THIS is the proper way to bribe an English major into editing your essay. Opened my door and my flatmate was holding this out to me and just said, “please help.”
"pretend like you’re holding it!"
christmastime in the great hall
― Nelson Mandela
Nelson Mandela died today at the age of 95.(via thetinhouse)
I am going to London tomorrow and again next week. Before I first visited, I romantically built it up in my head as big as the lions in Trafalgar. I spent many Coldplay-worshipping years dreaming about red double-deckers. But I’ve since learned about what’s real and what isn’t. The details on Big Ben’s face are incredibly intricate, yes, and photographs do no justice, and the colors of Tower Bridge are, as I know now, quintessentially English. But London itself is large, looping, overstuffed with black cabs and women wearing heels that are worth more than my car. I am excited to go tomorrow—I’m going on the London Eye with a whole mess of people I didn’t know existed three months ago, and I’m going to miss them all like crazy. But London itself does not need to be everything I always dreamed it to be. It never will be. Nothing ever will be, really. I’ll be sitting in Portland in two weeks, and I know I’ll miss the ease of hanging out at the pub quiz and I’ll miss being told that I say things wrong. Oregon has nothing on the Crayola green of the Lake District. But I also cannot wait to be home. I cannot wait to go back to my friendly English department, even if I only get it for six more months. I cannot wait to drink good, non-watery beer again. I cannot wait to stop paying £6 to do my laundry and I cannot wait to use a sink with one faucet instead of two. I love it here, I really do. But home is where I can breathe because home is where people help me do so.
Bigmouth Strikes Again || The Smiths