*starts homework at 11pm on sunday*
Fuck I have homework
you see what i mean
Fuck I cant remember if I had homework or not
this post comes back every sunday and it’s relevant every time
goddammit
reblog every sunday to save a life
i.
All of a sudden, you’re sixteen and the town you live in is too small for your dreams. You don’t understand how the universe inside of you fits into these streets. Your old school and the house you grew up in both seem too small to contain you. You’re halfway to seventeen, but you don’t feel like a “young adult” yet. You keep thinking; “not yet, please”. You want to hold off on life, tell it not yet, but still. The rest of the world seems huge and bright and interesting compared to this damn town. You start to think that any place would be better than this—you want to go to California, or London, or New York, or Rome.
You dream of hopping on a plane. Kissing strangers in bars. Seeing mountains, or the ocean, or something other than the backseat of your Mom’s car. You want new, you want exciting, you want different. You go to school and do your Chemistry homework and Google how much a flight to Ireland would cost. You look up the Cliffs of Moher and wonder how small you’d feel standing on the edge. You consider leaving in the middle of the night. You close your laptop, leave the world behind.
ii.
All of a sudden, you’re sixteen and the word hate is a regular thought on your mind. Here is a short list of the things that you “hate”: yourself, your Math teacher, Pretty Little Liars, boys, girls, teenagers in general. You feel disenchanted, disgusted, disillusioned to life. You want to ask your friends if they feel the same way, but that’s weird, so you keep the question held on your tongue. You can’t stand pop music, or boardgames, or anything remotely joyful. Nothing excites you anymore. Nothing makes you happy.
You’ve learned about the problems around you. When your parents speak, you hear a string of RacismRacismClassismSexismRacism. They yell at you when you try to tell them. They don’t understand. They tell you to get out of this phase, to stop being an ungrateful teenager. You don’t know how to explain to them that it isn’t a phase, that you’re scared you’ll feel like this forever. You keep quiet.
iii.
All of a sudden, you’re sixteen, and doing things you vowed never to do. The taste of beer is sharp on your tongue when you realize it. The guilt washes away with your next sip. Your parents would be terribly dissapointed in you, if they found out. After all, you’re such a bright young girl with a good head on your shoulders—you should know better. It’s your first party, and the smell of weed is sharp in the air. You’re not brave enough for that, yet. You drink cheap wine and vodka and champagne and Palm Bay’s. You get tipsy and giggle and almost show a boy your boobs. You tell your friends that you want to kiss someone; they tell you to wait until you’re sober. You don’t want to, though. You drink some more wine and purposely brush up against boys and go home, unkissed.
At your second party, you are more brave. You play King’s Cup with your friends, and find out which beers you like best. One of your friends brought weed, and you learn how to make a pipe out of a beercan. You learn more in that one night than you have in thirteen years of school. You watch a boy with bright eyes take a hit, and when he blows the smoke in your face you want to kiss him. Suddenly it’s your turn, and the bright boy lights the pipe for you. His whole body leans against yours, and you’re already burning. You inhale, inhale, inhale, until the back of your throat is raw and burnt. You blow the smoke back into his face. You are brave.
iv.
All of a sudden, you’re sixteen and your skin feels empty. Your mind is on a radio loop of the same six thoughts, over and over: hands, skin, heat, fuck, oh and god. You feel like a nuclear bomb that is seconds from going off, and damn, you’d love to be defused. You can’t stop looking at the boys around you—gangly limbs, lost eyes, raw mouths, rough hands. Behind your eyes, you see their hands on your thighs, their mouths on your neck. Your throat goes dry. You go to the bathroom, spalsh cold water on your cheeks.
In class, your teacher is lecturing at the front of the room. You’re trying to copy down the note, trying to pay attention to the material, but you keep getting distracted by the zipper of their jeans. It’s wrong, and you know it, but your cheeks are flushed. You keep biting the end of your pen and staring up at them from underneath your eyelashes. You feel reckless, filthy. Later, at home, you’re in your room with a boy. He isn’t touching you, but you want him to. And it’s so, so bad, because he’s your best friend. But still—you want to touch his chest and his neck. You want to hear him moan. You reach out, let your fingers brush his arm. For a moment, he looks at you like he wants to touch you, too, before turning back to his homework. Later, you think of him when you touch yourself in the shower. You pretend that the water droplets are his fingerprints. Everywhere, endless. The thought makes you moan his name, quietly. When you see him the next day, your knees shake.
v.
All of a sudden, you’re sixteen and you are a mess of contradictions. You hate your friends, but couldn’t live without them. You are treated like a child, but expected to act like an adult. You want life to slow down, but you want it to speed up. You want to leave your town, but you’d miss home. Your parents are overbearing, but you need their guidance. All of a sudden, you are sixteen, and life won’t stop for anything. Soon, you’ll be seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. You think it will be different. You think you will be different.
And you will, in some ways. You won’t have a crush on the boy down the street anymore, and you won’t have a shitload of homework. You’ll be able to go to bars and have intelligent conversations. But in others, you won’t. You’ll still like milk chocolate over white. You’ll still feel like the world is ending, occasionally. You’ll still want the world. You’ll still want the boy. You’ll still want to be powerful. You hope you are, by then—at the moment, you don’t feel very powerful. You feel young and vulnerable, most of the time. Hell, last year a boy broke your heart and you’re still recovering. That’s okay, dear. In time, you will become powerful. For now, you’re allowed to listen to boybands and have broken hearts and eat too much ice cream. After all, you’re only sixteen. You’re greedy and innocent and confused and full of yourself. You’re so young.
vi.
All of a sudden, you’re sixteen, and life will never be the same again.
— Chelsea Jean “all of a sudden, you’re sixteen.” (via naivestars)(via maaraa-h)
These are some of them, most were golden retrivers and labradors, but also included german shepherds and other breeds. Sadly most are dead now, while many people forget them and don’t spare them a thought.
As people lay dying, trapped and hurt, a team of nearly 100 loyal and courageous search dogs put their lives on the line to help humans. Without them, many more would not have survived, yet few people consider them.
In such a chaotic, terrifying, hot, acrid-smelling, smokey and loud environment, countless human lives depended on their ability to focus, listen, respond to their handlers, and work tirelessly. Stepping over cracked glass, hot tarmac, through flames and thick smoke, being winched over deep ravines, they battled on to seek out survivors and bring them aid.
They worked around the clock, day and night, searching, sniffing, over and over. Not only did they search, but they comforted - many eyewitnesses speak of how the dogs would stop and sit by newly-recovered victims, giving them a sense of hope and relief, before moving on to look for the next. As the situation became desperate, and the rescue workers and fire teams became utterly distraught at the amount of people who were recovered dead, these dogs brought them comfort, sitting with them on breaks, letting them grieve.
Many of these dogs are old, and have passed away. Let us remember the courage and loyalty they showed at such a horrendous event. They didn’t have a choice, but nonetheless they did what was asked of them and helped save countless lives. Don’t let their bravery be forgotten today either, or their determination to be a ‘good dog’ despite the scary and dangerous environment around them.
And let’s not forget that these dogs actually became depressed when they kept finding dead bodies; they thought they were failing to save people. The workers helping had to hide in the ruble just to let the dogs find a living person and lift their spirits.