Warm butterbeer, freshly made, yours truly.
Cinnamon because I like to treat myself
A cure for all that ails you, whether it is writer's block or insomnia.
A cure for all that is cold.
Thoughts flow onto the page like route 1 pidgey looking for a battle
Music plays sonnets, songs you own but have never heard
Computer makes noises, warm computer noises
Mouse click click typing clack clack clack clack clack
Spoon stirring drink
Dipping my cookie
British Biscuit
Butterbeer warms the mind
Burnt tongue, no matter, keep drinking
Its so good
Trash on the desk, your accumulated treasures
A note floating around
A crossword puzzle, never finished, ritz crackers, 3/4 gone
Birdskull necklace, hairspray - great for killing hornets
Cinnamon oil, smells good, tastes wonderful
Burns mouth
Pains skin
Toilet paper hovering nearby
in case of allergies, in case you sneeze
Glass paperwieghts, three baby dragons, jellyfish, owl, want more
Who am I?
Why would anyone read this?
I am useless.
Writing for me, not for them
They are the haters, the ones who tell you to stop
You can't achieve your dreams because they are stupid.
I can achieve whatever I want, go to hell
Achieving dreams
Warm butterbeer, mug hot against arm
Clacking of keys on the keyboard
Shotglass, upside down for the past month - sign that I'm not drinking as much as I'd like
Cookie uneaten, I don't want to eat it ugh
Feeling fat despite healthy diet
Love veggies, don't eat a lot, what is this fat
Death like a mewtwo, fate awaits
Finish your wonderlocke soon, for Groudon will murder you
Shiny hunting in other games instead, Team Magma can wait
Butterbeer is still hot, wow.
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