whippit-princess:

lasso:



Guys seriously would you LOOK at mini Adam Scott from Boy Meets World circa 1994



was this when he was mayor

whippit-princess:

lasso:

Guys seriously would you LOOK at mini Adam Scott from Boy Meets World circa 1994

was this when he was mayor

(via unpureunchaste)




paulftompkins:

This is today!

Me, production/character designer Lisa Hanawalt, and series creator Raphael Bob-Waksberg!

Ask us questions about Bojack Horseman! #BojackQA

my big brother doing big things



me tho

(via 90s90s90s)


campmatriarchy:

pleased as punch about this haus—of—cee—cee amaliadahlia

campmatriarchy:

pleased as punch about this haus—of—cee—cee amaliadahlia


boringoldraphael:

We will be close on Friday 18 July.
We will be so close on Friday 18 July. For one night only I will hold your face in my hands and I will kiss you quickly and then slowly and then quickly and we will feel this incredible connection and we will tell each other everything.
On Friday 18 July, we will feed each other berries, and we will sing-mumble-slur old half-remembered camp songs, and we will laugh about how there was a time, not even that long ago, when we hadn’t even met, and what were we doing not meeting, who were we fooling, whose time were we wasting?
Sitting on my bed, recalling the origin of your knee’s crescent moon scar, you’ll gesticulate wildly and I’ll watch the cigarette sparks like evaporating fireflies, dizzy for a home in your discarded black blouse.
"I want to know you completely," I’ll whisper into every crevice of your body. We’ll make up constellations out of the freckles on our thighs, rich mythologies of ancient long-dead civilizations.
"Did you know I can juggle?" you’ll say, and I’ll say, "Show me."
Every other night will have been rehearsal for Friday 18 July — we had to be ready. Everything was pushing us imperceptibly toward this moment — if I hadn’t missed that train, if you hadn’t moved for the job, just imagine.
"I don’t want it to be tomorrow," you’ll say, a single tear escaping as you bitterly laugh at the futility of the sentiment. "I want it to be Friday July 18 forever."
And when the morning comes, our love, like bugs, will scatter in the light. We will dress ourselves while facing the wall, we will scramble for our phones, we will be strangers.
And we will realize that Friday July 18, like every day in history before it, was a moment, a twenty-four-hour trick of the light, a thing that happened once and never again.
And that sad truth will just about swallow us whole.
Sorry for any inconvinience.

boringoldraphael:

We will be close on Friday 18 July.

We will be so close on Friday 18 July. For one night only I will hold your face in my hands and I will kiss you quickly and then slowly and then quickly and we will feel this incredible connection and we will tell each other everything.

On Friday 18 July, we will feed each other berries, and we will sing-mumble-slur old half-remembered camp songs, and we will laugh about how there was a time, not even that long ago, when we hadn’t even met, and what were we doing not meeting, who were we fooling, whose time were we wasting?

Sitting on my bed, recalling the origin of your knee’s crescent moon scar, you’ll gesticulate wildly and I’ll watch the cigarette sparks like evaporating fireflies, dizzy for a home in your discarded black blouse.

"I want to know you completely," I’ll whisper into every crevice of your body. We’ll make up constellations out of the freckles on our thighs, rich mythologies of ancient long-dead civilizations.

"Did you know I can juggle?" you’ll say, and I’ll say, "Show me."

Every other night will have been rehearsal for Friday 18 July — we had to be ready. Everything was pushing us imperceptibly toward this moment — if I hadn’t missed that train, if you hadn’t moved for the job, just imagine.

"I don’t want it to be tomorrow," you’ll say, a single tear escaping as you bitterly laugh at the futility of the sentiment. "I want it to be Friday July 18 forever."

And when the morning comes, our love, like bugs, will scatter in the light. We will dress ourselves while facing the wall, we will scramble for our phones, we will be strangers.

And we will realize that Friday July 18, like every day in history before it, was a moment, a twenty-four-hour trick of the light, a thing that happened once and never again.

And that sad truth will just about swallow us whole.

Sorry for any inconvinience.


I detest the masculine point of view. I am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. I think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.
Virginia Woolf  (via listopada)

(via rapunzelie)


Dude: hey now, don't be a misandrist, men have value too
Me: Not All Men