acting cool but checking out the booty like
These are some techniques I use when I’m having a panic attack.
I’m no expert, but they seem to help me out, so maybe they’ll help you out too.
Just seeing this makes me want to cry.
When did my life start feeling like it was more than I can handle?
I needed this last night,
Girl’s are amazing
I think we broke the notes…
i feel like i’m reblogging history. “the post that broke the notes”
THERE ARE NO FUCKING NOTES
WE HAVE REACHED INFINITY
what the heLL
where is it
Notes all gone. End of the world
What the ?
Bio: Born on March 6, 1928, writer Gabriel García Márquez grew up listening to family tales. After college, he became a journalist. His work introduced readers to magical realism, which combines fact and fantasy. His novels Cien años de soledad (One Hundred Years of Solitude) and El amor en los tiempos del cólera (Love in the Time of Cholera) have drawn worldwide audiences. He won a Nobel Prize in 1982. 
- The highly political Marquez has long been a friend of Cuban president Fidel Castro. 
- He claims that he wrote the book “One Hundred Years of Solitude” barricaded in his study in Mexico, after receiving a vision. One day, while he and his wife and children were in their car driving to Acapulco, he saw that he “had to tell [his] story the way his grandmother used to tell hers, and that [he] was to start from that afternoon in which a father took his child to discover ice.” He made an abrupt U-turn on the highway, the car never made it to Acapulco, and he locked himself in his study. Fifteen months later, he emerged with the manuscript, only to meet his wife holding a stack of bills. They traded papers, and she put the manuscript in the mail to his publisher. 
- He has a yellow rose or tulip on his writing desk each day. 
- When he was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer, he gamely declared to the world that the disease was an “enormous stroke of luck” because it finally forced him to write his memoirs. 
[He stumbled on the last step, but he got up at once. “He even took care to brush off the dirt that was stuck to his guts,” my Aunt Wene told me.] Then he went into his house through the back door that had been open since six and fell on his face in the kitchen.
[And she, with a sad smile—which was already a smile of surrender to the impossible, the unreachable—said: “Yet you won’t remember anything during the day.” And she put her hands back over the lamp, her features darkened by a bitter cloud.] “You’re the only man who doesn’t remember anything of what he’s dreamed after he wakes up.
from Eyes of a Blue Dog (short story)
Only then did she understand that three thousand years had passed since the day she had had a desire to eat the first orange.
from Eva is Inside Her Cat (short story)
Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.