alittleinspiration

Status:
Joined: November 19, 2012
Last Seen: 1 decade
user id: 339239
Gender: F
Hey there people of the interweb. The name's Carlynn. Weird, I know. It's like Car-Lynn. But you can call me Car, or Calry, or whatever your beautiful little mind comes up with. I'm here for all of you, so if you need a friend, I got ya' back.
I guess I should tell you a bit about me. I'm fifteen, from a crazy little place called Belfast, and don't understand why everyone likes Irish/British accents. I dunno.
Anyway, if you need anything, just tell me, and I'll do my best to help. Bye, you awkward potatoes! x
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Quotes by alittleinspiration

I'm knackered.
Done with hearing people say things like,
"Ew he's gay." or "She's a lesbian? Time to judge her."
What the hell?
After everything we go through, people have the audacity to tell one-another
they can't love who they love. I find it disgusting.
And even if you aren't using gay to make fun of someone of something, I find it so bloody aggrevating.
Why does the gender of who someone love matter?
Does it mean they're different? NO.
Does it mean theyre bad people? NO.
It means that they found someone they love, and that you should be happy for them.
I'm done with people using someone's sexual orientation to make fun of them.
Everyone's equal.
If you can't handle that, go back to grade one.
I'm tired of it. So done.
Everyday, I find a new insult about Taylor Swift.
It bugs the hell out of me. Because, honestly, Taylor Sift seems like such a nice and genuine person, and half of the "haters" don't like her because she dated Harry Styles.
People call her "sl*t" and "Wh*re" when in reality she's only - publically - dated six guys in the past eight years, Harry Styles, Jake Gyllenhaal, Taylor Lautner, Conor Kennedy, Joe Jonas, and John Mayer.
And, even if she was a "wh*re," would it be any of your business? It's not fair to judge someone poorly, by what other people say.
So all I'm saying is that she isn't what you call her, and that insulting her will get you no where. They aren't funny, and they aren't cool. They're quite rude and insulting, not only to Taylor, but to fans. So please stop.
 
I hate that saying.
'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.'

Maybe it looks like it, but it isn't that way.
Broken bones heal.
Names scar people.
You may think its okay, to joke around, call someone a wh*re.
But. It's. Not.
Nothing can justify calling someone anything.
As humans, we judge ourselves enough. We don't need someone else doing it for us.
'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.'
A simple name can start so much more than a broken bone.
Cutting.
Rehab.
Addiction.
Deppression.

As if these are all things that some doctors can cut away.
Don't even say words don't hurt. Because, when it comes done to it, words kill.
When I was a kid, I thought pork chops and karate chops were the same thing. I thought they were both pork chops and because my grandmother thought it was cute and because they were my favourite she let me keep doing it. Not really a big deal. One day, before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees, I fell out of a tree and bruised the right side of my body. I didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it because I was afraid I’d get in trouble for playing somewhere that I shouldn’t have been. A few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruise and I got sent to the principal’s office. From there I was sent to another small room with a really nice lady who asked me all kinds of questions about my life at home. I saw no reason to lie. As far as I was concerned life was pretty good. I told her “Whenever I’m sad my grandmother gives me karate chops.” This led to a full scale investigation and I was removed from the house for three days until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises. News of this silly little story quickly spread through the school and I earned my first nickname; Pork Chop. To this day I hate pork chops. I’m not the only kid who grew up this way; surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme about sticks and stones. As if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called and we got called them all. So we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us, that we’d be lonely forever, that we’d never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they built for us in their tool shed. So broken heart strings bled the blues as we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing. Don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone, that an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away, that there’s no way for it to metastasize; it does.
 She was eight years old our first day of grade three when she got called ugly. We both got moved to the back of the class so we would stop get bombarded by spit balls. But the school halls were a battleground where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day. We used to stay inside for recess because outside was worse. Outside, we’d have to rehearse running away or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there. In grade five, they taped a sign to her desk that read beware of dog. To this day, despite a loving husband, she doesn’t think she’s beautiful because of a birthmark that takes up a little less than half of her face. Kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase but couldn’t quite get the job done and they’ll never understand that she’s raising two kids whose definition of beauty begins with the word mom because they see her heart before they see her skin, that she’s only ever always been amazing.
 He was a broken branch grafted onto a different family tree. Adopted, but not because his parents opted for a different destiny. He was three when he became a mixed drink of one part left alone and two parts tragedy. Started therapy in eighth grade. Had a personality made up of tests and pills. Lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs. Four fifths suicidal, a tidal wave of anti depressants, and an adolescence of being called popper. One part because of the pills and ninety nine parts because of the cruelty, he tried to kill himself in grade ten. When a kid who still had his mom and dad had the audacity to tell him “get over it” as if depression is something that can be remedied by any of the contents found in a first aid kit. To this day, he is a stick on TNT lit from both ends. Could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends in the moments before it’s about to fall. And despite an army of friends who all call him an inspiration, he remains a conversation piece between people who can’t understand sometimes becoming drug free has less to do with addiction and more to do with sanity.
We weren’t the only kids who grew up this way. To this day, kids are still being called names. The classics were "hey stupid" "hey spaz". Seems like each school has an arsenal of names getting updated every year. And if a kid breaks in a school and no one around chooses to hear do they make a sound? Are they just the background noise of a soundtrack stuck on repeat when people say things like kids can be cruel? Every school was a big top circus tent and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers from clowns to carnies. All of these were miles ahead of who we were. We were freaks: lobster claw boys and bearded ladies; oddities juggling depression and loneliness, playing solitaire, spin the bottle, trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal. But at night, while the others slept, we kept walking the tightrope. It was practice and yeah some of us fell. But I want to tell them that all of this stuff is just debris leftover. When we finally decide to smash all the things we thought we used to be. And if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself get a better mirror, look a little closer, stare a little longer, because there’s something inside you that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit. You built a cast around your broken heart and signed it yourself; you signed it “they were wrong”. Because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a click. Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball, or everything. Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth to show and tell but never told because how can you hold your ground if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it? You have to believe that they were wrong they have to be wrong. Why else would we still be here? We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog because we see ourselves in them. We stem from a root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called. We are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highway. And if in some way we are, don’t worry. We only got out to walk and get gas. We are graduating members from the class of back off. We made it. Not the faded echoes of voices crying out names will never hurt me. Of course they did. But our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act that has less to do with pain and more to do with beauty.
-Shane Koyczan
.
When I was a kid, I thought pork chops and karate chops were the same thing. I thought they were both pork chops and because my grandmother thought it was cute and because they were my favourite she let me keep doing it. Not really a big deal. One day, before I realized fat kids are not designed to climb trees, I fell out of a tree and bruised the right side of my body. I didn’t want to tell my grandmother about it because I was afraid I’d get in trouble for playing somewhere that I shouldn’t have been. A few days later the gym teacher noticed the bruise and I got sent to the principal’s office. From there I was sent to another small room with a really nice lady who asked me all kinds of questions about my life at home. I saw no reason to lie. As far as I was concerned life was pretty good. I told her “Whenever I’m sad my grandmother gives me karate chops.” This led to a full scale investigation and I was removed from the house for three days until they finally decided to ask how I got the bruises. News of this silly little story quickly spread through the school and I earned my first nickname; Pork Chop. To this day I hate pork chops. I’m not the only kid who grew up this way; surrounded by people who used to say that rhyme about sticks and stones. As if broken bones hurt more than the names we got called and we got called them all. So we grew up believing no one would ever fall in love with us, that we’d be lonely forever, that we’d never meet someone to make us feel like the sun was something they built for us in their tool shed. So broken heart strings bled the blues as we tried to empty ourselves so we would feel nothing. Don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone, that an ingrown life is something surgeons can cut away, that there’s no way for it to metastasize; it does.
 She was eight years old our first day of grade three when she got called ugly. We both got moved to the back of the class so we would stop get bombarded by spit balls. But the school halls were a battleground where we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day. We used to stay inside for recess because outside was worse. Outside, we’d have to rehearse running away or learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there. In grade five, they taped a sign to her desk that read beware of dog. To this day, despite a loving husband, she doesn’t think she’s beautiful because of a birthmark that takes up a little less than half of her face. Kids used to say she looks like a wrong answer that someone tried to erase but couldn’t quite get the job done and they’ll never understand that she’s raising two kids whose definition of beauty begins with the word mom because they see her heart before they see her skin, that she’s only ever always been amazing.
 He was a broken branch grafted onto a different family tree. Adopted, but not because his parents opted for a different destiny. He was three when he became a mixed drink of one part left alone and two parts tragedy. Started therapy in eighth grade. Had a personality made up of tests and pills. Lived like the uphills were mountains and the downhills were cliffs. Four fifths suicidal, a tidal wave of anti depressants, and an adolescence of being called popper. One part because of the pills and ninety nine parts because of the cruelty, he tried to kill himself in grade ten. When a kid who still had his mom and dad had the audacity to tell him “get over it” as if depression is something that can be remedied by any of the contents found in a first aid kit. To this day, he is a stick on TNT lit from both ends. Could describe to you in detail the way the sky bends in the moments before it’s about to fall. And despite an army of friends who all call him an inspiration, he remains a conversation piece between people who can’t understand sometimes becoming drug free has less to do with addiction and more to do with sanity.
We weren’t the only kids who grew up this way. To this day, kids are still being called names. The classics were "hey stupid" "hey spaz". Seems like each school has an arsenal of names getting updated every year. And if a kid breaks in a school and no one around chooses to hear do they make a sound? Are they just the background noise of a soundtrack stuck on repeat when people say things like kids can be cruel? Every school was a big top circus tent and the pecking order went from acrobats to lion tamers from clowns to carnies. All of these were miles ahead of who we were. We were freaks: lobster claw boys and bearded ladies; oddities juggling depression and loneliness, playing solitaire, spin the bottle, trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal. But at night, while the others slept, we kept walking the tightrope. It was practice and yeah some of us fell. But I want to tell them that all of this crap is just debris leftover. When we finally decide to smash all the things we thought we used to be. And if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself get a better mirror, look a little closer, stare a little longer, because there’s something inside you that made you keep trying despite everyone who told you to quit. You built a cast around your broken heart and signed it yourself; you signed it “they were wrong”. Because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a click. Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball, or everything. Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth to show and tell but never told because how can you hold your ground if everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it? You have to believe that they were wrong they have to be wrong. Why else would we still be here? We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog because we see ourselves in them. We stem from a root planted in the belief that we are not what we were called. We are not abandoned cars stalled out and sitting empty on a highway. And if in some way we are, don’t worry. We only got out to walk and get gas. We are graduating members from the class of back off. We made it. Not the faded echoes of voices crying out names will never hurt me. Of course they did. But our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act that has less to do with pain and more to do with beauty.
-Shane Koyczan
.
In maths class,  we were choosing new seats. I was last to go, and there were two open seats; one next to all of my best friends, and one next to a boy who never had a partner, and was sitting all alone. I felt awful, because he looked so lonely. So I walked over, and sat down next to him, smiling.
He started crying, and was sent to the counsler. Later in the class, I was called there too. Why? Because of that boy. He was gonna commit suicide, but according to him, my simple action showed him that maybe it was worth sticking around.
I'm telling you, it is♥
 
Tomorrow will be awful
Tomorrow, my best friend is moving to Kansas
IT'S ON ANOTHER FREAKING CONTINENT
And I'm going to miss her so much
I already started crying in Art today, because we said goodbye.
And tomorrow, she leaves for good.
I don't know what I'm going to do, guys.
Anyone that I can talk to?

Because I really need a friend



Miley Cyrus: Music can change everything.
One Direction: All your flaws are beautiful.
Taylor Swift: When you get over the pain of heart break, you realize what you had was beautiful.
Nat King Cole: We're so in love, we practically invented it.
Peter Gabriel: Home is where the heart is.
Imagine Dragons: Don't change for anyone.
Ed Sheeran: Everyone needs to be loved.
Demi Lovato: Sometimes I'll fall, but I'll come back stronger.
Nicki Minaj: You're love makes me senseless.
Rihanna: Be you, and don't take any crap for it.
Alicia Keys: Be fierce, and firey.
Kelly Clarkson: Learn from the past.
Ella Henderson: Don't complain about things you've caused.
Cher: Sometimes love is hard to get over
Little Mix: Be you, and stay true to your morals and values.
Lucy Spraggan: Let loose and have fun sometimes.
Andy Grammar: Don't take life too seriously.
Jason Mraz: Don't give up on something you're passionate about.
Lady Gaga: You're made the way you were for a reason, don't change.
Oasis:
You're someones reason to be happy.
Megan Nicole: A simple statement can make or break a person.
Megan & Liz: Just because someone bullies you doesn't make it okay to do it to someone else.
Cher Lloyd: If you don't accept who I am, then we can't be friends.
Queen: Don't ruin someone's dreams.
NewSong: Sometimes we all need a reminder what the holidays are about.
Justin Bieber: Music and love is all I need in life.
Elton John: Give people what they want most.
Lil Wayne: Don't let worries stop you.
The people who dislike any type of music don't get it. This is what the people who like it hear. Next time you hate, put yourself in their shoes.





You guys!
He asked me out.
And I said freaking no.
-.-