Tatemcallisterr-blog

— What is your problem? — Who knows, I have so many.

Daniel C. L. (via alterated)

https://youtu.be/uY6dWKpq1Sw

                       he can’t outrun the sentiments that poison his body.                                they make him sick, vulnerable, w e a k.                                             they rot him inside-out.

                                                              ( && ) 

                          how do you heal from such internal damage?                                         in reality, he knows he can’t.                           ——— but there’s no way he’ll be eaten alive by                                                  his own conscience.

                                         he resorts to drugs, to alcohol.                                 to the numbness it gives him no matter                                                     how temporary. 

nowhollywood:

Miley Cyrus and Liam Hemsworth hiking in Los Angeles on April 8, 2017

shvdykiid:

                      When the male looks at him, (with that stupid movie star look to him) he swears if he wore panties, they would be dropping. He needs to snap himself out of it because Ollie is pretty sure Mr. Happymeal is trying to communicate. 

“I know a few places you can take it. I had to get the screen repaired before and there’s actually a kiosk kinda deal. You leave it for a few hours and you get a new scree,” was he babbling? Possible.

If Tate wasn’t so shit with technology perhaps he would have tried fixing the screen himself. But he was sure that if he did try it, he would only end up breaking the phone even more. The younger male was looking at him in a sort of strange way but Tate tried to ignore it as much as he could.

“It takes a few hours just to fix the screen?” He questioned, as if he was some kind of busy person with a job or something. Tate had nothing but time to get the stupid thing fixed, he was more so annoyed that it had broken so easily.

The beauty you see in me is a reflection of you.

Rumi (via wnq-writers)

⌚ :))))

“ i served with this kid for years, and yer gonna make me pick just one? ummm… fuck your rules, you get two. 

so over there… its so much fucking desert, and sand, and that shit is fuckin’ awful. it gets in your guns, it gets in your gps, it gets in your fucking lungs. sometimes there are these sandstorms, right? it just blows and blows and blows. and you can’t see shit, you can barely breathe, you can’t hear. yer just stuck in this browned out haze. and then… then sometimes it starts fuckin’ raining on top of it. so its just a mud storm. and then yer on your belly, trying to get out of the wind, and you get even more muddy. anyways. its awful. one night, tate and i are walking the perimeter, and before he reaches the end of his sentence, the wind starts up, and while i’m finishing settin’ up the standard issue tent for this kind of shit, it starts raining. so we’re both fuckin’ covered in mud, gettin’ this shit set up, trying not to lose hold of the damn thing. and mind you… it’s a one person tent. so we’re both soaking wet, and caked in mud, huddled in this tiny ass tent, waiting out the storm. and i mean… you get bored, ya know? so mcallister pulls out his pack of cards, and we know its gonna get ruined because we dont have a clean fucking scrap of material between us. but what else do ya do? so we sit there pretty much all night, playin’ every card game we can think of, talkin’ about everything and anything we can think of. and honestly… despite the storm, it really wasn’t a bad night. i think he lost a patch of hair because we let the mud dry and tried to pick it off. anyways, after that, i kept the ruined deck, and got him a new deck of cards, and ghetto laminated them with packing tape. i thought i was funny. 

so that’s one. that’s when we were serving. my other favorite memory is one i can barely remember. we were headed home on leave, but our flights were delayed because of atlantic storm. so we spent a couple days in dublin. and i mean… we were young, dumb, antsy marines back then. and we were in fuckin’ dublin for gods sake. so of course… we go out and get absolutely smashed. you’d think it was fleet week the way we tore it up. we were bar hopping, and making friends all over the place, because the irish fuckin’ love americans. i think we did karaoke at one point. or maybe we just sang real loud in a pub. anyways… i wake up the next morning, in someone’s hotel. tate is passed out on the floor with a bruise on his fuckin’ neck. i’ve got a split lip and a scrape on my cheek and my shoulder. there’s marbles in my pockets, a jacks and ball set on the coffee table. and a fucking red balloon tattoo on my foot. how we got from one point to the next is a little hazy,  but i do remember we had a whole god damn bunch of fun. we were both hungover on th’ plane going back to the states, but it was fun drinking bloody marys and trying to piece together the night. 

there’s lots of nights like both of those. but those two stick out, and just remind me that tate is a real ride or die. even when he definitely doesn’t agree with the stupid shit i wanna do. he still goes along with me, and makes sure that i don’t die. ”

@tatemcallisterr