whatever, dudes!!

bookelfe:

I would like to start an official movement to replace the prevalence of manpain in fiction with granpain.

A grandmother’s boyfriend is left dead in her apartment.  She cradles the body tenderly.  Her face hardens.  SHE WILL GET HER REVENGE.

A grandmother stands on a roof, in a billowy leather coat.  A single perfect tear trickles down her cheek — but when she turns around to confront her ten attackers, there is no trace of it.

“No,” says a grandmother, when her grandchildren attempt to dissuade her from her lonely path of vigilante justice, and turns her sad, noble profile to the side.  “I work alone.”

GRANPAIN.

finnualabutler:

Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water.
And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes
you cannot even breathe deeply, and
the night sky is no home, and
you have cried yourself to sleep enough times
that you are down to your last two percent, but

nothing is infinite,
not even loss.

You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
you are going to find yourself again.