eyeamthatmoment

[eyeamthatmoment]

“When you meet the right person, you know it. You can’t stop thinking about them. They are your best friend, and your soul mate. You can’t wait to spend the rest of your life with them. No one and nothing else can compare.”

— Nora’s Dad, How I Met Your Mother (via amortizing)

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i can’t wait until i’m in my own little apartment lying on the couch with my pet and the love of my life beside me

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not to be rude but i wanna be special to someone

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If I had the chance I’d do it all over again

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I just wish everything could go back to the good times.

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Starting to think the relapse was because of the stress of the “annual” but I honestly have no one to blame but myself.

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I had a way out. I should have taken it

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💖💙Happy Trans Day of Visibility💙💖

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Do I keep fighting or do I give up

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Being trans isn’t fun

I once considered cutting my chest off

With a pair of scissors

And trembling hands

Being trans isn’t fun

It was training my bladder for 8 hours

That saved the last bit of pride I had

By keeping me out of the bathrooms

Being trans isn’t fun

It’s clutching your chest

And choking on your breath

That the dysphoria has now taken

Being trans isn’t fun

It’s not being able to look anyone in the eyes

Because you can’t even look inside your own

Without seeing yourself screaming for help

You genuinely believe

That no one can love you

Because how could you love you

Being trans isn’t fun

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WE KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT:  By Nestor Ramos, Globe Staff | February 16, 2018

Parkland. Las Vegas. Sutherland Springs. Newtown. On and on: In America, mass shootings have become so familiar that they seem to follow the same sad script.

He will be a man, or maybe still a boy.

He will have a semiautomatic rifle — an AR-15, or something like it — and several high-capacity magazines filled with ammunition.

The weapon will have been purchased legally, the background check no obstacle.

He will walk into a school, or a concert, or an office building.

And he will open fire into a crowd of innocents.

Even as he’s still firing — crack crack crack — word will begin to spread. Survivors huddled in closets or behind bandstands will send pictures, text messages, and videos into a world that is again aghast.

Televisions will play the videos recorded amid the carnage, the sound somehow worse than the images. The fear in the victims’ voices will be familiar, yet too potent — a sound outside the boundaries of our own empathy.

We will hear about the heroes: Teachers who barricaded their classrooms or threw themselves between their students and the gunfire; concertgoers who shielded strangers as bullets plowed into their backs.

And we will hear about him: He was strange and troubled and cruel to animals; he’d shown signs of mental illness; he lost his job; he beat his wife.

A chorus will rise to ask why anybody should own such a weapon, much less someone so obviously troubled; another chorus will accuse the first of politicizing tragedy. Some will point to the Second Amendment, and blame a lack of treatment for the mentally ill.

Politicians, and then the president, will emerge. Some will plead for new laws. More will ask only for thoughts and prayers. Some will not mention guns at all.

Any promises will be broken. Beyond the shattered orbit of the school or church or concert that became a shooting gallery, the whole thing will recede too soon into memory.

And then it will all happen again.

Whoever he is, he may already have the rifle. And he will follow the script.

So will we.

There are only three things we don’t know about the next time:

WHO, WHERE, AND HOW MANY?

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I was straight once, turns out it was a phase