Today in class one of my professors asked if anyone could count to eleven without breathing.
I jumped up and yelled: “Hartnell, Troughton, Pertwee, Baker, Davidson, Baker, McCoy, McGann, Eccelston, Tennant, Smith!”
One of my classmates was like:
“What does that mean? You’re a moron.”
Then my professor leaned over the student and said:
I love my Music Professor!
how do i even begin to explain meg?
After a long night of tossing and turning, interrupted sleep, and waves of nausea, you woke up to find that your period had come early.
“Harry,” you winced to your sleepy boyfriend, “Get up. I need to wash the sheets.”
“What’s wrong baby?” He asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
An imagine for Phoebe:
The air was colder than usual. Each time the wind blew, tiny goosebumps formed on your arms. You looked up toward the sky and noticed how dark the clouds were. They looked as if they were storing millions of raindrops that would soon plummet towards the ground where you stood.
You had almost blocked out their voices…almost. Most of them had been surprisingly supportive of your relationship, but there were others who almost felt entitled to him. They felt it was okay to speak to you as if you weren’t a person at all; to comment on every fiber of who you were; to tear you down with the hope that you’d eventually give up. You had learned to stand in resilient silence, as if their words couldn’t penetrate you. Inside, you were hurting.