The trouble with being a princess . . .
The trouble with being a princess is, quite simply, one doesn't know what to do with everything one has. Princesses get whatever they want.
Two things.
Easter season is always interesting. My mother used to like to spend the entire month surrounding Easter hiding little gifts and things for me to find randomly; when I woke up and found a pink basket on my night table this morning, I wondered if somehow she'd managed to find me and leave me a gift. There was a pink, porcelain egg, trimmed with gold, in the basket, with the word Cloissane on the bottom, which is apparently French for BOO HAG BECAUSE THERE WAS A BOO HAG IN THE EGG!!!! I HAVE A BOO HAG!!!!
I HAVE A BOO HAG!!!!
Thank you Mrs. Malfoy Mummy!!!! I've decided to call him Reginald, and right now he's tied to a spool of kite string, to the end of my four-poster. He's an exceptionally handsome Boo Hag, I'm quite sure of it!!!!
Secondly, breakfast was terrible. I don't like have my appetite spoilt. Subsequently, classes were exceptionally dreary today. I really don't care for the sound of owl wings; they're excessive and annoyingly . . . flappy.
Anyhow, the trouble with being a princess and having everything one wants is there is always the outside chance that others may not value your possessions as closely or carefully as you yourself do. There is always the chance that should one be unavailable to attend to one's things for whatever reason -- such as travel, dismemberment, insanity, or trauma -- one's things would be left to fall prey to the sifting dust of abandonment, or organic rot, or the decay of time. Often I whisper to my most important things, and encourage them that they are loved, no matter what, and they are free to seek out a new master or mistress if that should so please them. I can imagine who they would choose, given the opportunity. Chuckadonna would of course stay with Luna. I can imagine my zoo of origami animals marching themselves to Theodore, a fetching little circus parade -- all except the raven. The raven would find Boot. My capitalisation quills would hop along the corridors, all the way up to the Astronomy Tower, to Other Professor Mummy. My trunk full of costumes would clomp over to Weasley, just to vex him. Shall I name my angel wings Methuselah? My tiara would seek out Blaise, for he is cultured and elegant. And Reginald would want only Millicent to take him out into the night sky, winding his string longer or shorter. I would think my tent made of sheer draperies, beads, and old lamp bases would inch its way around Slytherin until it found Draco; however, I do believe he's already in there. It wouldn't have to look very far at all. I don't think, though, that Mousey would venture off by himself; he would probably just wait for me to come back.
There is a scratching at the window again. No matter where I go, this owl turns up. I think I shall collect it now.
Even though I really do hate the sound of flapping wings.
Thank you again for the Boo Hag.
Two things.
Easter season is always interesting. My mother used to like to spend the entire month surrounding Easter hiding little gifts and things for me to find randomly; when I woke up and found a pink basket on my night table this morning, I wondered if somehow she'd managed to find me and leave me a gift. There was a pink, porcelain egg, trimmed with gold, in the basket, with the word Cloissane on the bottom, which is apparently French for BOO HAG BECAUSE THERE WAS A BOO HAG IN THE EGG!!!! I HAVE A BOO HAG!!!!
I HAVE A BOO HAG!!!!
Thank you Mrs. Malfoy Mummy!!!! I've decided to call him Reginald, and right now he's tied to a spool of kite string, to the end of my four-poster. He's an exceptionally handsome Boo Hag, I'm quite sure of it!!!!
Secondly, breakfast was terrible. I don't like have my appetite spoilt. Subsequently, classes were exceptionally dreary today. I really don't care for the sound of owl wings; they're excessive and annoyingly . . . flappy.
Anyhow, the trouble with being a princess and having everything one wants is there is always the outside chance that others may not value your possessions as closely or carefully as you yourself do. There is always the chance that should one be unavailable to attend to one's things for whatever reason -- such as travel, dismemberment, insanity, or trauma -- one's things would be left to fall prey to the sifting dust of abandonment, or organic rot, or the decay of time. Often I whisper to my most important things, and encourage them that they are loved, no matter what, and they are free to seek out a new master or mistress if that should so please them. I can imagine who they would choose, given the opportunity. Chuckadonna would of course stay with Luna. I can imagine my zoo of origami animals marching themselves to Theodore, a fetching little circus parade -- all except the raven. The raven would find Boot. My capitalisation quills would hop along the corridors, all the way up to the Astronomy Tower, to Other Professor Mummy. My trunk full of costumes would clomp over to Weasley, just to vex him. Shall I name my angel wings Methuselah? My tiara would seek out Blaise, for he is cultured and elegant. And Reginald would want only Millicent to take him out into the night sky, winding his string longer or shorter. I would think my tent made of sheer draperies, beads, and old lamp bases would inch its way around Slytherin until it found Draco; however, I do believe he's already in there. It wouldn't have to look very far at all. I don't think, though, that Mousey would venture off by himself; he would probably just wait for me to come back.
There is a scratching at the window again. No matter where I go, this owl turns up. I think I shall collect it now.
Even though I really do hate the sound of flapping wings.
Thank you again for the Boo Hag.