June 2018

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March 1st, 2018


[info]wllmsn
[info]disorderjournal

[info]wllmsn
[info]disorderjournal


[info]wllmsn
[info]disorderjournal
I wrote a poem. It's dedicated to Death Eaters.
Cult of rotten
potato-faced,
devil's ballsack licking,
diseased pricks.

[info]brooms
[info]disorderjournal

[info]brooms
[info]disorderjournal


[info]brooms
[info]disorderjournal
I’ve been getting a wild amount of questions on wiztagram these days (and hooter), like a lot of “when are you coming back to Rio?” (Probably for a real honeymoon?) or “why aren’t you single?” (or “I liked you more when you were single.”) or “are you changing your name?” and then a lot of really invasive, personal stuff that I have no intention of ever answering. Really grateful that no one’s jumping into “when are you having kids?” already. And people wonder why we keep our private lives to ourselves.

The other thing people have been asking is if it feels different, and it doesn’t, really. Although it is really fun to throw around “husband” every chance I get. Like now. ☺️

In other news, no Quidditch is insanely boring and I still have no idea what to do with my life now. I never had a back-up plan. I barely took any NEWTs. (Not recommended. I highly suggest having a back-up plan.)