Why hello you insufferable git.
Dry your feet at the Welcome mat.
Coming soon, in the theaters near you:
absolutely nothing, my dear, personal, buzz lightyears.
But I award you a pass to platform 9 ¾,
and fifty points for Slytherin, due to the fact that we are fathomless.
Current Short Story: by me you ********]
Let’s measure our distance in stares, stereotypical glares, and see how long you can go without blinking, eyelids sliding shut, clocking out before sundown, back to the past:
there used to be there used to be there used to be—
No. Let’s not start that again.
We both know:
we are not civil
we do not coexist
and you do not love me.
I’ve planned my exit strategy two months ahead. So, please, let’s not fuel the idea that your universe is imploding, helping mine explode, because I’m running out of patience here, dear.
And, by the way, stop mourning me in different tongues, threnodies burning underneath your skin; I’m not dead yet and I don’t plan to die with you by my side, anyway. My light isn’t going out next to your shouts of bend this way, flex like that, turn and twist while breaking my core to set me free, but the compass doesn’t point north with me so you might as well stop.
Besides, I lack the will to settle in your space. And what do you think we are? A love song? Some sort of tragedy God hasn’t written about just yet? We’re not compatible, we’re—
Foreigners, that’s what we are.
We’re foreigners in our own territory.
Frauds frauds frauds, that’s us.
You know, I spoke of you in galaxies, abnormalities, weighed your existence in asteroids and consistent retreats; spoke like nothing I saw ever made me worry because if I’m unafraid and pervade —focus hard enough; head to the ground—I’ll hear the sound of you pause to re-think, stopping near the brink, and dear, please come around, we’re not there just yet, don’t take another step, don’t—
Wait, wait wait wait!
You’re up in the sky—your dwelling is dreadfully high—and the reception must not be good up there because you’re not listening, again. I keep telling you gravity will get you, too.
So wait, pause, hold on.
Please do take another step because my psychic predicted this s**t three decades before I understood that every time you whisper, a new planet is born where the people suffer from dementia and narcissism, speaking like Christians that ignore biblical injunctions, addicts to the lessons in romance and pain—push, repel, repeat—screaming names to you, about you and with you and you and you and you.
The friction is disappointing.
Let’s start again start again start again—
Let’s pretend I understand you.
my anime list
prostitution, jellyfish, twins, game of thrones,
walking dead (glenn), legend of korra, one piece, downton abbey,
johnny depp, haruki murakami, sherlock, doctor who, ghibli and disney.
Due to the fact that Corr found gay midget porn,
she's placed here as an honour to her hard work for society.
Just a side note: nifty nargle is my mule.
Now, my undeniably terrific humans, which slaughter mother nature, throw thy stones, fellow oxygen inhalers! I shan’t judge thou for I have made plenty mistakes, took many bullets, stopped quite a few trains and finished off many fire spitting dinosaurs, but in the end I am what I am: a magical peanut, and a writer.
Just don't piss the flippin' dragons out of me and we can be flying hippos on rainbows together.
Go on, go on, moving along.
Johnnie Walker, the cat-killer, is unable to receive your calls.
Please hold and enjoy our information below. ⇣
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☞ most call me yu and i am mature
and childish and my humour is ******** up.
☞ foul-mouthed, dallying, human being with the patience of the gods.
☞ leo, born a bilingual b*****d in nineteen ninety-two
with a fascination for psychological/horror thingies.
☞ questioning sanity while continuing being a sleep deprived
visitor during the nocturnal hours.
☞ spout too many ******** racist remarks and
can’t cook for s**t, also a professional bum.
☞ i love music, from classical to rock, then to k and j-pop
and i'm lazy and love food and my nintendo ds.
☞ the wordy b*****d you wanna avoid because, you know,
placed in slytherin, and probably an airbender.
☞ iron man knocked batman from number one and
weeping angels have me being paranoid.
☞ devours books and strives on words and movies
and tv shows and manga and anime and i need a life.
☞ don’t like even numbers and don’t like people, well,
unless you cook for me, but i panic and am nervous 23 hours a day.
☞ no sugar-coated lullabies here, brutal honesty which means it is a given that i am a total a*****e, if you wish, with perfect apparating skills.
╚═══════════ ❀ ❀ ═══════════╝
Further along the red brick road is darkness, but venture deeper into nihility you—fabulous, strikingly glorious—muggle, for it is made of dreamers, achievers and creators
What am I—you still wonder, my dear?
I am a traveller amongst the stars of dreamers, venturing into nihility, the glory of all believers. I am as twisted as a three flavour candy cane, and I play with the ignorance of the minds dreaming of sober summers, winter chills and midnight breaths. Dancing with the childish smiles that are but facades to hide the reality that I am but a scared little kid, afraid of the monsters lurking beneath my bed—but they are only in my head.
I am the burnt toast with butter scrapped off of it, stale coffee and cold peppermint tea, drifting endlessly in a star speckled, moonless kind of night. While my comfort only lasts within those calm, collected moments when the rain pounds against fogged up, colour stained windows of a bawdy church.
I cling to those delusions of honey-dripped, lopsided grins, to the deceiving tongue ripping apart ribcages and living off of sinking lungs—desperately clutching onto the scents that mingle within the minds of those who dared to inhale the words that are like cotton candy kisses, making hearts ache because you know it is nothing but fiction—a passerby. However, if am meant for anything, it is to show you my universe and hope you take my hand.
Because I am…a magical peanut, and a writer.
Backed Goods and Cookie-Doos:
I am collecting bugs // inks, so feel free—no, just ******** send them.
Thank you very much, wonderful stranger. I owe you a squeeze.
Black: 311 // 500
Red: 332 // 500
Blue: 324 // 500
White: 37 // 500
Brown: 533 // 500
Green: 376 // 500
Orange: 49 // 500
Yellow: 461 // 500
Gold: 109 // 500
Purple: 10 // 500
Pink: 6 // 500
Now if you are still ******** here, excuse my language, get the ******** off of my profile, you traitorous goblin. I am the stalker, not the one being stalked, unless, of course, you wish to leave a lovely comment talking about how nice my hair is today—or you could leave a rude one, saying how much I resemble your mother.
(( If you happen to return in the year twenty seventy-seven,
I plan to massacre everyone visiting my profile then with burning-evil-leaves. ))