People act as if all the worth that I could ever hope to have as a writer relies on my ability to find my illustrator, to  reveal my muse. To have someone to kiss my ink stained fingers and flick their ideas of how artsy my stale coffee looks on Our Ikea table. I smile to these people. Shake my head, release my wounded bottom lip. If I had a muse, illustrator, or even someone to kiss my ink stained fingers, this much would definitely be true; I might never have wrote at all.
  • JoinedAugust 2, 2011

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callmeinlondon7 callmeinlondon7 Jul 12, 2012 08:50AM
Hey everyone just wanted to say that I won't be on for around two weeks just in case your wondering (though you most likely aren't...FOREVER ALONE FTW!). I'm going to canada to chill canoe style toda...
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Stories by Michaela
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