#vintage moped

[vintage-tigre]

[misforgotten2]

"New release Yamaha moped. With starter motor 55,000 yen YAMAHA MOPED MF-1 Yamaha Motor Co., Ltd."

1960 Annual of Advertising in Japan - 1960

[summerbaybe]

Southern California, 1980s

[erosioni]

Ian McKellen,  London, 25th January 1970.

[vintageadsmakemehappy]

1980 Honda Passport Motorbike

[mudwerks]

(via (1959) Boss-Tones - Mope-Itty Mope)

[brandmauer]

[adri-1997-blog1]

Schrott

[grlbts]

vision of beauty ™

[ausetkmt]

Video: woman dragged along NYC street by migrant moped gang linked to dozens of brazen robberies

[vintage-tigre]

[misforgotten2]

Moped

Mo' problems

The Saturday Evening Post - October 11th 1958

[celineclfrt]

❄️

[vespanaples]

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[amymbona]

No wishing bad stuff to anyone but imagine that Patrick Zweig is after an injury, like a really fucking bad one, and his lower half doesn't work properly. There was something wrong with his spine and spinal cord and has to spend like half a year bound to a wheelchair, needing a 24/7 assistance. And you're a good, young medic, specializing on people like Patrick, providing them care. So it's only natural that you move to his place to assist him fully.

He hates you at first, fucking despises you, because you're all smile and sunshine. He's so pissed at the positive energy you bring, how you keep taking care of him and being all nice and kind. Every other meal you cook, Patrick just pushes the bowl down the table and lets it shatter. Each time you attempt to excercise with him, he keeps complaining and not putting his whole effort in - even though he fucking should - and then, ironically, gets anger when there's no progress. Obviously, he can't stand up within days. But Patrick Zweig is an impatient man.

He hates everything and everyone, hates the whole fucking world and he hates you the most. Stupid, naive girl. If you were a magician, oh, maybe he'd buy you that vintage moped you keep babbling about to get you to heal him. But you're not. You're just a girl who never shuts up, keeps banking him stupidly sweet pies and gently touching his legs every day at four in the afternoon in his small house gym (not that he can really feel it). You wash him too, you hold his hand when he's in pain even though Patrick would love nothing more than to twist your wrist so hard that you'd cry. He wishes it was you who could cry instead.

Patrick is genuinely at his fucking worst. He's lost all hope of ever healing even though his prognosis is not that bad at all. But Patrick is a drama queen, he's a bitch, a menace and all the other words, but you never dare say that to his face. Not until he throws a childish fucking tantrum at lunch one day, throwing his glass in your direction and almost hitting you in the head. This time, you don't reach out to hold him, to drive him to his room, you don't even smile.

Instead, you yell at him. For the first time ever, your voice raises. Significantly. You yell at him for good ten minutes, calling him every name under the sun, calling him out for his constant complaining and childish behaviour. He's a grown man, for god's sake, you tell him while standing up and slamming your delicate hands on the table. And then, as you walk around the table, you say you're not gonna leave him, but you won't accept his behaviour either. He hears you cry later that day.

Ever since this encounter, he doesn't dare say a single word against you, against this treatment. It's evident you're angry with him, mainly from the harsh way you keep handling him suddenly. No more nice girl. You keep twisting his ankles, bending his knees the way he used to bend girls during sex, completely silent with a single crease between your brows. At one point, you really push too hard, so hard that Patrick gets a cramp in his calf - the first distinct hint of regaining the lost feeling - but he never tells you, not when you're pissed at him. That night, he cries in his room.

One day when you go out, as one of your colleagues offers to look after Patrick for the afternoon, you're wearing the prettiest floral dress. And at that exact moment, Patrick's dick twitches, he gets fucking hard the sight of you. As if magically regaining all the feeling in his cock. Your colleague is terrible, by the way, absolutely unable to care for Patrick the same way you do. When you come home in the evening, Patrick tells you that you're really pretty. As the time goes on, he begins thinking you might be his guardian angel.

[livwritesstuff]

‘Tis officially prom season in the US and I’ve been thinking about how that would go for Steve and Eddie and their daughters.

Steve might have managed to use his chronic migraines to weasel his way out of trips to the mall for the girls’ entire lives, but he suddenly finds himself conveniently immune when the girls ask him to run point on their prom dress-shopping crusade.

In the end, the most difficult out of their three daughters was Moe by a mile. Over time, Steve had gathered that all the dressing up surrounding formal events was a rare source of insecurity for Moe. She managed to avoid her junior prom (even though Steve knew she wanted to go, and she’d moped around the house that entire night). When her senior prom rolled around, Eddie and Steve conspired with Moe’s best friend Gray to make sure that Moe actually went this time.

That was when Steve got roped into dress-shopping with Moe, which didn’t see a strong start to begin with and ended in a total meltdown on Moe’s part about how much she hates dresses.

“So don’t wear a dress!” Steve told her from outside the fitting room, “Moe – nothing about this is that serious. If you hate dresses, wear a suit. Wear your damn basketball uniform. It doesn’t matter. What matters is you go and you have fun or whatever. Gray really wants to go, and you and I both know that Gray isn’t gonna go if you don’t.”

Apparently, that was the right thing to say, and Moe ends up wearing something along the lines of this (the tie is Steve’s, the lapel pin on the pocket is one of Eddie’s).

Robbie surprised Steve by actually being excited about prom. She’s not usually into that kind of thing (especially when it’s school-sanctioned), but she’s got all of Eddie’s flair for dramatics so maybe it actually kind of makes sense. She went into dress-shopping with a vision (“I’m thinking Kate Winslet’s red dress in Titanic meets Bride of Frankenstein” which, frankly, Steve didn’t think was possible) but she’s Robbie, so she had enough blind determination to pull it off. It takes twenty-two grueling hours over the span of two weekends, but she pulls it off.

Imagine a combination of this and this and that’s what Robbie finds (she also says, “It’s kinda vintage, right?” which kills Steve a little bit because, sure, maybe it’s similar to Erica’s prom dress in ‘93 – but since the hell when were the nineties vintage?)

Out of the three, Hazel was the one who looked forward to prom the most, especially after watching her sisters get to go for years, and she’s also the “girliest” (objectively speaking) – she loves makeup and pretty things and dressing up nice, so she was over-the-moon when it was finally her turn.

Steve went into dress-shopping with Hazel prepared for a long and painful battle just like he’d done with the other two, but then Hazel ends up falling in love with one of the first dresses she tries on, and suddenly Steve is like, “Wait-wait-wait, that’s it??? It’s over”. He definitely doesn’t appreciate the wake-up call that his littlest girl is practically all grown up.

Hazel is also the only one who goes to both her junior prom and her senior prom. She wears something like this to her junior prom and this to her senior prom, and Steve is a total mess both times.