C'EST LA VIE

I was shocked to find out that Hagrid wasn't in fact Dumbledore.

But how am I single?

When was the last time someone washed an oven mitt?

This Wordsmith

I hope you fart during an important board meeting. I hope you say, “Nice to meet you, Tired” when someone says they’re tired. I hope you sing Journey super loud in the shower. I hope you accidentally, inappropriately laugh at someone’s funeral. I hope you watch Weekend at Bernie’s when you’re sad. I hope you text me pictures of your crazy poop even though I’m in the other room. I hope you talk in your sleep. I hope you order guac at Chipotle. I hope you are jealous of my Wookiee impression. I hope you whisper secret missions to the dog on the off chance the government hired him as the first canine super-spy. I hope you cry when you watch Glory. I hope you hate Nicolas Cage. I hope you swear when you stub your toe. I hope you call yourself an idiot when you mess up. I hope you believe me when I say you’re not. I hope you smile a lot. I hope you love yourself.

Late at night like this, when my heart is overwhelmed with loneliness, when my eyes are fixed on words incurring damage beyond repair, my soul stirs, seduced into the lie that I am designed for solitude. Reason is easily warped, flaws easily targeted. I slip down this rabbit hole because a starved heart feeds on fabrication, despite the knowledge that it’s been revived and made holy. A lie can grow its own voice and say the ugliest things without a thought of reprimand because, truthfully, I am intoxicated by it. I am an addict. I must be. Because even though the rational part of my mind can rebuke a broken hypothesis, still a part of me always sympathizes; how could I blame anyone? I wouldn’t choose me either.

This Wordsmith

So incredibly moved by this man.

Panic! At The Disco

This Wordsmith