it’s not soccer. it’s football.
it’s not a game. it’s a match.
they aren’t cleats. they’re boots.
they aren’t uniforms. they’re kits.
it’s not a field. it’s a pitch.
it’s not a schedule. it’s a fixture.
your shutout wasn’t three-zip. it was three-nil
he’s not a goalie. he’s a keeper.
it’s not a game. it’s a religion.
and kickoff is in three and a half hours. go to fucking bed.
in honor of Everton’s making it to the FA Cup semi-final…well, i just fucking had to do this…
FOLLOW THE JELAVIC ROAD!!!
vote with your body. start the revolution. http://treacadelic.wordpress.com/2012/03/18/bus-politics/
in that book which is my memory on the first page (that is the chapter when i first met you) appear the words... "here begins a new life" - Dante Alighieri how beautiful is that?
i am.
i am an unholy mess of a girl.
i am left handed.
i am stubborn.
i am made of stardust.
i am unshakably prejudiced in favor of Georgia peaches.
i am addicted to rock and roll of every variety.
i am a feminist who prefers the company of men.
i am beautiful.
i am just not capable of resisting the Beatles.
i am an atheist who wants to believe in something more, but doesn’t need to.
i am awake now.
i am amazed by the world around me.
i am against the designated hitter rule.
i am seeing things through new eyes.
i am not the girl your mother warned you about.
i am not alone.
i am never going to give up.
i am coming out of exile soon.
i am Susannah.
i am going to bed now.
Well after all I'm just a Street End Soul,
Always just out of reach of my goal,
Trapped in the floodlights, watching the highlights,
Craving a roar that consumes me whole.
Cosmic vibrations, an accident of gravity,
Turned sour relations, and moral depravity,
We are but fleeting, yet war over land,
That belongs to the ages, like rock and like sand.
