two rabbits called floris and dave. i pretended they starred in a sitcom together, got married and eventually divorced over dave cheating on floris with her grandfather, grey bunny
I'll do that when you stop making your entire personality about an author who doesn't know you exist. I probably do spend a lot of time online, but mocking children online for their writing, opinions and internet names probably means you do too.
JK Rowling’s funeral will be beautiful.
The cameras, the faceless attendees, the press swarming outside the gates. The touching notes left by her followers, thanking her for building their childhoods. The radfems mourning the loss of their god.
The grey-faced family and friends, escorted out of the gates by countless bodyguards, hounded by journalists and flashing light that illuminates all of the little details in their hand-woven black clothes.
Every stitch, every seam, there on display. Every tear, every bloodshot eye for the world to see.
But then They come. After the last stragglers of the funeral have left, whether it be hours or days, We will arrive.
Black combat boots and worn Converse, crop tops and baggy jumpers, ripped jeans and tartan skirts.
We will find our way in, jumping fences and picking locks, weaving through the neglected stones of others until we reach the corner that she bought for herself.
Her gravestone is inscribed and decorated, at least twice as big as the others in the graveyard.
We read it aloud.
“Mr. and Mrs.Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. Thank you Joanne, for making our childhoods.”
We laugh. The angel over the grave, hands clasped in prayer, neck and wings strung with scarves of red, yellow, green, blue seems to smile with us.
We take the books first. Most of them are signed copies. They will make our kindling. The scarves and cloaks are too polyester-stuffed and mass produced for that.
We burn the books, dancing and laughing in the dying light, mocking her denial of the burnings back in the 40s.
The pictures are next. Portraits of her, posing elegantly, smiling gracefully. The kind face that hides bigotry and disgust at fellow human beings.
We burn them. Their ashes fuel our crazed laughter.
We celebrate our childhoods. We celebrate the world, the magical, fantasy world she crafted for us. We do not celebrate her. We celebrate her soon to be deleted Twitter account, after one last mournful post about how incredible she was.
We shall mock it, tomorrow. But tonight we celebrate.
I'm 14 and an autistic writer, showing the world my opinions the only way I know how.
JK Rowling’s funeral will be beautiful.
The cameras, the faceless attendees, the press swarming outside the gates. The touching notes left by her followers, thanking her for building their childhoods. The radfems mourning the loss of their god.
The grey-faced family and friends, escorted out of the gates by countless bodyguards, hounded by journalists and flashing light that illuminates all of the little details in their hand-woven black clothes.
Every stitch, every seam, there on display. Every tear, every bloodshot eye for the world to see.
But then They come. After the last stragglers of the funeral have left, whether it be hours or days, We will arrive.
Black combat boots and worn Converse, crop tops and baggy jumpers, ripped jeans and tartan skirts.
We will find our way in, jumping fences and picking locks, weaving through the neglected stones of others until we reach the corner that she bought for herself.
Her gravestone is inscribed and decorated, at least twice as big as the others in the graveyard.
We read it aloud.
“Mr. and Mrs.Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. Thank you Joanne, for making our childhoods.”
We laugh. The angel over the grave, hands clasped in prayer, neck and wings strung with scarves of red, yellow, green, blue seems to smile with us.
We take the books first. Most of them are signed copies. They will make our kindling. The scarves and cloaks are too polyester-stuffed and mass produced for that.
We burn the books, dancing and laughing in the dying light, mocking her denial of the burnings back in the 40s.
The pictures are next. Portraits of her, posing elegantly, smiling gracefully. The kind face that hides bigotry and disgust at fellow human beings.
We burn them. Their ashes fuel our crazed laughter.
We celebrate our childhoods. We celebrate the world, the magical, fantasy world she crafted for us. We do not celebrate her. We celebrate her soon to be deleted Twitter account, after one last mournful post about how incredible she was.
We shall mock it, tomorrow. But tonight we celebrate.