Doesn't need a title.

or a description.

tutorials always make me feel like such an idiot, but i am still thankful for this one!

(via fuckyeahnailart)

I need this in my mouth immediately. 

I need this in my mouth immediately. 

(via prettyfoods)

Missing Montana.

Missing Montana.

Five year old: “You pretend to be Shirley King!”

Me: “Who is Shirley King?”

Five year old: “Shirley King is the prince! He is coming to be my bride!”

Me: “Ok, Your Majesty!”

Five year old: (pointing at me) “No, it’s your majesty, Shirley!”

—Life is somehow both more complicated and simpler as a nanny.

Now that I’ve begun my two week break from school, I’ve taken to rereading a favorite book of mine to my boyfriend every night. He’s enjoyed it so far too! “But Robin: their dear little Robs. More than ten years later, his death remained an agony; there was no glossing any detail; its horror was not subject to repair or permutation by any of the narrative devices that the Cleves knew. And—since this willful amnesia had kept Robin’s death from being translated into that sweet old family vernacular which smoothed even the bitterest mysteries into comfortable, comprehensible form—the memory of that day’s events had a chaotic, fragmented quality, bright mirrorshards of nightmare which flared at the smell of wisteria, the creaking of a clothes-line, a certain stormy cast of spring light.” -Donna Tartt, The Little Friend

Now that I’ve begun my two week break from school, I’ve taken to rereading a favorite book of mine to my boyfriend every night. He’s enjoyed it so far too!

“But Robin: their dear little Robs. More than ten years later, his death remained an agony; there was no glossing any detail; its horror was not subject to repair or permutation by any of the narrative devices that the Cleves knew. And—since this willful amnesia had kept Robin’s death from being translated into that sweet old family vernacular which smoothed even the bitterest mysteries into comfortable, comprehensible form—the memory of that day’s events had a chaotic, fragmented quality, bright mirrorshards of nightmare which flared at the smell of wisteria, the creaking of a clothes-line, a certain stormy cast of spring light.” -Donna Tartt, The Little Friend