and here comes the snow-bitch -.-”

↪ Aria Montgomery, Emily Fields, Spencer Hastings & Hanna Marin in “How the ‘A’ Stole Christmas” (05x13)

(Fonte: prettymysticfalls, via prettylittleliars-bitches)


Mona Vanderwaal: 5x12- Taking This One to the Grave



hey marlene king, here’s a message for you!


non ci capisco più una mazza!


5x12 | Taking This One To The Grave


Quindi, riassumendo…

non ho ancora realizzato se questa puntata mi è piaciuta o no. cioè ovviamente ha avuto i suoi momenti top che aspettavamo da tanto..peròòòò manca qualcosa.
sì perchè lo sapevamo tutti che Melissa era losca, lo sappiamo dal tempo dei tempi..e sta rivelazione sul fatto dell’ aver seppellito una così come se fosse niente, non mi ha proprio sconvolta ecco!
carino il fatto che lo abbia fatto per proteggere Spence, devo ammetterlo..
però hai pure sempre ucciso na poveraccia innocente che stava solo imitando Alison vestendosi uguale ecc vabene così! a Rosewood si sà, tutto è concesso!
la povera Spence, non sa cosa fare con questa super informazione, intanto nel dubbio, Melissa dileguossi in Inghilterra (lei ha capito tutto) chissà cosa farà? si parerà il culo andando a dirlo alla Tanner o lascierà passare come se nulla fosse? MAH!
Intanto la piccola Montgomery ,gelosa del fratello Mike ,spaventa la povera Mona al cinema..facendola scappare in bagno a piangere come se le avesse detto chissà che.. io non ho ancora capito eh! quà ti lasciano sempre a bocca asciutta aspettando che uno s’inventi le cose.

perchè se c’è una cosa che amo sono gli Haleb. OK
ma se c’è una cosa che ho odiato è Caleb che si trasformi in un medium-acchiappafantasmi dopo aver lasciato PLL per quello spin-off di stocazzo.
e adesso che lo fate tornare,capisco che lui poveraccio si scoli litri di vodka per dimenticare quello che ha passato,ma vi do un annuncio : sta roba non è coerente con lo stile di PLL e il sovrannaturale in PLL non è contemplato!
quindi OK che lui si sia aperto con Hanna e che la loro love story vada adesso cioè come la useranno sta storia? voglio prooooooprio vedere.
vabè, momento bromance con Toby , ottimo. ma ci sono rimasta male per come Caleb l’ha trattato D:

meanwhile..Ali si è tolta dalle palle perchè -A gliel’ha permesso (..??????) e niente, si stava già meglio senza di lei <3

e adesso..toto scommesse su chi morirà nel prossimo ep !!giudicando dal promo vediamo Hanna piangere..sarà Mona? o Lucas?
perchè MI RIFIUTO sia Caleb..

chi sarà? come morirà?perchè?chi sarà il colpevole? WE’LL SEE!

Watching PLL 5x11 like


Episode begins.image

First scene. image

Ali calling Spencer.image

The thing I had with Paige was so genuine”. image

”Let’s kiss and make up”. image

Ali calling Emily.image

Emily ignoring Ali. image

Caleb drinking. image

Mike and Mona. image

Emily & Ezra talking about things we already know.image

Emily and Paige talking. image

Melissa’s video. image

Paige looking good in that dress. image

Paige having a date with someone else. image

Mona and Aria. image

Caleb’s weird story/plot line. image


Ending scene. image

End. image

5x12 promo. image

Me Before You - Epilogue

I was just following instructions.
I sat in the shadow of the dark-green cafe awning, staring down the length of the Rue des Francs
Bourgeois, the tepid sun of a Parisian autumn warming the side of my face. In front of me the waiter
had, with Gallic efficiency, deposited a plate of croissants and a large cup of filter coffee. A hundred
yards down the street two cyclists stopped near the traffic lights and struck up a conversation. One
wore a blue backpack from which two large baguettes poked at odd angles. The air, still and muggy,
held the scents of coffee and patisserie and the acrid tang of someone’s cigarettes.
I finished Treena’s letter (she would have called, she said, but she couldn’t afford the overseas
charges). She had come top of her year in Accountancy 2 and had a new boyfriend, Sundeep, who
was trying to work out whether to work for his dad’s import-export business outside Heathrow and
had even worse taste in music than she did. Thomas was dead excited about moving up a class at
school. Dad was still going great guns at his job, and sent his love. She was pretty confident that Mum
would forgive me soon. She definitely got your letter, she said. I know she read it. Give her time.
I took a sip of my coffee, briefly transported to Renfrew Road, and a home that seemed a million
miles away. I sat and squinted a little against the low sun, watching a woman in sunglasses adjust her
hair in the mirror of a shop window. She pursed her lips at her reflection, straightened up a little, and
then continued her path down the road.
I put down the cup, took a deep breath, and then picked up the other letter, the letter that I had
carried around with me for almost six weeks now.
On the front of the envelope, in typed capitals, it said, under my name:
I had laughed, even as I wept, on first reading the envelope – typical Will, bossy to the last.
The waiter – a tall, brisk man with a dozen bits of paper sticking out of the top of his apron –
turned back and caught my eye. All okay? his raised eyebrows said.
‘Yes,’ I said. And then, a little self-consciously, ‘Oui.’
The letter was typewritten. I recognized the font from a card he had sent me long ago. I settled back
in my chair, and I began to read.

A few weeks will have passed by the time you read this (even given your newfound organizational skills, I doubt you will have
made it to Paris before early September). I hope the coffee is good and strong and the croissants fresh and that the weather is still
sunny enough to sit outside on one of those metallic chairs that never sit quite level on the pavement. It’s not bad, the Marquis.
The steak is also good, if you fancy coming back for lunch. And if you look down the road to your left you will hopefully see
L’Artisan Parfumeur where, after you read this, you should go and try the scent called something like Papillons Extrême (can’t
quite remember). I always did think it would smell great on you.
Okay, instructions over. There are a few things I wanted to say and would have told you in person, but a) you would have got
all emotional and b) you wouldn’t have let me say all this out loud. You always did talk too much.
So here it is: the cheque you got in the initial envelope from Michael Lawler was not the full amount, but just a small gift, to help
you through your first weeks of unemployment, and to get you to Paris.
When you get back to England, take this letter to Michael in his London office and he will give you the relevant documents so
you can access an account he has set up for me in your name. This account contains enough for you to buy somewhere nice to
live and to pay for your degree course and your living expenses while you are in full-time education.
My parents will have been told all about it. I hope that this, and Michael Lawler’s legal work, will ensure there is as little fuss as
Clark, I can practically hear you starting to hyperventilate from here. Don’t start panicking, or trying to give it away – it’s not
enough for you to sit on your arse for the rest of your life. But it should buy you your freedom, both from that claustrophobic little
town we both call home, and from the kind of choices you have so far felt you had to make.
I’m not giving the money to you because I want you to feel wistful, or indebted to me, or to feel that it’s some kind of bloody
I’m giving you this because there is not much that makes me happy any more, but you do.
I am conscious that knowing me has caused you pain, and grief, and I hope that one day when you are less angry with me and
less upset you will see not just that I could only have done the thing that I did, but also that this will help you live a really good life,
a better life, than if you hadn’t met me.
You’re going to feel uncomfortable in your new world for a bit. It always does feel strange to be knocked out of your comfort
zone. But I hope you feel a bit exhilarated too. Your face when you came back from diving that time told me everything; there is a
hunger in you, Clark. A fearlessness. You just buried it, like most people do.
I’m not really telling you to jump off tall buildings, or swim with whales or anything (although I would secretly love to think you
were), but to live boldly. Push yourself. Don’t settle. Wear those stripy legs with pride. And if you insist on settling down with
some ridiculous bloke, make sure some of this is squirrelled away somewhere. Knowing you still have possibilities is a luxury.
Knowing I might have given them to you has alleviated something for me.
So this is it. You are scored on my heart, Clark. You were from the first day you walked in, with your ridiculous clothes and
your bad jokes and your complete inability to ever hide a single thing you felt. You changed my life so much more than this money
will ever change yours.
Don’t think of me too often. I don’t want to think of you getting all maudlin. Just live well.
Just live.
A tear had plopped on to the rickety table in front of me. I wiped at my cheek with my palm, and put
the letter down on the table. It took me some minutes to see clearly again.
‘Another coffee?’ said the waiter, who had reappeared in front of me.
I blinked at him. He was younger than I had thought, and had dropped his faint air of haughtiness.
Perhaps Parisian waiters were trained to be kind to weeping women in their cafes.
‘Maybe … a cognac?’ He glanced at the letter and smiled, with something resembling
‘No,’ I said, smiling back. ‘Thank you. I’ve … I’ve got things to do.’
I paid the bill, and tucked the letter carefully into my pocket.
And stepping out from behind the table, I straightened my bag on my shoulder and set off down the
street towards the parfumerie and the whole of Paris beyond.