fuckyeahmovieworkouts:

House workout!

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thoseshamythings:

Sheldon Lee Cooper

Amy’s Sexy Boyfriend

I mustache you a question but I’ll shave it for later #sister (Taken with instagram)

wilsoncarestoomuch:

andrewscotted:

Lockdown; Thirteen/Wilson playing truth or dare #03

Thirteen: You’re too much of a nice boy, Wilson. Let’s let the bad boy out for a bit. You have to go steal one dollar right now.

WILSONNNNN <3

feedthecaterpillars:

Another window displayed a handsome grandfather clock, which prompted her to observe: “I’ve never had a home. Not a real one with all my own furniture. But if I ever get married again, and make a lot of money, I’m going to hire a couple of trucks and ride down Third Avenue buying every damn kind of crazy thing. I’m going to get a dozen grandfather clocks and line them all up in one room and have them all ticking away at the same time. That would be real homey, don’t you think?” - Truman Capote, “A Beautiful Child”

Last night I went to the movies and saw “My Week With Marilyn.” It was beautifully shot and provided insight into the gilded life of Miss Monroe. It reminded me of Truman Capote’s short story “A Beautiful Child,” in which he documents a day date with the actress. The above excerpt is one of my favorites from the story — I love how homeyness means a dozen grandfather clocks. 

vintagerosegarden:

Okay, this is seriously cool! Tin Man Playground by Tom Otterness

A love story can never be about full possession. The happy marriage, the requited love, the desire that never dims – these are lucky eventualities but they aren’t love stories. Love stories depend on disappointment, on unequal births and feuding families, on matrimonial boredom and at least one cold heart. Love stories, nearly without exception, give love a bad name. We value love not because it’s stronger than death but because it’s weaker. Say what you want about love: death will finish it. You will not go on loving in the grave, not in any physical way that will at all resemble love as we know it on earth. The perishable nature of love is what gives love its importance in our lives. If it were endless, if it were on tap, love wouldn’t hit us the way it does. And we certainly wouldn’t write about it.
Jeffrey Eugenides (via troubled)

I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before that, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively. I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from skim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog.
Lemony Snicket (via slekes)