person: i heard if u bend the iphone 6 it bends.
me: i heard if u set clothes on fire, they burn. wtf did u expect would happen
different kinds of tired:
1. all day at the beach sleepy. warm skin. wet hair. salt and sand and green apple-scented shampoo. bed sheet tides pulling up and down stomach flips into mermaid dreams.
2. milky tired. early nights. wondering if you are getting sick. medicine light bones. eyelids melting closed. dizzy, dizzy, spinning into sleep.
3. drowsy car rides. soft radio buzz. pillow on the window. pulling on your seatbelt. waking up and not knowing where you are.
4. college tired. forget what you are doing. no amount of coffee really helps. messy hair. nothing is making sense. passed out in class.
It is a July summer in Nicosia, thirty years from war. I sit in a plush chair, worn by years of sitting, baby cousins crawling, spilt water and ingrained with the scent of hot dinners. I had carsickness as we drove here; the ghost city may have disappeared in the distance, but it never left us entirely. Tiny wisps of memory dangle from our hair. I wonder apprehensively whether we have crossed the line of honesty too, not just the one between territories.
Andreas shut the back door behind us, trapping the night in its hinges. The telephone shrills in the background, but no one goes to answer it. It sends a cold finger up my spine, reminding me of earlier today. In Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus, perched in a crook of Mediterranean Sea; the island of Aphrodite, we are just south of the ghost city.
The one I crossed.
-
“Let’s cross the line.”
Carina’s eyes flicked up, but she continued writing. “What?”
“Let’s go to the other side.” I leaned my elbows on the desk, stared at her face and then her hands.
“Of Nicosia? To the beach?” She nodded. “That’s fine. We can go there.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Refusing to blink, I scowled at her hairline, which was the only visible part if her face as she crouched over her page. “I want you to take me to the Turkish side. The ghost town.”
Half her face was highlighted, blue eyes patterned with sun and shade. “You know I can’t do that, Marilena.”
“Don’t you think they want to know?” I grabbed her pen from her hand, tucked it behind my ear.
“Marilena.”
“They left everything behind!”
She stared at me stonily. “And they will leave you behind.”
The crackle of words stung. I looked away, towards the sun.
“No!” Carina sighed, shuffled her papers neatly, and pressed her lips together. “Okay…Fine. I will go. There and back, in one day, in one hour.”
“Three hours.”
She hesitated, nail tapping the wood. “Three.”
-
The wind was thin, the structures thinner. The streets, mainly white, were flecked with black, broken and cracked in some parts. Carina wringed her hands nervously. She turned away, but I caught her arm, and wheeled her into a café situated inside the ruins of an old building.
“So we’ve crossed the line! But we can’t just go back over so quickly. I brought my camera and everything.”
“And I was forced into crime! And everything.” Her voice was tinged was venom and a Greek accent. I pulled a map from my pocket. “What is that?” She snapped forward at the waist to see the paper.
“I took it from Yiayia’s house,” I announced. “It should be similar to the roads now. Did you know everyone just left without looking behind them? They fled and prayed that the rest of their family were doing the same.”
Carina’s mouth was a small line, like the streets on the map she was staring at sceptically.
“Carrie, Yiayia and Bapou were those people. They had a house. All of them ran. And took what? Nothing.”
She sighed miserably. “We are going to find their house, aren’t we?”
-
It stood alone. The wind blew a dark branch over the white wall, dusted with dirt and cracked with age. Weeds grew through the paved stones, leaves riding the empty air. There was nothing but rubble next door. Across the street, half-houses were intact. My camera hung heavily on my ribcage.
Edging towards the door, I clasped the dusty handle. The frame for a second, but opened to reveal patchy darkness. A strong and overwhelming hurt filled my lungs; I turned slightly to Carina. Her eyes and eyebrows were scrunched up, looking at the floor. The memories were strung highly in the air, hovering in the broken ceiling, the murky corners. The house balanced, on edge, a home that looked half-constructed, instead of entirely taken. Outside, the bright grass brushed the meek walls. It was a strange contrast; the lively green and the blackened debris.
“I think it’s not right,” Carina puffed, as if she had jogged there, and wanted to sprint back, “that we are seeing this. It is not meant for our eyes.”
I touched the camera lens, cool against my fingers. “We will see it for them, and bring it back, since they won’t come here themselves.”
“Excuse me?” She whipped around, careful not to step on a fragmented piece of floor. “No! We are here to see it, then go home!”
A slight object glinted in the corner. A small dresser, once white and pristine, sat securely up against the wall, which was pocked with holes. A hairbrush, powdered and peeling, lay upon it, with tilting photo frames touching the stained mirror. And, near the edge, a small jewelled box remained. I pocketed it quickly; careful not to break anything that might be inside.
Carina jerked. “Gah!” She shot me a murderous glance, slipped the trilling phone into my palm.
“For you,” she mouthed, eyebrows stubbornly raised.
I answered. “Marilena?” It’s my brother. “Where are you?”
“It the city,” I lied.
“No, you are not. I heard you talking about the Turkish side—” he cut off, as if someone had come into the room that was not supposed to know. The line went dead. We had been caught.
-
My father looks stern; my mother has her hand over her forehead, obviously tired. Andreas loiters obnoxiously in the hallway, pretending not to have a clue.
“Why would you do that, Marilena?” Bapou’s voice is heavily laced in a Greek accent, an indignant tone to the jarring words. He had already spoken about treason, lack of loyalty, and my ability to do the opposite of what I had been told. A stubborn child, he scolded. Always! The! Same!
Again, I do not answer. Instead, I pull out my camera, switching it on. “I found it.” Six pairs of eyes flick up. Yiayia takes it gently from my hands, to view the first image, of Carina and I standing in the doorway of their house.
Yiayia’s usually warm eyes flick up. Now, they are flecked with pain and memories, a lifetime of experience. I take out the box, a tiny jangling noise coming from within it. Pressing it into her palm, I stare straight back at her, a true Christou, and let myself smile. My family look at me in disbelief and shock, but I can see, in the mind of my strong and beautiful grandmother, that she is proud.
Τέλος (Finish)
- Sophie Stylianou ( insta: @sophiestphotos )
highkey want a boy who’s taller than me and has messy hair and nice eyebrows and is strong enough to lift me and carry me when I’m tired and is intelligent and can carry smart conversations and calls me beautiful and treats me right in front of his friends
It is a July summer in Nicosia, thirty years from war. I sit in a plush chair, worn by years of sitting, baby cousins crawling, spilt water and ingrained with the scent of hot dinners. I had carsickness as we drove here; the ghost city may have disappeared in the distance, but it never left us entirely. Tiny wisps of memory dangle from our hair. I wonder apprehensively whether we have crossed the line of honesty too, not just the one between territories.
Andreas shut the back door behind us, trapping the night in its hinges. The telephone shrills in the background, but no one goes to answer it. It sends a cold finger up my spine, reminding me of earlier today. In Nicosia, the capital of Cyprus, perched in a crook of Mediterranean Sea; the island of Aphrodite, we are just south of the ghost city.
The one I crossed.
-
“Let’s cross the line.”
Carina’s eyes flicked up, but she continued writing. “What?”
“Let’s go to the other side.” I leaned my elbows on the desk, stared at her face and then her hands.
“Of Nicosia? To the beach?” She nodded. “That’s fine. We can go there.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Refusing to blink, I scowled at her hairline, which was the only visible part if her face as she crouched over her page. “I want you to take me to the Turkish side. The ghost town.”
Half her face was highlighted, blue eyes patterned with sun and shade. “You know I can’t do that, Marilena.”
“Don’t you think they want to know?” I grabbed her pen from her hand, tucked it behind my ear.
“Marilena.”
“They left everything behind!”
She stared at me stonily. “And they will leave you behind.”
The crackle of words stung. I looked away, towards the sun.
“No!” Carina sighed, shuffled her papers neatly, and pressed her lips together. “Okay…Fine. I will go. There and back, in one day, in one hour.”
“Three hours.”
She hesitated, nail tapping the wood. “Three.”
-
The wind was thin, the structures thinner. The streets, mainly white, were flecked with black, broken and cracked in some parts. Carina wringed her hands nervously. She turned away, but I caught her arm, and wheeled her into a café situated inside the ruins of an old building.
“So we’ve crossed the line! But we can’t just go back over so quickly. I brought my camera and everything.”
“And I was forced into crime! And everything.” Her voice was tinged was venom and a Greek accent. I pulled a map from my pocket. “What is that?” She snapped forward at the waist to see the paper.
“I took it from Yiayia’s house,” I announced. “It should be similar to the roads now. Did you know everyone just left without looking behind them? They fled and prayed that the rest of their family were doing the same.”
Carina’s mouth was a small line, like the streets on the map she was staring at sceptically.
“Carrie, Yiayia and Bapou were those people. They had a house. All of them ran. And took what? Nothing.”
She sighed miserably. “We are going to find their house, aren’t we?”
-
It stood alone. The wind blew a dark branch over the white wall, dusted with dirt and cracked with age. Weeds grew through the paved stones, leaves riding the empty air. There was nothing but rubble next door. Across the street, half-houses were intact. My camera hung heavily on my ribcage.
Edging towards the door, I clasped the dusty handle. The frame for a second, but opened to reveal patchy darkness. A strong and overwhelming hurt filled my lungs; I turned slightly to Carina. Her eyes and eyebrows were scrunched up, looking at the floor. The memories were strung highly in the air, hovering in the broken ceiling, the murky corners. The house balanced, on edge, a home that looked half-constructed, instead of entirely taken. Outside, the bright grass brushed the meek walls. It was a strange contrast; the lively green and the blackened debris.
“I think it’s not right,” Carina puffed, as if she had jogged there, and wanted to sprint back, “that we are seeing this. It is not meant for our eyes.”
I touched the camera lens, cool against my fingers. “We will see it for them, and bring it back, since they won’t come here themselves.”
“Excuse me?” She whipped around, careful not to step on a fragmented piece of floor. “No! We are here to see it, then go home!”
A slight object glinted in the corner. A small dresser, once white and pristine, sat securely up against the wall, which was pocked with holes. A hairbrush, powdered and peeling, lay upon it, with tilting photo frames touching the stained mirror. And, near the edge, a small jewelled box remained. I pocketed it quickly; careful not to break anything that might be inside.
Carina jerked. “Gah!” She shot me a murderous glance, slipped the trilling phone into my palm.
“For you,” she mouthed, eyebrows stubbornly raised.
I answered. “Marilena?” It’s my brother. “Where are you?”
“It the city,” I lied.
“No, you are not. I heard you talking about the Turkish side—” he cut off, as if someone had come into the room that was not supposed to know. The line went dead. We had been caught.
-
My father looks stern; my mother has her hand over her forehead, obviously tired. Andreas loiters obnoxiously in the hallway, pretending not to have a clue.
“Why would you do that, Marilena?” Bapou’s voice is heavily laced in a Greek accent, an indignant tone to the jarring words. He had already spoken about treason, lack of loyalty, and my ability to do the opposite of what I had been told. A stubborn child, he scolded. Always! The! Same!
Again, I do not answer. Instead, I pull out my camera, switching it on. “I found it.” Six pairs of eyes flick up. Yiayia takes it gently from my hands, to view the first image, of Carina and I standing in the doorway of their house.
Yiayia’s usually warm eyes flick up. Now, they are flecked with pain and memories, a lifetime of experience. I take out the box, a tiny jangling noise coming from within it. Pressing it into her palm, I stare straight back at her, a true Christou, and let myself smile. My family look at me in disbelief and shock, but I can see, in the mind of my strong and beautiful grandmother, that she is proud.
Τέλος (Finish)
- Sophie Stylianou ( insta: @sophiestphotos )
pros of drinking a lot of water:
cons of drinking a lot of water:
I honestly love drunk girls so much, last night I was at a party and a girl started crying because she loved my hair
One time in college, I had a fight with my boyfriend and was sitting outside crying, and a drunk girl came over and gave me a leaf to make me feel better.
amazing
i was on the train and 3 drunk girls saw me and said i had nice brown eyes so they sang “brown eyed girl” to me
I threw up at a frat party and I was crying in the bathroom and a drunk girl went upstairs to get me a shirt and came back with a sweater and a kitten.
Amazing
Drunk boys: will gather into a huge pack and harass people passing by.
At the last party I went to three drunk girls fishtail braided my hair by committee
a drunk girl drew an eye on the back of my hand and then patted it with satisfaction and whispered “count olaf”
this is a nice post
once at a barbecue a drunk girl gave the surgical scar on my shoulder a butterfly kiss and said “you’re cured”
A drunk girl at a bar I was at became worried that I wasn’t getting enough nutrition and proceeded to hold peanuts to my lips and just keep saying “peanut peanut” until I would eat it. And after I allowed her to feed me a peanut she pet my hair and said “Thank you”.
Men want us to kiss them with beards, suck their dicks and kiss their balls with pubes, hug them with hairy arm pits, intwine our legs with hairy thighs, but if women have one hair on our body that isn’t on our head it’s disgusting
Reblog Everytime
EVERYTIME
damn-funny
funny-jack
Sick Tiger Cub Gets Rescued From Circus, Makes Incredible Recovery And Finds Love
SHES BLEPPING IN THE LAST PHOTO HELP ME
Since so many “tiger rescues” aren’t really rescues at all, I did some googling on this one.
Good news: This is a legit rescue, carried out by Tigers in America. This organisation rescues tigers from horrible situations like this.
If you’re an animal conservationist looking for an organisation to support, Tigers in America is worth looking into.
