Kiernan Shipka, Jessica Pare, Elisabeth Moss, Jon Hamm, January Jones and Christina Hendricks attend AMC’s celebration of the Mad Men season 7 premiere on April 2, 2014 in Hollywood, California.

Alert: Kiernan Shipka is taller than Elisabeth Moss now, still looks more effortlessly awesome than any of the adults on her TV show.

Suri’s burn book is going to be jeal.

(Source: inquisitiveg)


I googled “Drake Rihanna dating timeline” and the internet delivered. This is exactly what I was looking for. Sharing in the hopes of helping someone like me. 


Tru Luv



the A in LGBTQAI+ doesn’t and will never stand for ally sorry allies you’re not part of the LGBTQAI+ community no matter how much you want to be

I don’t usually get involved in discussions like this on stuff like tumblr, but, do we really all have to pick a title with a letter in the beginning so we have an acronym to identify with and so we can exclude other identities? What identity is the one that has sex with one gender or sexuality but watches porn of another? What identity is the one that has had sex with people of various genders and sexual identities within those genders? Does your identity change depending on which “category” of person you’ve most recently slept with? And why is it so important to exclude “allies” as if you aren’t allowed to have similar views or interests or concerns or empathy because you haven’t fucked the “right kind” of people? What if people who are “questioning” turn out to “just be straight,” are they no longer allowed to be a part of the community because being an ally isn’t enough? In the notes on the above blurb, people have added “now go listen to some macklemore” or “the a is for annoying.” And that is the same kind of exclusionary, judgmental thinking that all of us, anyone, of any sexual, racial, or gender identity should be fighting against. Shame on all of you. 

And for anyone wondering what my “sexual identity” is, I’m going to continue to claim Morrissey/Pansensual. 

(via allthelittlebeagles)


Because here’s the real truth. Are you listening? EVERY WOMAN YOU KNOW IS AN OK, PRETTY GIRL. Every single one. Every woman has been told there are hotter women out there. Sure, we all believe that there are these fine gradations of hotness that can be ranked. WRONG, MOTHERFUCKERS. Each face and body is uniquely gorgeous and riveting and special, and the healthier and happier you are, the more clearly you can see this. There is no hotness target you need to hit. You simply need to be active, eat raw green shit as much as you can stand, and—this is the crucial part—BELIEVE THAT YOU HAVE SOME SPECIAL SAUCE that is yours and yours alone.

Because even though you are soaking in this poisonous, monkey-spanking, Hooters culture, the fact of the matter is that the world outside your door LOVES that special sauce.

Let me tell you about myself. I am not and have never been the hottest. In high school, my best friend was widely agreed-upon to be the hottest girl in school. She was voted “Best Looking” and everything (Yes, we old people endured that shit). I was the ok-looking chick who got her leftovers. Sometimes the leftover dude would actually sit and sulk when his buddy disappeared in the next room with my friend. He would SIT AND SULK instead of making out with me, that’s how much he wanted her and was uninterested in my lukewarm leftovers.

Why did this happen? Because at the time I was gunning for the hottest one, too. IN HIGH SCHOOL, WE WERE ALL GUNNING FOR THE HOTTEST. And when you blindly gun for the hottest (LIKE A LOSER, ahem) you deserve to feel like lukewarm leftovers.

But when I look at old photos of all of my girlfriends from high school? We all look like different flavors of pretty. We are like a bouquet of flowers. We were all lovely in our own original ways. No one was the absolute most riveting. People who couldn’t see the bouquet, who would rather pick out one and say THIS ONE IS THE FUCKING BEST ONE are the sorts of people who dig red roses over peachy tulips and plucky daisies and interesting green weedy clustery flowers you’ve never even seen before.

Now I’m 43 years old. Do I think I’m gross? Sometimes. But generally speaking I feel good about myself. I run 4 miles four times a week. That doesn’t render me magically gorgeous, but it does allow me to imagine occasionally that I’m not wretched. My husband says the right things and I don’t dissect those things. I suspend my disbelief. I never accuse him of lying when he claims that NO ONE LOOKS NEARLY AS GOOD AS I DO. He is wrong, of course. I don’t ask him to be specific about who looks better and who looks worse. Ok, I do sometimes say stuff like, “I’m lucky you have such shitty eyesight.”

I’m not above it all, believe me. And there are days when I look my fucking age, and yes, I wonder how it will be years from now, when I look like Walter fucking Cronkite. I cannot wrap old age in my loving hippie embrace. When I eat too many cronuts, my face looks like an ass cheek. I occasionally long for sticky overpriced French eye creams that I cannot fucking afford.

But I know that no matter what else is going on with me, no matter how old and Cronkite-like I get, I’ll still have a little swagger, damn it. I will not stop believing that I have that special motherfucking sauce.

Beauty is not about the facts or where you rank on some scale, and only an idiot would try to put it in those terms. You, letter writer, are probably, in the words of the magic mirror, A THOUSAND TIMES MORE FAIR than me. You know what you need? More spark. More special sauce. More swagger.

You need to stop asking this boyfriend of yours specific questions. Do not ask him about your face or your ass or your tits. NEVER do that. Do not squeeze your thigh and point to it. Do not point out bad photos where you look like a praying mantis. Do not ask him where you rank. Why would you trust HIM on that front anyway? Like I said before, as nice as he is, he is obviously a moron about knowing when to shut his mouth, and what not to say when it’s open. Why would HE know how you stack up, or what beauty actually is, for that matter? The only relevant question is: Are you attracted to me? Do I turn you on? And clearly, if you asked him those things, he would say YES YES GIVE IT TO ME.


Ask Polly (via perplereign)




Best of Mr. and Mrs. Carter Performances

cute cute cute

Life goals.

(Source: thequeenbey)


In order to tell tepid to fuck off once and for all, you MUST recognize that life among those who don’t appreciate or understand you is bullshit. You don’t want to live that way. You don’t want to be badgery and lonely while you’re with someone. You’d rather be alone.

What will make ALONE look good to you? You have to work on that. Because single life needs to look really, really good, you have to believe in it, if you’re going to hold out for that rare guy who makes you feel like all of your ideas start rapidly expanding and approaching infinity when you talk to him. You need to have a vision of life alone, stretching into the future, and you need to think about how to make that vision rich and full and pretty. You have to put on an artist’s mindset and get creative and paint some portrait of yourself alone that’s breathtaking. You have to bring the full force of who you are and what you love to that project.

And then you go out into the world with an open heart, and you let people into your life, and you listen, and you embrace them for who they are. You make new friends. You do new things that make you feel more like the strong single woman who owns the world that’s in your vision. And you don’t sleep with anyone until things are much warmer than lukewarm. And you accept that, if things are lukewarm AFTER that, you will be forced to kick a motherfucker to the curb, with kindness, with forgiveness.

You have to do a lot. And you have to do it all against a backdrop of indifference that, as you get older, curdles into a kind of disgust. But you know what? We have each other. We have worlds within us, you and me. This mean, mean planet still rewards those who can see the depth and beauty of what they carry around inside of themselves. This indifferent landscape will rise up and give you love if you share what you have inside, if you dare to believe in your potential even as people tell you it’s a mirage, if you ignore the ones who are allergic to free-flowing, emotional discourse from YOU. They are everywhere, and they don’t matter. God bless them. Come on their Hampton blouse, and move on.


Ask Polly (via perplereign)


"Jessica Biel celebrates her birthday with Justin Timberlake in Miami. “I planned a great birthday for us,” Justin says, as Jessica closes the door of the cab. “We have my concert first, obviously, and then I was thinking maybe you could give me feedback on this monologue I have to do for an audition? It’s for a Fincher movie. Really good material. You’ll love it. And then I’m going to play some golf. You can go to the spa then if you want, though, if you’d rather, it would be amazing if you wouldn’t mind maybe following us for a few holes and taking some pictures of me in action. I’d love some good golfing shots.” He kisses her head and puts his arm around her. “Happy birthday, Mrs. Timberlake.”"

Imagined Celebrity Connections: How Blake Lively Reacted to Scarlett Johansson’s Pregnancy | Vanity Fair


(via tbh)

Been reading these imagined celebrity interactions on vanity fair for like an hour now.

(via tbh)



Couple who shades together stay together


(Source: fuckyeahqueenbeyonce, via perplereign)



this is literally my favorite thing rn


(Source: vanillish, via allthelittlebeagles)