Tags: literature

flowers

(no subject)

Happy valentine's, everyone!

Aaah-choo! (55x per minute) Triggered my allergy digging in my dusty shelves for these old 'posters' of mine. Dreamed of them last night. They're quotes I wrote down on cards and paper, cards and paper that I plastered all over my nook those days five, six years ago when I was feeling philosophical and preachy. Ugh. Would you believe I posted this at my door?

"It's better to prevent a sin than to pick up the broken pieces afterwards."

Nice but so priggish to post outside your door, isn't it?

The rest of the quotes, especially those by Joan Walsh Anglund, are lovely. Although my designs weren't. I'll be posting them here. Aah-choo!

'Scuse me.

Oh, ugh, and did you see the news? Emma Watson hung out with this creepy Inferius. LOL. No offense to any fans. But it's so obvious he's not clean. Of course they're not dating, I'm sure. Duh.

I couldn't feel my keys anymore when I type so I cut my nails. Forgot to file them. And then my nose evilly itched. So now I'm sporting a nose with decreased skin. Perfect red for Valentine's. I'm glad my 'date' with Sherly was postponed.


ETA: /squishes the SPEW Lovenotes!

mood:kilig! - an untranslateable Filipino word meaning that state you're in when you're kissed, or simply touched, by your Prince/Princess.
flowers

LitCritThurs: Gaiman's Snow, Glass, Apples

Every Thursday night, I'll post my fave shorts. Mostly what I've collected from a local litcritting google group headed by my editor, The LitCritters.

For my friends here, who will lamost always read what I post here at the Babble, too, anyway! SPEWers are readers. *huggles*

Snow, Glass, Apples
Copyright (c) 1994 Neil Gaiman

I do not know what manner of thing she is. None of us do. She killed her mother in the birthing, but that's never enough to account for it.

They call me wise, but I am far from wise, for all that I foresaw fragments of it, frozen moments caught in pools of water or in the cold glass of my mirror. If I were wise I would not have tried to change what I saw. If I were wise I would have killed myself before ever I encountered her, before ever I caught him.

Wise, and a witch, or so they said, and I'd seen his face in my dreams and in reflections for all my life: sixteen years of dreaming of him before he reined his horse by the bridge that morning, and asked my name. He helped me onto his high horse and we rode together to my little cottage, my face buried in the gold of his hair. He asked for the best of what I had; a king's right, it was.

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