sprawled out on the mauve library carpeting, thick grey mud splattered on our bare legs and hands, and i am reading her yeats. "i HAVE heard the pigeons of the Seven Woods!" i proclaim, as she slumps against the bookcase dramatically and a deep and gutteral faux snore roars from her trap. "stupid cunt!" i call out, as if it were a reflex, and our cover is blown. escorted back to our seats with our tails tween our hind legs, whimpering with each step. mud fights leave my heart in such a fragile state

if anyone would like to write three essays for me i would gladly make them some yummy food

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