Hi my name is Olivia. I am 17 years old, from New Zealand. I like blue
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(via killtheprizefighter)
What are your top beauty tips?
Start out perfect and don’t change a thing. Always accentuate your best features by pointing at them. And conceal your flaws by sucker punching anyone who has the audacity to mention them.
Never too old to learn from the Muppets.
And this:
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.” - Miss Piggy
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For those of you who don’t understand archaeology, I have made a diagram.
CASE CLOSED.
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(via pizza)
How many tears did The Doctor cry?
A River.
Was it enough to fill two Ponds?
(via the-fury-of-a-time-lord)
OMG, look at this Jennifer Lawrence trasformation!
This almost needs a spoiler alert.
(via killtheprizefighter)
what if with our first clot of air when we are born we inhale a soul, and every time we breathe out, we squeeze a tiny part of our souls out. would our final breath actually be the very last soul fragment leaving our bodies?
Woah woah wait
you know those things that say “you become like the 5 people you hang out with the most”
that would explain why, because you would actually be inhaling little parts of them over time
Oh my god
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prends-la-vie-comme-elle-vient:
AsylumWaiting Room of the Big Three.it’s funny because it looks like the sherlock fandom are sane here
Sherlock bustled about the kitchen, throwing a cupboard door open and pushing aside a box of nicotine patches to retrieve two mismatched mugs. A kettle whistled plaintively in the background, like it had been trying to draw attention to itself for a while now. Setting the mugs aside, Sherlock absently pulled the kettle off the stove, poured tea into the two mugs, and carried them into the living room.
Doctor Who was sprawled over the same chair it had collapsed into last night, when it had appeared at the door muttering inanely about lost regenerations and knackered navigations systems. It made a whining noise as Sherlock tucked the shock blanket it had thrown off in the night back around its shoulders.
Supernatural was in similar straits, curled up on the floor with a throw pillow and a tattered trench coat around its shoulders and alternating between sobbing and muttering about domesticity potential.
A thudding on the stairs indicated the ruckus had finally awoke Merlin, who poked its head into the room, hair sticking up at all angels as it tied its scarf around its neck. Blinking blearily at the mess, it seemed to realize what had occurred when it picked up a discarded bow-tie from the floor, holding it between forefinger and thumb, “Is it that time already?”
“It was bad this year,” Sherlock whispered, trying not to exacerbate the already fragile fandoms under its care.
“I remember what that was like,” Merlin muttered, running a hand through its hair and pulling a cape off the nearby coat rack, “I’ll go to the store. We’re out of milk again. May as well pick up some fish fingers, custard, and salt.”
Supernatural gurgled something quietly.
“No, I won’t forget the pie.”
I SWEAR TO GOD TUMBLR NEVER FUCKING CHANGE
(via the-fury-of-a-time-lord)
Pics or it didn’t happen
SH
Sending you a video
MH
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(via thesebrokenpromises)
(via guceubcuesu)
Now all other cotton candy is just boring.
ARE YOU FUCKIGN KIDDING ME
WHAT .,.,
(via the-fury-of-a-time-lord)
