do lobotomies cure love?


It’s been an incredibly lazy-ass summer. Glorious. Kat and tea and illegal fireworks (you loved it, fess up!) Harry Potter on opening night (No, Mimi, people get alarmed when you ask for hugs. Yeah, it is pretty dumb) Mao. Freaking Mao. Canoeing. Stories. Dexter. Pokemon card battle of extremely awesome geekitude (hippowdon owns you) A friendship lost (and I wish it wasn’t so but a glare is not speaking, and now your moodswings are giving us whiplash) Shindig and crazycrazy Irish luck, people coming and going and wonderfulness all around. Campfires and gormet s’mores. Epic dreams.

Dreams. Mine have been too real. I had a little girl, and her name was Penelope, but she liked Penny better. And I was eighteen and holding her and a bit older then holding her hand and she had reddish brunette hair and a strong chin and my funny nose and the bluest eyes save one with the same sunflower in the center. She made the same faces, and had a lilty little-girl voice, and for some reason babies don’t seem as gross now.

Also, strange owl-creatures and plagues that involved pirates, but my dreams can never be completely real.


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