Roses Out of Brains

Here is what I find in my search for inspiring things. Things to grow out of and grow something out of.

This blog is about the knick knacks I plant in my mind and what grows from them. So here are some knick knacks, and maybe some stuff I make, and a list of very wonderful books.

Though inaccrochable I'm very approachable, talk to me about yourself.


real women have curves. real women have one single, continuous, infinite curve. real women are a hollow sphere of mass 1kg, suspended in a void. calculate real women’s acceleration if real women is struck by an object accelerating east at 5m/s/s.

Domestic violence trigger warning.

(Source: duane-barry, via vvlvo)

4 out of 5 bridesmaids have chosen their dresses. This is how I mock the fifth.

4 out of 5 bridesmaids have chosen their dresses. This is how I mock the fifth.



that is one of the things about communism; no one actually presents an argument against it, western culture has just indoctrinated everyone to dismiss it out of hand with “it wouldn’t work”—without actually examining why it would or wouldn’t work, or presenting…

Planned economies aren’t efficient because they are planned by humans and humans are horrible. That’s why communism doesn’t work.


Like fiery eyeball thing, no problem. But don’t even try to imagine a Samoan elf. (x)

Which is total bullshit because there are 3 races of hobbits and one is totally brown-skinned and they are also like the most common one.

Tolkien may have intended to make a white dominated world but there is NO NEED to keep it that way when you are doing a visual interpretation of it. It’s not like BEING WHITE is necessary for the story to make sense. Black Aragorn is still going to struggle with the weight of his birthright. Nothing about striving to prevent the domination of all life by an evil overlord is exclusive to the white experience……. Actually.. in fact… wait a minute…..

(via sasheer)

The Interrogation by Amit Mujmudar

When they leathered his arm to the armrest and began like manicurists in a nail salon he says that he “retreated” from his hand until the part of him that dwelt there once was gone and heard no news from his own outer reaches. In his memoir of those years, he sketches the tricks he used, one of which was “vision.” 

I imagined my arm as a slope I had to scale,

shaft of the humerus as smooth as shale

but white like bone and giving way like sand

wherever I set foot. I couldn’t stand,

couldn’t take a breather, or I’d ride my own

disintegration down and end up on

the shore - which was my hand, my fingernails.

I crested my shoulder, rested on its knoll.

I looked down then and saw the pain as men

charging uphill to where I hid my sense

of pain. At once I stomped a foot to see

the whole arm crack, calve, crash into the sea,

disarticulated, part of me no more.

I did this for the other arm and for

my feet and testicles and eyes until

I found myself on a Pacific atoll

that had not latitude, no longtidue.

I built a hut, I scuttled the one canoe.

I saw a sun that weighed a kiloton

and the power cord by which it swung.

—- Amit Mujmudar


I think I would have liked Legolas a lot more if he was just constantly rambling this strange stream of consciousness out loud to no one in particular.

Orlando Bloom needs to record voice over for the entire trilogy now.

(Source: parksandrings, via ktshy)

Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.

February- Margaret Atwood (via vvlvo)

(Source: noraaisacutie, via vvlvo)




i made this for myself (asked help from facebook friends) but i think maybe it will help someone else too 

omg i needed this right this fucking second jesus thank you

this is in the air lately. i know ive been needing things, and ive seen lots of people making posts like this. some of these cross over with mine and some of them dont. maybe ill make something like this soon

Russ that girl doing nothing is me. Look at that girl doing nothing. It’s me.