I just want Wesley and Buttercup to have an equal dynamic in their marriage.

 

Charlie Chaplin in a rarely seen footage of what might have been a precursor (or rehearsal) to the 1918 never-released film How To Make Movies.

Note: This was shown in a French documentary called La Naissance de Charlot (released in 2013).

(Source: charles--chaplin)

You’re born with a ton of fucks to give, so you spend them like a kid with a credit card. You give fucks about your friends, about your grades, about your fashion sense, about strangers’ opinions. You give way too many fucks about way too many things. You have so many. Then, as you get older, you have maybe 10 fucks per month, so you learn to budget them. You allocate fucks to family and career, but there aren’t enough fucks to give to the newest fads. Oh, someone at work has something they need my help with that’s outside my job title? I’ll do my best to allocate some fucks, but this month is pretty tight. Then, as you get even older, you’re down to 1-2 fucks per month, and those fucks are pretty damn precious. You give them to your family and your hobbies and your job, and that’s kinda it. It’s not your fault – fucks expire too quickly. I would’ve liked to save my fucks from when I was younger but I can’t. Then, you hit fuck insolvency. You’re getting like 1 fuck a year, and you have to make it last. So you go without, and even previously fuck-worthy things, you just can’t give a fuck. Some people run out really quickly, Some people have a fuck trust fund that pays out a decent amount even into old age. But at some point, the fuck faucet runs completely dry and you’re out of fucks to give. It’s just basic Fuckonomics.

-Unknown English Teacher (via swarthyvillain)

I’ve never read anything more fucking true in my whole fucking life. 

Fuck.

(via unicornempire)

sailorv:

 

biggayron:

Naoko Takeuchi is an avid fan of fashion, the following are a few inspirations fukufashion has discovered.

Setsuna - Chanel 1992

Hotaru - Thierry Mugler Fashion Week 1992 

Calaveras - Christian LaCroix Fashion Week 1992 and 1993

Koan - Christian LaCroix Fashion Week 1992

Black Lady - Yves Saint Laurent Opium perfume

Serenity - Christian Dior 1992

Naoko, my queen

(Source: taller-than-m0st)

dajo42:

whenever somebody says like “so what did you do today?” just look off into the distance and say “the right thing”

k-b-rock:

sententiola:

Sometimes I think about how many little things we probably do every day that would totally mess up the reasoning of a Sherlock-Holmes-style detective.

Like the other day we went to the cinema and I was wearing a shirt with no pockets so I put the ticket in my trouser pocket.  The next day I was wearing the same trousers and I put my hand in my pocket and found the ticket there.

Now, I have a certain selection of things I always have in my trouser pockets and I don’t really like having anything else in there because it confuses my hands when I want to get something, so I took the ticket out.  And I wasn’t near a rubbish bin, but I was wearing a shirt with a breast pocket.  So I put the ticket in the shirt pocket.

And I thought: if I get interestingly murdered, the Sherlock-Holmes-style detective is going to deduce that I’m wearing the same shirt that I wore yesterday.  Because it’s got a cinema ticket in the pocket with yesterday’s date on, and why on earth would anyone put a cinema ticket in the pocket of a shirt unless they were wearing the shirt when they went to the cinema?

Which is a bit of reasoning we would all find totally convincing if it came from a Sherlock-Holmes-style detective.  But it would be wrong.  Because actually there are so many other explanations for things once you take account of the fact that people are often slightly eccentric in completely trivial and unguessable ways.

“Samuel Vimes dreamed about Clues. He had a jaundiced view of Clues. He instinctively distrusted them. They got in the way. And he distrusted the kind of person who’d take one look at another man and say in a lordly voice to his companion, “Ah, my dear sir, I can tell you nothing except that he is a left-handed stonemason who has spent some years in the merchant navy and has recently fallen on hard times,” and then unroll a lot of supercilious commentary about calluses and stance and the state of a man’s boots, when exactly the same comments could apply to a man who was wearing his old clothes because he’d been doing a spot of home bricklaying for a new barbecue pit, and had been tattooed once when he was drunk and seventeen* and in fact got seasick on a wet pavement. What arrogance! What an insult to the rich and chaotic variety of the human experience!”

—Terry Pratchett, Feet of Clay

I just really enjoy hating Sherlock now.

Never, never tell them. Try and remember that. Never tell anyone anything ever. Never tell anyone anything again.

Ernest Hemingway, from The Garden Of Eden  (via varst)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)