theelusivebloggeur

spring2000:

in grade 8 french we were talking about napoleon bonaparte and this guy bought up the letter that napoleon wrote to his wife where he was like “i’ll be home soon, don’t wash” basically saying like he wanted to have sex with her unbathed or whatever and i was like “oh ew french people are so horny” and this girl tapped my shoulder and was like “excuse me..my dad is french, are you trying to say he’s horny??” and that’s when i truly knew white people are crazy

p4shtun

happinessdeliveryservice:

Before my parents were married, they would exchange love letters. Sometimes in the form of enveloped letters or through warm words written on the backs of photographs. My parents’ correspondence spanned over 6 years, starting from the year 1990, and ending a few years after my birth.

I found their letters a few years ago, dumped in an old box in our garage. And though my parents insisted that I throw them away, I kept them. As you can see, I’ve filed every letter and photograph into a small cardboard box and I’ve even organized them by year.

You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all of this. So, I’ll get to the point.

Today, my parents had a huge falling out. A huge one. A fight full of screaming, throwing heavy objects, hurtful words and black rage that sliced through our home like a jagged knife. They ended their argument with the words I hate you and I don’t want to be with you anymore.

At this point, I took my little brother and sister out of the house and took them to the park where we hung out until our dad came and picked us up. We then spent the rest of the day avoiding home. 

But, of course, we eventually ran out of places to hide and had to return. The fighting began again. Overflowing with pitch black anger and hatred. It went on and on, and though I tried to calm things down, my words were tossed aside. At the end of my rope, I went to my trunk and pulled out the box of love letters that I had kept all these years and dumped the letters all over the kitchen table.

The fighting gradually gave in to silence.

Finally, my dad reached over and picked up a stack of the letters.

"You kept these?"

He began taking some of the letters out of their envelopes and reading through them. Eventually, my mom started reading them, too. The silence was finally lifted when my dad started chuckling.

"I can’t believe you kept them."

I didn’t say anything then. They read their letters for a while longer before we re-filed them into the box, and I rushed upstairs to type out this story for you.

I guess what I wanted to say, is that it’s easy to forget things. Like how you fell in love with your husband, the times you enjoyed with your best friends, and the things that made you happy. It’s easy to dismiss those little things as insignificant as the years go by and to go on in life thinking that they don’t matter anymore. But sometimes, holding onto those things isn’t such a waste, after all. 

Sometimes a little reminder is all you need.

zainazahira
zainazahira:

modeststreetfashion:

Here’s another snap of the fashionable Shaimaa in Casablanca, Morocco.
She did a great job making an accessory, her belt, a main ingredient of the outfit. It’s definitely the most applicable color to compliment the overall tones of the look.
This area was in an old part of Casablanca which provided the lovely stoned road work and colorful architecture that one expects of morocco.
By: Langston Hues #modeststreetfashion #modestfashion

Love this

zainazahira:

modeststreetfashion:


Here’s another snap of the fashionable Shaimaa in Casablanca, Morocco.

She did a great job making an accessory, her belt, a main ingredient of the outfit. It’s definitely the most applicable color to compliment the overall tones of the look.

This area was in an old part of Casablanca which provided the lovely stoned road work and colorful architecture that one expects of morocco.

By: Langston Hues 
#modeststreetfashion #modestfashion

Love this