dear_mun | (no subject)

Do you ever think it's weird that you know everything about me, but I don't know anything about you? I reckon this is how it happened:

(Scene. Derelict bookshop in an alleyway. With looooads of books. Like Moony sort of books. THUNDER CRACKS OMINOUSLY.)

YOU. Oh hullo, do you have any autobiographies on particularly dashing British fellows?

SHOPKEEPER. Oh yes, would you be interested in learning about one Sirius Black? He's the most dashing of all the dashing fellows.

YOU. However did I never notice? Ta very much. I will now give you my left kidney as payment.

SHOPKEEPER. Cheers mate. (He grins toothily. But alas! What will he do with the kidney? FIND OUT MORE NEXT TIME.)

If you were anyone else, I'd think that you were on the pull. Which is nothing to be ashamed about, really, 'cause who wouldn't want to pull me? Lots of birds out there do. Even James, absolutely smashing and Lilysexual bloke that he is, has snogged me whilst pissed. There was tongue. On his end, not mine.

. . . Lily, if you're listening, you're one lucky girl.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I can't say for certain, but I imagine that's how it happened.

[ NEVER. Tonight shall be the first day of the glorious revolution against books. Ready your men. ]

That's really just tragic.

[NO NO NO!!!! Leave him alone with his books!]

Sirius Black and the Revenge of the Custard.

Sirius Black and the Entire Russian Ballet.

Sirius Black and the Revolution Against Books.

I could go on.

Sirius Black and the Mystery of His Tiny Shrunken Head, author unknown, circa 1979. Taken from journals found in a derelict pet shop beneath mountains of dust-belching, enormous books containing terribly long words. Have faint traces of the word "moon," first letter capitalized, sometimes ending with the letter y. The story of a particularly dashing British fellow who is now in Saint Mungo's due to the hex of an unknown criminal that has given him a shrunken head.

Want another?