Always Smile


This is your average girls blog. Despite whatever season in life you are going through, you are always going to be you. No matter what people say, who you meet or anything, you will always be yourself. This blog is meant to lift people up. Encourage people who are feeling low and down. There will never be a post that will make you feel anything less than the beautiful person you are.

Home Message Archive Submit Theme Credit
caughtyourmotherwithyourbrother: imnialltheirishone: le4hhh: i-peed-so-hard-i-laughed: w-ildocean: haz-eel: s-l-u-t-e-l-l-a: vfcmarines: youuuth: pe0plefuckingsuck: barbie-slutss: okay. if you dont reblog this you obviously do not appreciate glen coco. you go, glen coco. Glen Coco was fricken hot. Must be why he got so many candy canes ^^^ very true god < glen coco YOU GO GLEN COCO DAYUMMM GLEN COCO, YOU SEXY! No wonder he got 4 candy canes YOU GO GLEN COCO. Lol I bet the guy who played glen coco has people saying you go glen coco to him all the time 44,694 for Glen Coco, you go Glen Coco. Africa is back there looking at Glenn Cocos head like “Dayuum da back of dat head!

119,430 notes • Thursday, August 09, 2012 • reblog this

Okay now this deserves to be re-blogged rather than half naked girls or expensive shit like seriously grow a damn heart. Bless you and your mom.

799,665 notes • Tuesday, August 07, 2012 • reblog this

7,592 notes • Friday, July 27, 2012 • reblog this

4,288 notes • Friday, July 27, 2012 • reblog this

51,158 notes • Friday, July 27, 2012 • reblog this

  • Depression Hotline: 1-630-482-9696
  • Suicide Hotline: 1-800-784-8433
  • LifeLine: 1-800-273-8255
  • Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386
  • Sexuality Support: 1-800-246-7743
  • Eating Disorders Hotline: 1-847-831-3438
  • Rape and Sexual Assault: 1-800-656-4673
  • Grief Support: 1-650-321-5272
  • Runaway: 1-800-843-5200, 1-800-843-5678, 1-800-621-4000
  • Exhale: After Abortion Hotline/Pro-Voice: 1-866-4394253
  • If you ever want to talk: My Tumblr ask is always open.
1,599,134 notes • Friday, July 27, 2012 • reblog this

lifeitselfisbeautiful:

godcomplex101:

Omg I don’t think you understand how many tears I’m shedding with this. Suicide is 100% preventable. Even if you have to forcefully show that person. Bless that guy. Bless him so much. The rush of adrenaline he must have felt at that moment. Lifting a person like that is not easy. Seeing someone about to jump to their death, knowing he’s one of the few who can save his life. That’s all the motivation he needed. He’s one of the few who didn’t just walk by. I’m officially inspired

THIS MAKES ME SO HAPPY. OFFICIALLY MY FAVORITE POST ON HERE. i wish i could do something so .. well .. life saving. God bless this man. <333333333333333333

forever reblog

forever fucking reblog. no matter how many times i see this on my dash, its being reblogged.

So much love. 

I’m legitimately crying.


Ya know, that guy is more than cool

I WISH THERE WERE MORE PEOPLE LIKE THAT GUY. 

this is so fucking amazing and beautiful and just ugh. forever reblog. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^stuff like this makes me feel better about people

This.❤

382,161 notes • Friday, July 27, 2012 • reblog this

waltdisneyismyhero: ketchu-m: vaginapowersactivate: OH MY GOD, THE SECOND PHOTO. YES. 

511,472 notes • Wednesday, July 25, 2012 • reblog this

  •  Jessica Ghawi, 24
  •  Veronica Moser-Sullivan, 6
  •  John Larimer, 27
  •  Jesse Childress, 29
  •  Alexander Boik, 18
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77,572 notes • Monday, July 23, 2012 • reblog this

mishalmoorebloggyblog: As seen on Facebook. (posted by Homestead Survival) A sweet lesson on patience. A NYC Taxi driver wrote:I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.. ‘Just a minute’, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940’s movie.By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboardbox filled with photos and glassware.‘Would you carry my bag out to the car?’ she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.She kept thanking me for my kindness. ‘It’s nothing’, I told her.. ‘I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.’‘Oh, you’re such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, ‘Could you drivethrough downtown?’‘It’s not the shortest way,’ I answered quickly..‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. ‘I don’t have any family left,’ she continued in a soft voice..’The doctor says I don’t have very long.’ I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.‘What route would you like me to take?’ I asked.For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, ‘I’m tired.Let’s go now’.We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.They must have been expecting her.I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.‘How much do I owe you?’ She asked, reaching into her purse.‘Nothing,’ I said‘You have to make a living,’ she answered.‘There are other passengers,’ I responded.Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.She held onto me tightly.‘You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut.It was the sound of the closing of a life..I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day,I could hardly talk.What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life.We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

122,625 notes • Tuesday, May 08, 2012 • reblog this