DISORDER JOURNALS

I have an amaryllis bulb - it's probably 16 or 17 years old.

Old as hell, huh? I've been taking care of it since I was little. And while it doesn't have quite the magic of some of our wizarding plants, the simple hardihood of this flower (with a little care, a little forethought) is pretty magical. It doesn't have much purpose other than the fact that I like to grow it and, for 17 years, its bloom has more or less reminded me that longer, warmer days are on the way.

And barring that, last night Toot learned how to whistle "Space Oddity" ... he was standing on a tennis ball while he did it, too.

On this day in 1821, Muggle poet John Keats died of tuberculosis. His gravestone is anonymous, and reads 'Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water,' by his own request, as he believed he would not be remembered after his death.

I always find it so sad to read about brilliant artists being so insecure about their work. His poetry is exquisitely beautiful, it's a shame this wasn't properly recognised until after he passed.

Mary Wollstonecraft got loose in my garden and razed my marigolds. What a beautiful sight. I'm so sad. :( I suppose it's good I caught her before she reached the shrubbery!

i found the tweet of my heart, my soul, my whole life. you're welcome

also i missed a call this morning and when i checked my vm it's some man who was returning a call i made about purchasing a cow. idk if a cow would go with my cat. like debbie mightn't like bessie. but i've decided that it's time that the two shall meet