it--knows-you

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#same for women tbh

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Some details from my last painting

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just saw someone call d-cups small. in what world

#???????

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know your place

#somebody help me

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I bought this organ off Etsy I like to jab it with my screwdriver.

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maybe he hurts every woman that comes into his life because he should be stoned to death and killed and stabbed and beaten and shot and drowned and

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people should give me money so i can get more tattoos and look hotter and sexier

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Desolation Tim hnrhghghgh

#I think we should all sit down for a moment #does that sound okay? can we sit down. for a moment #jontim

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so bitchless they made me bisexual

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bro i love sports and women. i got to like 8th base with this hot babe “8th base whats that” she took me to the house she grew up in and showed me pictures of her dead relatives. we sat in the living room and she told me the stories of her life that lead to that moment. like quicksand they, and that moment were gone and we left back into the cold world which we’d been spat into. It was raining

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“I, too, feel the need to reread the books I have already read,“ a third reader says, “but at every rereading I seem to be reading a new book, for the first time. Is it I who keep changing and seeing new things of which I was not previously aware? Or is reading a construction that assumes form, assembling a great number of variables, and therefore something that cannot be repeated twice according to the same pattern? Every time I seek to relive the emotion of a previous reading, I experience different and unexpected impressions, and do not find again those of before. At certain moments it seems to me that between one reading and the next there is a progression: in the sense, for example, of penetrating further into the spirit of the text, or of increasing my critical detachment. At other moments, on the contrary, I seem to retain the memory of the readings of a single book one next to another, enthusiastic or cold or hostile, scattered in time without a perspective, without a thread that ties them together. The conclusion I have reached is that reading is an operation without object; or that its true object is itself. The book is an accessory aid, or even a pretext.”

— Italo Calvino, If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler

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i've been noticing how often i refer to my friends in conversations lately and it's actually making me a bit emotional. if there's one thing i could tell my younger self, who didn't have a single friend to confide in and thought that he never would, it would be that one day he'd have so many wonderful people in his life that he wouldn't even be able to go a single interaction without bringing up someone he loves at least once.

#yeah. yeah #8-15 yr old me I love you and I promise you’ll be fine

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drinking a beer in a hammock in the sun realizing maybe i don't have to hit myself with hammers every day forever just some or most days

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absolutely NEED a pretty woman to put her canine teeth in the side of my neck rn

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do you like me? blink once for yes and decapitate yourself for no

#man I should’ve sent this to [redacted] instead of the actual message I sent

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hey do people know about this painting??? because it hangs in the art gallery in my city and it makes me a little insane every time i see it

anyway it’s called the victory of faith (1891) and it’s by saint george hare

**actually, i’m editing this to add a closeup of their faces too:

#me and whoooooooo