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Chelly Chasm

I'm Chelsea, I'm 23, and I am a professional photographer. Since my facebook page has become overwhelmingly busy, I'm using this page to bitch about stuff. This blog is literally the most random shit I come across. If I like it, I post/re-post it. On occasion I will make really bitchy, whiny, posts, because with my business I can't make those kinds of posts on Facebook anymore. So I'm kind of hiding out here for a bit. Sometimes I write nice posts too, but that's kind of rare.

Let's be friends.


1/1958 Next

Last night was honestly one of the best nights I have had in a long time, and an even better morning. I am kind of really crazy about Kevin. 


Tagged as: personal,



durkin62:

watchoutboy:

OH MY GOD WHY, WHY DO YOU DO THIS ON A SITE WITH 13 YEAR OLDS WHO WILL ACTUALLY TRY THIS, STOP

Natural selection.









Can I just kiss Kevin forever? Pretty please? That would make my life.

He is so fucking cute.


Tagged as: personal,





There’s a few of photographers in Omaha that I would absolutely love to model for, but those photographers of course are not looking for models like me. I know I’m not the skinniest, or the sexiest, or the prettiest, but I feel like someone besides creepy old guys who can’t shoot for shit would want to shoot with me sometime haha. Oh well, I’ll stick with my self portraiture. At least then I have control haha.




I hate when I can tell I’m being an annoying pain in the ass about things and being a complaining bitch, but something in the back of my mind won’t let me stop and I have to let them know how inconvenienced I am.


Tagged as: personal,


Why must we add more to my plate today. This annoys me so much.

I had so much shit to do today and I planned everything out so that I wouldn’t have to run home, but nope, gotta run home now.

Ugh fuck this.


Tagged as: personal,



I totally have a girl crush on Liz from Holychild. She is so freaking cute!





"

I wrote seventeen poems
the day you left
on my upper thigh
in black sharpie
and laid still
in bed for six days
until the ink
wore off

I thought
for a moment
to get the words
tattooed onto
my skin
but I have a problem
with things that
claim to be permanent:

they aren’t

so I wrote poems
over indentations
in my legs
watching the black
tar penetrate old
and new skin
like fertilizing
a battle field
of stretch marks
and scars

It has been three years
two summers
and I have
dyed my hair
dark so you
would not
recognize me
if you ever saw me again
but the poems
still remain
in sharpie
underneath flowing skirts
and bathing suits
that I buy but never wear:

you promised me
that you would love me
for the rest of my life
but like the sharpie that fades
or tattoos that burn;
nothing is permanent
words only leave stains
that are barely legible
but always there-

and everything hurts .

"

I Wrote Seventeen Poems the Day You Left (Why Can I Not Let Go) by LeahJuliett (via be-free-barbie)

I’m going to write you poems forever

(via withparasite)




"And they told me the worst feeling in the world is to sleep in your bed on your own Yet I find comfort in wrapping the blankets around me and occupying all the warmth in it They told me his smell would be my favorite smell Yet nothing is more soothing than the misty aroma of rain or the spice of chai They told me his kisses would make everything better But here I am lying under the dusty clouds with each and every snowflake tickling my face They told me nothing could be warmer than his hugs Yet I can’t think of anything better than basking in the radiance of the sun They told me I could never be complete without him Funny how I haven’t even found “him” And yet I’ve never felt more whole"

something that took too long to understand (via cuntoffline)






thisiscasey7:

forgott-en:

nedhepburn:

This one time I painted a living room with a girl.

This was a handful of years back. It was about eight months before the huge, flame-out of a breakup. That day, though? That day we painted the living room? It was pretty uneventful. We painted my parents living room for $50 between us and a pizza. That was it. I think we watched Anchorman or something after that.

But it still holds as on of the most indelible memories I have. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not still in love, it happened, it was good, it ended, and we’ve both moved on. But I’ll never forget that day. Because it’s never, in the long run, about the grand gestures. You can fly across the world and show up on her doorstep with a rose in your teeth and a ring in a little velvet box but I can guarantee you that - more often than not - she’s going to remember the time you built the birdhouse in the back yard, or what have you, a whole lot more.

Life wasn’t meant to be taken in large movements. The next day will inevitably arrive, you’ll sleep, and the moment will have passed. But when you have a hundred thousand small moments, you can step back and appreciate the picture a lot more than metaphorically blowing your load on some grand moment that, in all honesty, look, you’re not Bruce Fucking Springsteen, you’re not going to be able to blow everyone’s mind every single night. You’re not Romeo and/or Juliet. There’s no reason to drink the poison together in some flame-out gesture. So that leaves us with the small stuff. It’s all about the detail.

That’s what love is. Attention to detail.

And the moment will end. And then things will get boring. And it might get a little quiet. And it might all end horribly. And you might hate eachother at the end. And you might walk away from eachother one day and never speak again. But that’s just how it goes.

But she’ll remember the time you held the door open for her on your first date.
She’ll remember the time you laughed at her impression of the landlady.
She’ll remember the time you stayed up all night that first time.
She’ll remember the small things a lot longer than the big ones.

But everything ends. And I’ll tell you why you have to make the small things, the small moments count so much more:

One day, probably a while longer from now, when old age takes ahold of someone, she might just only remember your smile. Everything you ever did together, every second, every moment, every beat, every morning spent in bed, every evening spent together on the sofa, all of that - gone. Everything you ever did will be reduced to the head of a pin. She won’t remember your name. She’ll just remember your smile, and she’ll smile. She won’t know why. It’s a base, gut reaction. But she’ll smile, uncontrollably, and it will come from somewhere so deep as to know that you touched her on a primal, honest, and true level that no scientist, scholar, or savant could ever begin to explain. There is no more. There is nothing else. There is just this: She’ll remember your smile, and she’ll smile.

And you know what? That’s all that really matters in the end.

I just cried at this



queer-punk:

i get sexually frustrated just by looking at you