think-progress:

Romney vs. Reality

what my weekend looks like. 

askinganimal:

Wyanbene 1975 (by NettyA (away on holiday))

Sounds about right.

ilovecharts:

whereinthehellisnowherenow:

for the second straight year, FDU has found that watching no news is more informative than watching Fox News…

Further, on international questions, No News comes in higher than Fox News and MSNBC

Chills.

deadhorsebrooklyn:

The Two Serious Ladies blog has really excellent writing by female authors. I love this blog and was so excited to see my dear friend Alyssa Barrett’s story on there. Here’s an excerpt of 

“A MATTER OF URGENCY” BY ALYSSA BARRETT

People lose things in all sorts of ways. Carl and I were in the garden when I lost my arm. I was harvesting tomatoes from the plants we had grown and diligently watered, and he was pruning the stems from the basil. He asked for the shears that were beside me–the large gardening shears used for trimming the bushes and branches that surrounded the yard. He wanted to cut down a diseased plant so it would not infect the others beside it. I gave him the shears. In doing so, I handed them to him in the way you’re meant to hand something sharp to someone–handle first, the scissored blades tight in my palm. My glove was caked in dirt, and his hands were just a little slick with oils from the plants, or sweat, or water or maybe he just lost his grip for a moment or maybe I didn’t let go fast enough. The shears fell, blades open and Carl and I both reached for them mid-air. I figured I’d catch them first–Carl wasn’t much for hand-eye coordination; he wasn’t good at baseball or hammering a nail or that sort of thing. We were always short on wine glasses and plates from when Carl washed the dishes.

When I realized the shears were not yet in my hand, I thought maybe he’d done it–hand and eye aligning–and caught the falling object, and I said, “Nice one, hon.” But I looked down and saw that the shears weren’t in his hand. They had fallen open across my forearm, were just balancing there for a moment in the crook of my elbow. Then I quivered a little and the shears snapped shut and there was a feeling of extreme heat. The shears were falling to the ground and so was the bottom half of my arm, severed clean from its socket: a clean cut through skin, tissue and bone and all.

It didn’t make any sense that it could happen like that. It was impossible–that my arm could be sliced at the joint so easily. A butcher knife through a chicken wing. First, Carl swore and chided me; he hadn’t seen it yet. He figured I’d dropped the tomatoes. That was how it sounded. My piece of arm fell with the thud of fleshy fruit spilled from waist-height, dull and soft, the ring and clank of the shears like a metal bowl falling. It didn’t sound terrible, and I didn’t shriek. I said only, “Oh.” Carl said, “Damn.” He must have imagined that the tomatoes would all be bruised and unusable. My pain wasn’t as great as it should have been. The bowl of tomatoes was still cradled in my other arm. There was the sound of liquid hitting the ground. I was remembering the feeling of swimming in the just-thawed lake water in spring, something I had not done since I met him.

The rest is here.

hell yes.

(Source: )

canyons

(Source: glared)

the fog comes…

(Source: procaine)

bonfires

yes.

mojitosandblow:

rawfuel:

covetarts:

troy williams

heavygraffic:

Factory Fifteen