, too many for me to get this boy’s name, to know whether he was reunited with his father, or even what became of the rest of his family.
But there’s one thing that I know for sure, which is that hundreds of children just like him suffered similar or worse injuries, and up to the moment of this writing, nearly eighty children just like him have been killed as Israel’s merciless attack goes on.
Belal Dabour is a recently graduated doctor from Gaza, Palestine. He blogs at belalmd.wordpress.com.
(Photo Credit: Ezz al-Zanoun / APA images)

america-wakiewakie:

The boy who clung to the paramedic: the story behind the photo | Electronic Intifada 

This photo of a boy injured in an Israeli strike clinging to a medic at al-Shifa hospital went viral on the Internet.

Thursday night, 17 July, was the heaviest yet since Israel’s bombardment of Gaza began almost two weeks ago.

Dozens of people arrived to Gaza City’s al-Shifa hospital, where I was on shift that night. Some arrived torn to pieces, some beheaded, some disfigured beyond recognition, although still alive and breathing.

Seemingly indiscriminate artillery fire, a new element in Israel’s assault, had exacted a heavy toll on civilians.

The medical staff were lucky to get a break of less than half an hour. Some spent it watching the flares and bombs Israel was raining on the eastern neighborhoods of Gaza City, while others refueled with coffee or lay down for a few moments.

The relative calm did not last long. At around 3am, about eight or nine casualties arrived at the emergency room all at once. The last to come in were four siblings — two of them little children, both about three years old, with relatively superficial wounds. But it was clear they were pulled from under rubble, their faces and clothes covered in dirt and dust.

Then came the older of the four siblings, a boy in his early teens. His head and face were covered in blood and he was pressing a rag to his head to stanch the flow. But his focus was on something else: “Save my little brother!” he kept screaming.

The last to arrive was his brother, the child in the above photo that circulated around the world.

"I want my father!"

He was carried in by a paramedic and immediately rushed to the intensive care unit, which is right next to the ER. He clung to the paramedic, crying, “I want my father, bring me my father!” until he had to be forced to let go.

As I stood by, alert for orders, a group of four medical personnel immediately started to treat the boy. But he kept kicking and screaming and calling for his father.

His injuries were serious: a wound to the left side of his head which could indicate a skull fracture and a large piece of shrapnel in his neck. Another piece of shrapnel had penetrated his chest and a third had entered his abdomen. There were many smaller wounds all over his body.

Immediate measures had to be taken to save his life; he was sedated so the medics could get to work.

Upon carefully examining the wounds, it appeared that the explosion from the artillery round sent flying small pieces of stone from the walls of his house, and that some of his wounds were caused by these high-velocity projectiles.

He was extremely lucky: his neck injury was just an inch away from a major artery, his chest injury penetrated all the way through but failed to puncture his lung, and his abdomen was struck by shrapnel that just missed his bowel.

Luck

He had a stroke of luck denied to many that night.

The medics performed heroic measures in a remarkably short time, and the little boy’s life was saved.

Meanwhile in the emergency room, the elder brother was stitched up and the younger two siblings were washed and thoroughly examined for possible hidden injuries.

Somehow, despite the horror and the pain, they were sleeping. I don’t know how they did it, but I felt envious and grateful for the divine mercy that found its way to them.

Their brother with the most serious wounds will almost certainly survive, but with many scars and a difficult recovery period, both physical and psychological.

Too many casualties came in that night, too many for me to get this boy’s name, to know whether he was reunited with his father, or even what became of the rest of his family.

But there’s one thing that I know for sure, which is that hundreds of children just like him suffered similar or worse injuries, and up to the moment of this writing, nearly eighty children just like him have been killed as Israel’s merciless attack goes on.

Belal Dabour is a recently graduated doctor from Gaza, Palestine. He blogs at belalmd.wordpress.com.

(Photo Credit: Ezz al-Zanoun / APA images)

Source: america-wakiewakie

20th July 2014

Quote reblogged from Watch Sunsets With Me with 271 notes

"She kissed me. It didn’t mean anything, I swear!" He said, looking indignant.

And it didn’t seem to bother him that tears were rushing down her face and she was desperately trying to wipe them away.

It didn’t seem to bother him that she was clutching at the air trying to find the words inside her that said “Screw this. Screw you.”

Instead, he laughed and asked, “Why are you being so melodramatic? It was one drunken kiss.”

And she almost agreed with him, she almost apologised for falling apart like this.

Almost.

Except this time she got up and walked past him instead.

“You have an hour to pack your stuff. Then I want you out.”

— Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #35 (via blossomfully)

20th July 2014

Quote reblogged from poetic thoughts with 1,642 notes

When she leaves you will find yourself laying in bed one night, unable to sleep so you flip over your pillow to find a long strand of hair. The only girl who’s ever been in your bed was her, and it belongs to her. Your heart will feel heavy and your bones begin to break one by one when you look at it but you just keep it there and turn the pillow over again. It’s better to have the tiniest piece of her existence near you instead of nothing at all. When she leaves she will take the flowers she planted deep in your soul, and nothing will be left but dead leaves, I guess it’s better than nothing at all. When she leaves you won’t even be able to look at your bare skin without picturing her’s against it, you won’t be able to feel anything softer than her lips when they met yours. When she leaves you’ll find her remnants washed up in your room like worms on a sidewalk after it rains. You’ll stumble across bobby pins, and scrunchies, how could someone have so many god damn bobby pins? When she leaves your favorite sweater will smell like her, and you won’t be able to picture anything but how she looked when she was curled up in your arms every winter evening. When she leaves you’ll think that love is not real, it can’t be real, because the girl you planned forever with just left you in the dark. She was your one and only light in a world of dull black, but she’s gone now. Ever since she left, you feel gone now, too.
i.c. // when she leaves (via delicatepoetry)

19th July 2014

Quote reblogged from bare feet & bad poetry with 368 notes

I told a complete stranger about you today. I couldn’t help myself. They were so sad, and downtrodden. I needed them to know that perfection does exist, and that real beauty is out there. I told them that I knew someone who’s eyes never stopped shining, someone who taught me how to wander instead of worry, someone who makes waking up so much easier. I told them about you in a heartbeat, and just like me, they walked away smiling.
— ak, grocery store confessions (via alexthesleepy)

19th July 2014

Quote reblogged from Some Rough Sketches with 418 notes

Just do
whatever
the fuck
you feel
like doing;
life moves on
and you get
to the finish line
one way or another.

A gluten free life,
or a New York slice
every weekend,
won’t make
a difference;
how we love
to think
it makes
a difference.

You can
wash it down
with ice-cream
flavored coffee
and go through
cho-ppy days,
taking vitamins
and doing cleanses,
nitpicking trivial things —
movies,
music,
money,
work.

Our culture is fragmented
and falling apart;
while celebrities are bleaching
their assholes
inside a Beverly Hills office,
the young are dying in the street
and then thrown out,
like rotten fruit
at the market,
in drug infested projects.

We are still
not good
to each other
and it brings sadness
to my unresponsive heart.
I try to give,
even when I have nothing,
I smile, even when the muscles
in my mouth won’t respond,
and I dream even when sleep escapes me.

But when will it be enough?
How long can we carry on like this?
There is too much blood in our history books
too much greed for things that glow
too much ego overshadowing love
too much inequality for what’s inferior;
please let me know when we open our hearts
and become good, true, and angelic.

the world from afar - j.b.
(via youshouldacceptchaos)

18th July 2014

Quote reblogged from Peaks with 166,733 notes

We’ve been taught a woman’s body will cause men to sin. We’re told that if a woman shows too much of her body men will do stupid things. Let’s be clear: A woman’s body is not dangerous to you. Her body will not cause you harm. It will not make you do stupid things. If you do stupid things, it is because you chose to do stupid things.

Source: girlbreakout

17th July 2014

Photoset reblogged from working on my blog with 627 notes

17th July 2014

Photo reblogged from collection of my favourite quotes with 270,289 notes

Source: morondeluxe

17th July 2014

Quote reblogged from collection of my favourite quotes with 10 notes

I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself
— Simone de Beauvoir (via book-quotes-and-tea)

17th July 2014

Photo reblogged from Ella Wagner with 114 notes

17th July 2014

Photo reblogged from Images and Words with 2,161 notes

17th July 2014

Photo reblogged from ♡ love & happiness ツ with 4,298 notes