Nice job breaking it, history.

back from Scotland and currently cussing out my cat

regular updates will resume once THIS FUZZY LITTLE SHIT FUCKING DECIDES TO STOP LOSING HER MIND ALL OVER MY KITCHEN ONE DAY YOU ARE GOING TO GET YOURSELF STUCK IN THE WASHING MACHINE AND DON’T YOU COME CRYING TO ME ABOUT THE SPIN CYCLE THEN BECAUSE I HAVE TOLD YOU A THOUSAND GODDAMN TIMES YOU WON’T LIKE IT ALSO I JUST SPENT FORTY FIVE MINUTES CHASING YOU AROUND THE GARDEN IN THE DARK IN MY BARE FEET TRYING TO GET YOUR ASS INSIDE I AM GOING TO BED NOW

I just want someone to make me waffles and stroke my hair.

For this title, I’m picturing a cover with some sweet blonde in homespun 1870s attire gazing out across a prairie or something. Maybe she’s going to join her fiance out West but on the way there begins to fall for the emotionally-wounded, rough-mannered but heart-of-gold wagon train leader. Then her fiance conveniently dies or is a surprise jerk.

It’d probably end up being a made-for-TV movie.

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It’s like every individual chapter has its own horrible flimsy dimestore paperback title. Fingers crossed for The Tycoon’s Virgin Prize or Lord of Lust.

It’s early morning, but super-warm out and the dew has been burnt away by that English sunshine and its reputation for shining hot and bright for twenty hours a day, every day.

Oh, wait. Nice weather means canoodling al-fresco, doesn’t it?

“…lying in the grass…wearing no more than a knee-length, linen smock…”

I WAS KIDDING, DAMN IT, LIZZY.

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