Author has written 4 stories for Skins.
Social conventions are limiting, nonconstructive and irrelevant to the development of a person; therefore, I live to defy them.
Guppy, at your service.
I swim in a veritable sea—of varied tales and colorful memories; of vivid snapshots and amorphous snippets—and fashion them into an anchor that tethers us all: stories.
My fandoms are varied and irrelevant, and they will remain so for an indefinite amount of time. My ships, however, are a completely different story. If you so much as mess with them; talk sass at them; narrow your eyes in their direction; sweetheart, I can and I will end your family and skin your dog—and or, cat—alive. In front of you. Also, I'm pretty sure I'm licensed to. You can get permits at the blacktop side-carts down at Acton for a fair price, right? Fairly sure those are legal.
A Ravenclaw at heart, it must be said.
Once upon a time, I trusted the fabric of me into the hands of someone else. Someone I trusted would do just that; hold me. They sought the frayed edges, though—pulled ceaselessly until I unraveled, came undone at their hands. I haven't trusted anyone with the loom since.
Indie music is brilliant—claim otherwise and kindly refer to the third sentence of the fourth paragraph. MGMT, The Dodos, The Boy Least Likely To, Temper Trap, Passion Pit, the New Pornographers, The Weepies and OK Go are some of the greatest minds of this generation. Take a minute or two out of your faded, careworn, color-coded schedule and indulge in them. I honestly don't see how you can bring yourself to regret it.
Voluntarily—arbitrarily—indefinable. Pretentious, though. Poetic. Cynical. Hopelessly sentimental. A world-class liar. Casual observer. Surreptitious slitherer-outer. Part-time mascot.
Perpetually scented by disinfectant: health-care professional. Well, soon, that is. Wallowing in med school. Slinging stethoscopes every which way.
A fellow Bitch from a company of voluntary Anarchists.
Oh, right. Social networking. Er, I'm on Twitter as well. So, if you have anything to say about my work, feel like throwing a suggestion at me, or—hell—want to give me a good, swift kick up the arse to remind me to update, go for it: subtleanarchist. We can talk about anything under the sun! Really.
Right, that's it. You take what you can get, and I've given away enough as it is. Shoot me a message if you feel ever so-inclined. Go on; amuse me.
Words don't always work, but I remain a fan of them.
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