It snowed off and on all day today. None of it stuck, but what with that and the festive "Thriftmas" at the thrift shop I'm feeling Christmas-y. (Note that on our car ride home, it only snowed when we played Christmas music and did the Macarena. My brother's idea. I know what you're thinking.) So, I decided that, on the eve of the holiday month, I would post a satirical poem I cobbled together this morning. Enjoy.
***by the way: note that all Stranger Things references are blatant attempts to gratify the populace. I've never seen it.***
A Visit From St. Nicholas: 2017 Edition
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even our chow-chows.
The corporate stockings were hung by the electric fireplace with care,
In hopes that a whiskered, fat trespasser soon would be there.
Madrix and Abcde were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Snickers bars danced in their heads.
Ma with her wh…
I greet you from the darkest, blackest time of night. (Shh it's 9:20 but it's winter so that's like the equivalent of midnight. And I'm tired. So please no judgement.) I'm sorry I haven't posted in forever. I've just been busy with the holidays and school restarting and whatnot. And I went to London!!! And saw LES MIS!!!!
Yes, I saw the immortal Les Miserables. Yes, it was amazing. Yes, I will probably fangirl about it shortly.
But that's another post. For now, I am going to introduce you guys to the five types of OTPs!
OTP: "One True Pairing. Meaning the your favorite combination of characters in a fandom."
1. The Awkward This is, by far, the most common type of OTP, for two reasons. One, this appears often in books, and two, awkward OTPs are really, really adorable. Your textbook Awkward OTP knows, deep in their fictional hearts, that they love each other. Except they don't really fully realize …
What's in a name? What's in the violent epitaphs of youth, the gentle, complacent gravestones of the old? What's in the frozen title of a now-dead king, the famous pseudonym of a golden pen? Why do we exalt words, just scratches on deadened wood, to the name poetry? What is poetry? Thoughts and dreams and feeble shadows in a hazy night? What are thoughts? Dreams? Shadows? Night? Poetry? Prose? Is it all just gold-flaked dust? But it must be more than that. It must be. Because what else is there? What else distinguishes us from animals, except poems and dreams and the crawling night-fear tingle in your spine? Perhaps it is all just a fanciful dream, and perhaps Earth is a dusty dewdrop on a flower petal in a quiet field in the dim scarlet light of morning. Perhaps every blade of grass carries millions of worlds. Perhaps picking a flower of stepping on solid earth destroys universes. Perhaps we are killers, you and I. Are we? I wouldn't know. I'm just a poet, you kno…