“A woman sitting by herself is not waiting for you.”
— Caitlin Stasey. (via mysharona1987)
Florence Italy bound.
20.Isla Vista, California.
Double majoring in psychology & global studies.• Ask me anything
— Caitlin Stasey. (via mysharona1987)
swimming through caves and cliff jumping. (at Positano Italy)
have u ever had a depersonalization moment when you look at yourself in the mirror and think wow this person is me and i have this body and this life and everything feels so strange why am i me and not someone else
— Sylvia Plath (via quitline)
As a woman living in Italy I have never felt more oppressed in my life. The Italian culture is so degrading towards women and I don’t even see a glimmer of hope for equal rights in this community
My boyfriend just graduated and is preparing to go to med school. He wants to be a global doctor and I want to be a global psychologist (which is how we met).. He brought something up today he said we could just be “doctors without borders” and it hit me that if we both combine our knowledge we could save so many lives. I know it’s a big world and shit happens, but if my future is in my favor I hope it includes this.
our first failed Italian test was celebrated with cappuccinos.
river surfing. (at Eisbach River, Munich Germany)
to all the beautiful people and the crazy australians🍻 I survived Oktoberfest. (at Oktoberfest)
First day at school, Gaza, Palestine.
I can’t stand what these children have to go through it’s so heart breaking
What was she like? I’ve waited my entire life to be asked that question. God.
What was she like?
She was beautiful. She tasted like the ocean and smelled like clementines. She wore peach lipstick and brown mascara. On
Sundays she would fill the bathtub with roses and milk. When
it was spring and the air felt raw against your skin, she would
wake herself up at three in the morning and smoke cigarettes
in the balcony. When I gave her roses on some date she gave
them to a homeless man on the way to the restaurant. She wore
dirty sneakers with the words “peace” written in red sharpie and
a white dress that hugged her wide hips to my mothers 58th
birthday party. The one where ladies asked what she was
studying and she replied Art History. She was in Pre-Med at
the top university in New York City. She said things like “we don’t
open the mail on Tuesdays” and “let’s tell the barista you’ve just found out you’re cured from cancer”. When her mother would call
begging her to come to church she would send her poems about
how birds on the telephone line are her religion. She only liked
walking around the city if it rained. What was she like? She went to train stations because she thought the homeless man playing the
violin was the best concert she’d ever find. I often asked her what
she thought of me. Her laugh was like honey. When I took her to my
gallery opening she invited her taxi driver. She had the moon
tattooed on her inner thigh. She spelled the words “infinity” onto
the crook of my neck. I remember once she took a photograph
of an elderly man speaking to his wife at her gravestone.
She called me on the way home: “Well what were you doing at the cemetery?” I asked. “Robert,” She’d said, “Don’t ask such absurd
questions.” What was she like? I woke up alone some mornings.
Her suitcase would be scattered and she screamed because she
couldn’t pay the gas bill. Our lights would turn off. What was she
like? She’d light candles in every single corner of the house. She
would read these big books written by Russian authors who didn’t know the difference between love and lust. “Oh,” She once said,
"And you do?" I laughed. I was so in love with her. The curves of her hip. The smooth tint of her back. Her eyebrows. Her smile. How her
eyes were green sea’s I saw in travel brochures. What was she like? She was the type of person to write you love poetry and bake pies
and convince you that 4:50 AM was the best time of day. What is
she like? And this is the part where my throat will burn and I’ll
scratch my collar bones because how much it hurts,
“Why don’t you ask him” I’ll say. Why don’t you ask
— I’m sorry it had to end like this (via leftgreatperhapsless)
Albert Einstein teaching a physics class at Lincoln university (HBCU in Pennsylvania) in 1946.
I wonder why I never learned that one of the smartest men in the world called racism a disease…
So you can understand why I fell in love with a city. (at Vernazza Cinque Terre)
hello from Italy.