My brain is going to explode.

My typist is a terrible liar of a person. Who neglects me horribly. I don't care if she has a Star Wars game, that doesn't mean she can just ignore me for three weeks! Er, two weeks, I suppose--writing a 40-page fic in a week about me isn't exactly neglect. Even though it wasn't me exactly.

But this time, I really am back, and back I shall ( Read more... )

I am quite finally back ( Read more... )

My typist must be insane.

She likes Dolohov.

She likes Dolohov.

How can she do something like that? It's like--I don't know what it's like, I don't think it has a strong enough equivalent to make a decent analogy.

She likes him quite as much as she likes the Phantom. Which is to say, an unhealthy amount.

My typist fangirls a Death Eater ( Read more... )

I think I can safely say that this day was the worst day I've had in a long time.

...Tony?

Pardon me while I force my typist to cook something chocolate.

I think I'm going to be sick.

Peter! Where are you?

We need to clear a few things up, if you don't mind!

( Alright, so I was bored. )

Maybe we can just assume that I don't make any sense anymore and I'm extremely sorry. Padfoot? Prongs? Lily? Please ( Read more... )

I finally get my friends back, and what's the first thing I do? Get into a gigantic row with them.

I am the world's biggest idiot.

Wait. Settling down?

Erm?