Beads of thought haphazardly strung together with scraps of thread, recycled from decaying books of old. Even after reading the world’s greatest verses and prose, even after perusing timeless words of classics, delving into scripts of novel thoughts and ideals….
(Especially after waiting until the night before it’s due…)
I cannot write a patchwork paper to save my life.
Big, bad birthdays. Gargantuan gatherings of small ladies with great green personalities, seven candles, and a half-eaten cake.
Life is Hard
Galactic feeds my horn addiction.