I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, Kiss me harder, and You’re a good person, and, You brighten my day. I live my life as straight-forward as possible.
Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.
Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.
But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.
And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.
We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.
We never know when the bus is coming.
As Arnold points out, there is an otherwise inexplicable shift in direction in the Piccadilly line passing east out of South Kensington. “In fact,” she writes, “the tunnel curves between Knightsbridge and South Kensington stations because it was impossible to drill through the mass of skeletal remains buried in Hyde Park.” I will admit that I think she means “between Knightsbridge and Hyde Park Corner”—although there is apparently a “small plague pit dating from around 1664” beneath Knightsbridge Green—but I will defer to Arnold’s research.
But to put that another way, the ground was so solidly packed with the interlocked skeletons of 17th-century victims of the Great Plague that the Tube’s 19th-century excavation teams couldn’t even hack their way through them all. The Tube thus had to swerve to the side along a subterranean detour in order to avoid this huge congested knot of skulls, ribs, legs, and arms tangled in the soil—an artificial geology made of people, caught in the throat of greater London.
Did you know that beekeepers have famously attractive eyes ? Every single one of them . I don’t know the science behind it , but studies show beauty is in the eye of the bee holder .
*hears one second of sound from a lotr movie* are you watching lord of the rings
listen i may not like her personally but the fact remains that as a human being she is entitled to body autonomy and to choose who sees her naked body and who doesn’t
where is the harry potter fic where harry has to deal with the fact that ginny weasely is deeply fucked over by childhood insecurities and trust issues from her family and then by her terrible first year at hogwarts and then by her terrible sixth year of hogwarts she was the ringleader of organized guerilla rebellion against a crushing occupationist force when she was sixteen. SIXTEEN.
she is not harry’s happy ending. she was a child in the shadow of her parent’s war and she got her first wounds from it when she was eleven and alone and she carried those scars forward into battle again and again—when she was fourteen, when she was fifteen. she grew up violent and angry under terrible pressure and she’s never going to be anyone’s reward.
i want to see harry fucking realize that. i want to see him wake up at night with her wand at his throat and love her anyway. i want to see him make her sandwiches when her hands are shaking too bad from curse damage to hold utensils. i want to see him get the fuck over himself and earn her.