best part of princess bride is that inigo loudly and openly states to anybody who will listen that he's going to kill a guy for revenge and has been chasing this for a while and instead of anybody saying "but revenge wont bring ur father back are u really sure that killing this guy will make anything better arent u scared of regretting the one thing uve spent ur entire life chasing" they're all just like "yea dude sounds cool hope you find him" and then he does and inigo kills him and is just "aw cool my dads avenged now i can go ride off into the sunset with my friends" and i think thats actually really great. yea maybe revenge isnt always the answer but it sure does make you feel better
When a boy…discovers that he is more given into introspection and consciousness of self than other boys his age, he easily falls into the error of believing it is because he is more mature than they. This was certainly a mistake in my case. Rather, it was because the other boys had no such need of understanding themselves as I had: they could be their natural selves, whereas I was to play a part, a fact that would require considerable understanding and study. So it was not my maturity but my sense of uneasiness, my uncertainty that was forcing me to gain control over my consciousness. Because such consciousness was simply a steppingstone to aberration and my present thinking was nothing but uncertain and haphazard guesswork.
So we all know that Tumblr is US-centric. But to what degree? (and can we skew the results of this poll by posting it at a time where they should be asleep?)
As I gaze at the structural column in Copley Station, cracked nearly in two and held together with zip ties that have been carefully painted over to match the column underneath, I feel my soul intertwined with that of a small Italian boy of days gone by, who also stopped to look up at a large, groaning, newly painted tank full of molasses
As I gaze at the structural column in Copley Station, cracked nearly in two and held together with zip ties that have been carefully painted over to match the column underneath, I feel my soul intertwined with that of a small Italian boy of days gone by, who also stopped to look up at a large, groaning, newly painted tank full of molasses