books, personal

hello, it’s me (back from the dead)

Thank you to everyone who has been patiently waiting for me to post again; my fiance and I have been in the process of finding an apartment, packing all of our shit, and moving said shit for the past two months.

I have a lot to catch you guys up on. I have two new tattoos – a thestral and a crown of thorns. We live in a brand new place, and so far, I absolutely love it. Jay graduated so we’ve been navigating that. My car broke down on the day we moved all of our furniture – so we’ve been carpooling ever since. I have a fuck ton of pictures to show you guys. But first, I wanted to tell you why I didn’t write while we were moving. Firstly, I work a shit ton. Spare hours are hard to come by and I was basically managing every aspect of our transport by myself so Jason could finish his classes in peace. There were not a lot of free seconds to devote to writing, unfortunately. Secondly. my space is so crucial to my sanity. I’m an introvert, an INTJ on some days, and an INFJ on others. I am an autumnal spirit who needs solitude and peace before I can function like a person. I also have OCD and anxiety, so everything must be in its proper place. (NOTE: When I say I have OCD, I don’t mean that I’m afraid of germs and dirt. I mean that I have a little voice inside my head that the psychiatrist I went to actual said “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier? You have classic Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and no one has ever diagnosed you properly, so that sucks”) My personal space is so fucking crucial to my mental health. My home is where I go to recharge, it’s my witch’s cottage, my castle. Don’t fuck with my home or the inhabitants.

I strongly believe my first home was a song. Maybe it’s because I was raised under the wings of two Cancers but “home” is a very fluid term for me. Maybe it’s because I spend so much time trying to reign in the fireworks under my skin that “home” has shifted from person to object to lyric so frequently.

Anyway, my first home was a song. It was the only thing that held a glimmer of safety and I tucked myself under the lyrics and stayed there until I was strong enough to be my own crescendo. That song was “Skinny Love” by Bob Iver. I know! You were expecting something by Johnny Cash, hang on, it’s coming. Wait for your fucking turn. You can tell me forty thousand times that Skinny Love is about unrequited love, which, for some, it might be. For me, Skinny Love has always been about suicide and depression. I’m going to tell you a secret. The years between my thirteenth and nineteenth years of my life saw NINE suicide attempts. You read that right, fuck off. I don’t really want to talk about them but they were never supposed to not work so let’s just leave it

I’m going to tell you a secret. It’s not so much a secret now because the shame is wearing off and replacing itself with something more vicious.

The years between my thirteenth and nineteenth years of my life saw NINE suicide attempts. You read that right, fuck off. I don’t really want to talk about them but they were never supposed to not work so let’s just leave it at this: I’m really horrible at committing suicide. Kind of like how I’m horrible at communication or not using “fuck” as a filler word. I can point out the lines in Skinny Love that helped me recover the next morning after I downed a bottle of narcotic pain pills. I can point out the lines that I sang along to with red-rimmed eyes and panic attacks crawling under my skin. This sucks to talk about so let’s finish on a high note – Skinny Love was something that I always thought was written for me. Not in an egotistical, people-are-writing-songs-about-me way but in “Listen you sad little bitch, the universe is trying to tell you something”

Hence, my latest tattoo. When I got my thestral patronus, I thought “Fucking perfect, I’m a morbid piece of shit with a death pony as a spirit animal. Who could love that?” Who will love you, who will fight? This leads me into a brief discussion of my second home: myself. I never really cared for myself as an object of permanence until I started decorating the walls. I think my partial sleeves actually started my journey into self-acceptance. Not self-love, that’s a work in progress.  I have all these pieces of my soul etched on my skin and it gives me great comfort to know it’s giving everyone a forewarning before they talk to me.

The other tattoo I got, my crown of thorns, lives ever-so-happily on my middle finger of my right hand. It’s a homage to two things – Johnny Cash’s cover of Hurt and my Catholic upbringing. I’ve always felt like us reformed Catholics wear a crown of thorns. My crown is formed of guilt and grief. I’m sure there are other ties that bind us to our thrones, but those are mine.

Thirdly, as you can probably guess, I find a home in the books that I love. They become part of me, so I cover myself in them. I cover my shelves with them, my bathtub is lined with them. If I ever saw someone trying to hurt one of my books, they would get a right hook to the jaw.  Harry Potter, Wicked Lovely, Looking for Alaska, and the Raven Cycle are series that I consider to be especially comfortable.

Lastly, I find my home in other people. Before you get all judgy and start accusing of being a false prophet of introversion,  let me tell you something – I am very particular with the people that I settle into. Above all things that I am proud of, I am most proud of the fact that when I decide to love something or someone, I love them with all that I have. I made a home for myself within the confines of maybe four or five people, tops. One of them is my sister and one of them is Jason. Jason is a very interesting choice of residence, as I am always so sure that we could break each other entirely.  My OCD makes me think I am the catalyst to his destruction, my tarot cards say I am the catalyst for his resurrection.

By the way, my sister gave birth to my goddaughter on June 2nd. Little Annabelle Jade, my little Gemini trickster queen.

So now Jason and I have a tiny 900 square foot fortress and in turn, I have other dwelling places within that home.

I feel as if a home has a different definition to every individual, but I always think of it as a place where I can tell the truth of myself without judgment, a place where I can let my magic reign free with no fear of consequence.

Here are some pictures of my tiny home

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Yes, that IS a Ronan Lynch quote above my witchcraft station. Call me morbid but I thought “Not death but his brother, sleep” was a perfect addition to my bedroom. Fight me, I dare you. Did I happen to mention that I got my DNA test back? Guess who is 65% Irish with a Russian and Bulgarian twist. It explains my kinship to the Lynches and Kavinsky.  It also explains my intolerance to the sun, weather above 60 degrees, the spectrum of human emotion, and my love of Jameson.

Speaking of books, I finished Labryth Lost and it was surprisingly really good.  The lore was interesting to read about and I appreciated the way the main character was written. I was surprised by the romantic twist but it was one of my favorite LBGT moments thus far in a book. I also read Diary of a Haunting and it was an easy read but the ending actually snuck up on me a bit. I am having a super hard time getting into A Court of Wings and Ruin, I think because I honestly prefer the Throne of Glass series and I think Aelin and Rowan could kick Feyre and Rhys’ ass. Fun fact: I like slow burn books IF YOU COULDN’T ALREADY TELL.

While we’re on the topic of my favorite literary couples, can we have a moment of silence for all the Dreamer trilogy niblets that Maggie keeps dropping? Not going to lie, I cry when I see them. I save them to my phone and look at them when I need a moment of cathartic release.

I’m currently listening to The Song of Achilles on Audible and reading a physical copy of  My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry and I have already picked out which quotes I’m going to get added to my Book Sleeve. These books are going to destroy me, I can sense it.

I will start blogging more often, I promise. I’ll have to give reviews of the books I’m reading now and keep updating everyone on my domestic bullshit. I’m back in business for tarot readings since I have more privacy, so tell your friends.

That’s all there is,

The Book Witch

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poetry

rage and love, wings and claws

you’ve always been able to hear words to see them, picture them behind closed eyelids but i can taste the syllables and feel the letters, their thorns and petals                           trace my hands over them like they were the notches in your spine

you could look at me and say “coffee” and it would taste like burnt Folgers and mountain air                                                                                                                                                 and salt running down my cheeks

it would feel like running my fingers over the rocks on the edge of the river i was raised in                                                                                                                                                              it would feel like getting splinters on the bottom of my feet from sitting on nostalgic wooden porches

you say “coffee” like a cacophony of broken memories and i can feel the vibrations in my bones

i can run my thumb over the people i’ve learned, the people i’ve been. their stories bend open like they were a book and i was prying apart the spine.

you can say “grief” and mine will be unparalleled to yours. they’ll have the same meaning, same consonants, same iambic pentameter                                                                   but yours tastes like honey and mine is whiskey that burns the back of our throats

it tastes like i cut myself on the crown of thorns over my head, on my fingers, on my wrists
(blood drips over a sacrilegious cupid’s bow, my knuckles are stained red)
it tastes like forgive me, forgive me, forgive me
it tastes like the smell of gunpowder wrapped around a cerebral lobe. the cracks in my ribs were born from recoil and haphazardly decided soulmates. (there are crystals forming where my heart used to be)
it feels like bruised kneecaps from falling

to

the

floor when you watch a heartbeat for the last time

now, it feels like tires screeching on 2 am pavement and the sting of a tattoo needle,       (if you look close enough, you can see blood and ink collide in the water, a war that’s been raging for years)
it feels like a muscle reflex, a flick of a finger, anger blooming where love used to be

it feels like a point between awake and asleep; smoke curled up around tired eyelids and electricity humming inside veins                                                                                                 now i’m an electric lover; the lightening and then the thunder

when you say “home” i can taste the saltwater and the rain                                                        i can feel pavement under my body, a beacon to the lonely and the restless; home is a fluid place with the consistency of syrup

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photography

I Write With My Hands About Things I Do With My Hands

Sup, mofos.

Remember my fiance? You know, the one who I think is super fucking stoic and mysterious but is actually just a huge nerd that makes goat noises?

This fuck weasel?


Guess what he did!

No, you have to guess.

He upgraded my camera. He upgraded my little Kodak to a beautiful, sleek Nikon D5600. Not that I didn’t love my sweet Manon but the local community college did not know how to teach me professional photography on a Kodak. So, let me introduce you to Richard Campbell Gansey III aka Daddy Dick.

He’s beautiful, yes?

I’m stoked because I can now invest in some photography classes during the summer. Here’s a comprehensive list of “what this means for everyone in my sphere of existence”:

  • More pictures of tarot readings
  • More pictures of crystals and bones
  • More pictures of books
  • More pictures of coffee
  • Humans being dragged into adventures on a more frequent basis
  • Obnoxiously spontaneous day trips
  • “I need a fucking picture of that”
  • “I need a picture of your fucking face”
  • “Hold fucking still”

 

Here are some (edited) pictures of bookish layouts that I’ve done in the last couple weeks (taken on the Kodak).


Here is an (edited) picture of a shirt that my boss designed for me that I turned into Tumblr trash.


Here’s me with Daddy Dick.

I also decided to get an Apple Watch, because go big or go home, right? I’m very surprised with how much I like it – I went on a hike yesterday and it was really efficient to have the watch on instead of trying to use my phone for everything.

So, I’m going to be working on photography quite a lot in the upcoming months. This Mercury Retrograde is absolutely kicking my ass; I’m normally an extremely restless person who needs to be engaging in some sort of creative outlet to feel sane and I’m usually small and consistently angry, but this is something else entirely. This is some “I’m afraid of my own shadow, I don’t know who I am anymore” My sister and I are going to get crystals to combat some of the disruptive energy buzzing around the atmosphere. I’ve had an insane amount of drive to do tarot readings lately and when I was up on my mountain I had a weird pull a card pull a card pull a card feeling tugging at my gut. I drew a card.

 

 

Queen of Wands, as defined by Maggie Stiefvater in my raven oracle deck, is essentially the “fire breathing over-protective viciously caustic bitch” card. In case you were wondering how that fucking translates into something important – I pulled my personality on a card. I rarely ever draw fire cards. My birth cards are the Moon and Strength and I typically always end up with Death somewhere in my spreads. Honestly, I think it’s the first time I’ve ever paid attention to the Queen of Wands but I am now paying very good attention and listening very well to whatever the world is saying.

The Queen of Wands is the dominant feminine energy of the element of Fire. She is not afraid to demonstrate her power to others nor does she shy away from a challenge. She is therefore a strong leader who is focused on her desires, intending to get what she wants. Thus, the Queen of Wands indicates that you are strong, independent and able to take care of yourself and sustain your own creative vision, even in the face of adversity. You know what you want and how to get it, and you are masterful at engaging with others to achieve your goals.

Called. The. Fuck. Out. It’s always a little bittersweet when the universe is like “Yeah dude, you have the magic but you kind of need a kick in the fucking pants to remember to use it.”

In bookish news, I put aside Me, Earl the Dying Girl favor of Labyrinth of the Lost by Zoraida Cordova. I needed some more magic and less male narrative in my life. Normally, I gear myself more towards male-oriented novels because 97% of the time, I can’t relate to the main character when it’s a girl. Unless she’s like, basically Satan, I cannot handle the tortured, love-sick monolog and the internal struggle to be “just like other girls”. I have never once had a desire to be the same as someone else and I hope that I receive a nice uppercut to the jaw if that ever happens. I digress;  I like Cordova’s novel thus far, I have always had a strong inclination to the study of brujas and Dia De Los Muertos. I hope this book does the culture justice. I just finished Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea and the ending was not bad! I really enjoyed the story and I’m considering getting the second book in the series but I’m so behind on my TBR that I can feel my soul dying a little every day. Just kidding, I don’t have a soul; but my TBR is fucking insane, I wasn’t kidding about that part. I noticed that audio-books have really changed my interaction with reading as a whole. I was driving the other day, running errands as we adults do, and I realized that I’ve started to equate certain parts of town with certain moments in books. Seventh Street now reminds me of when Ronan stole the Pig and raced K. The parking lot of Ulta out on Pyramid Highway will always bear the weight of Kit finding out that Della is pregnant. It’s a strange sort of reality, where words have started to paint themselves into my town.

In terms of other creative projects, I am currently teaching myself to embroider so I can give people dish towels that say shit like “go fuck yourself” and “thug ass piece of trash” because you know, I love them. I’d like to be able to embroider patches someday because I fucking love putting patches on shit. I’m trying so hard to put more energy into bullet journaling. That’s right, friends, ya girl is Bullet Journal Trash. Honestly, though, I have tried and tested so many fucking methods of keeping my shit together. I have the attention span of a five-year-old so traditional methods are not good for me. My BuJo (shut the fuck up) is less of a planner and more of a Book of Shadows and memoir cross-over. The most organized aspect of it is my “Important Dates” page where I basically write down any appointments I have that are at high risk to be forgotten aka “any appointment I make, ever.” Here is my cuss-word filled BuJo in all its glory, paired up with my rude-ass pencil bag that has more lipsticks and lighters in it than actual pens. 

My 2017 reading accomplishments page is sad, I know. I got sucked into the Raven Cycle series and it spit me out, completely unmotivated to read anything else, ever again. If you need me, I’ll be continuing my existential crisis over the search for a dead Welsh king and the fact that I have the same soul as a street-racing farmer.

That’s all there is,

Carry on –

The Book Witch

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But you, Oh God

You cannot raise a child with spell-books tucked under her arms or superstition carved into her skull and expect her to not wear her pride on her skin. You cannot show her the wilderness inside her and not want her to grow wings. You watched her, with dirt under her fingernails, blood coating her knuckles, as she found magic; you stoked the love inside her until it burnt her to nothing. Now she is here, a cacophony of the people who rebuilt her, a dragon among the men. She has been to the cathedral and learned the words in Latin. She engraved them on her heart and when they rejected her, she found a different god. She wears a crown of thorns and destroys herself so that her flesh can match her blood. You made her, you made her, she made herself the ravens scream at night. You gave her a name that meant “light bringer, light carrier” and forgot that mythology has bestowed those creatures of death the same burden. You gave her compassion and a need for solitude; you raised a wolf in place of a girl. When she laid her soul bare on her skin, you wept for the innocence lost and she wept because it was finally unerringly visible. She is part of the cycle, the thread that runs through the circle of time. The day she was born was a day that signified the end, the beginning, and all the other pieces thrown haphazardly in the dark. Shards of the people before landed on ribs in a way that turned her into a weapon. You tried to contain her in one universe and found that she cannot be restricted to a single space.

She grew up learning tarot cards as an extension of herself. The moon and the carnivores are her companions. She hurdled over her fear of the dark, embracing it in scarred arms. She became a book witch, a bone witch, a water witch. She changed her hair, her blood, her voice. There’s a rage inside her that you wouldn’t believe, a love inside her like you couldn’t imagine. She learned that she felt everything all at once and that it was her ultimate undoing. She understood that it would destroy her, so she tried to destroy herself, instead. She loved so outstandingly hard, with such violent fervor, that she ripped holes in her chest that had to be sewn back together with ice and fire. The people she loved tried to take her wings and forgot she had claws. There’s a restlessness inside her that sings for home home home but she chose to be an ambassador of change – she has no home except herself. Her soul is a haunted house broken, broken, rebuilt. 

Grief and rage carry themselves like matches inside her veins. She turns to words, tries to create poetry, when nothing is left – when everything has been burnt away. She is a piece of stained glass, a religious experience gone wrong.

And when they told her that she would never be able to love someone until she loved herself,

she replied “Bullshit. I have never loved myself. But him, Oh God, I loved him so much I forgot what hating myself felt like”

 

raven tattootarot fingersz 1tarot fingersz 2

 

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Young Wives’ Club Review & Tattoo Updates

Hello, loves.

Part of my crumbled, decaying soul settled yesterday. I got my Raven Cycle tattoo and it was a really amazing experience. I love, adore, and appreciate my artist. If you’re in the Reno area, I would strongly recommend going to Nichole at South Town Tattoo Collective. She’s amazing; I love how she talked to me the entire session. I could’ve told her anything about my life and felt like the information would’ve been safe and wrapped away for later. She said “I’m in love with this tattoo” and a part of my heart filled with joy. It was such a  strange cacophony of emotions; I was sad that I could never experience the magic of the Raven Cycle for myself, I was proud because she had told me that she loved doing my tattoos.  The universe created a strange synchronization where it played Blink-182 over the loud speaker and I’d like to think it was because I was wearing my favorite shirt. So maybe I did actually experience a bit of Cabeswater in that small corner of sketched goddesses and blood. I told her about my next idea and then asked if she was down to tattoo my knuckles. We plotted the designs together and I mentioned that my family wasn’t stoked about me covering my skin. I told her “You can’t raise someone to practice witchcraft and then  expect them to live a mundane existence”

She asked me about the Raven Cycle and what it was about and I panicked. “Uhhh, it’s about this girl who can’t kiss this guy but she sees him on this Corpse Road, which is on the ley lines and the guy is searching for a dead Welsh king. You might wonder ‘Why is he searching for a dead Welsh king? That’s extremely specific.’ Well, the answer is also extremely specific. Ronan Lynch is there and I care so much about Ronan that it fucking scares me. I also care a lot about Joseph Kavinsky and I don’t give a fuck what Gansey says, Joseph Kavinsky matters to me. Ronan is in love with Adam, who made a deal with a forest called Cabeswater. Joseph Kavinksy is in love with Ronan but he dies because, like me, he makes very poor decisions. Good old, Joey K. They’re all a little bit in love with each other, actually. Oh, and Ronan can pull shit from his dreams and he has a pet raven. There’s a houseful of psychics and their roommate is dead, man. This series changed me from a moderate car crash to absolute fucking train wreck. You need to read it.” We talked about cars and wedding plans and conventions because I can’t actually summarize books without having a meltdown, apparently.

Anyway, here’s a picture of my tattoo.

raven tattoo

My sister also got me a signed copy of The Raven King for my upcoming birthday because she’s an enabler. Just kidding, my sister is fucking rad. I wrote a sappy post about it and then I re-read the last chapters of TRK, cried, had a drink, and went to bed holding the aforementioned copy of TRK. Here we are, being nerds. Her with her normal person hair and my purple bob.

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My “Joseph Kavinsky Matters” bag arrived aaaaaannnnd I ordered more stickers. Don’t judge me. I love my sisters. Look, my laptop has its own JKM sticker, too!

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Fuck off, I don’t have a problem.

In other less-obsessive news, I finished The Young Wives Club. 

Honestly, it was pretty disappointing. I would give it 2/10 stars and here’s why:

I definitely need to stick with creepy / darker books if I want to enjoy my experiences. I would recommend it to someone who wants something mindless and fluffy. The people in the story are not very smart and I wasn’t attached to them at all. Even during a death scene, not a major character, I was like meh, deserved it. I could predict everything they did and that’s not a good indicator of writing since I am slower than a sloth when it comes to plot twists. I was really excited for this book and I’m disappointed with how much I loathed the characters and the story. The ending was the only redeeming point – it was very Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants-esque and it almost (I say “almost” in the loosest way possible) seemed like some of them had learned their lessons. Very bland characters, very generic plot. Again, I would say that if you know you like literature with bite, just stick to it.

I have another book review coming to you this week! I’m looking for something amazing to read. I have some in my queue that I’m so excited to start. I tried to get into the Truthwitch but its falling short after reading Throne of Glass. I’m also attempting to finish Anna Kendrick’s memoir, Scrappy Little Nobody. It’s very lighthearted and sweet but I have a huge crush on her, so I’m enjoying it.

I will talk to you all later.

That’s all there is,

The Book Witch

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The Worst Book Hangover EVER // My beloved male characters

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I FINISHED THE RAVEN CYCLE SERIES AND IT LEFT  GIANT, GAPING MAW THE SIZE OF RONAN LYNCH IN MY CHEST. 

I’m upset because its over and I’m extra upset because I feel like there’s literally no fandom for this. There’s not nearly enough fanfiction or Tumblr posts to tide me over until I die and have “I am being perfectly fucking civil” written on my tombstone. My cousin gets it, she read the series and I am very grateful that I have a single human  who I can text at 4 am with shit like “remember when Noah said he was ‘much more when he was alive’ because I remember and it hurts”

I loved all the characters so much. I really enjoy stories that focus on more than one character and have men as the focal point. I know that Blue is a huge part of the series but she fit so well into the weird fabric that is the Raven Boys, that I tend to lump them all together. I cannot begin to express how much I loved this series. I’m devastated that it’s over.

I heard, however, that Ronan is getting HIS OWN TRILOGY AND I AM VERY EXCITED. No one deserves that series like the middle Lynch child. Maggie talked about it in August, so we probably won’t see it for a while but it is reassuring that there will be a continuation for my small gay son. I have been buying A L L the Ronan Lynch merch. I kid you not, I made an appointment to get an RC tattoo the day after I finished the series and I’m FUCKING ECSTATIC to show everyone. My fiance is convinced that I am Ronan and he doesn’t know much about Adam… but if we’re comparing people to Raven Boys, lemme just say that Jason is the most Adam-y person there is.

Speaking of male humans that I love, I decided to turn this post into My Top Male Characters and Why They’re Sweet Babies Who Need Protection At All Costs. 

These are ranked from most favorite to “I will still fight someone for you, at some point” There are **SPOILERS** in this list. 

Here it is – the reasons that I can’t sleep, my precious angels.

  1.  RONAN LYNCH (The Raven Boys) – Whatever ninth circle of Hell that Ronan crawled out of, I came from the same one. Everything about him is admirable: his beautiful cussing poetry, his BMW, his love for his friends, the Murder Squash Song. Like Ronan, I too, enjoy driving things in illegal ways, shitty EDM, being “the friend with tattoos” and the loner. Ronan would totally be in Slytherin. He gets +20 points for having a raven as a sidekick. Also, he’s a really great example of a man who likes men but is allowed to keep his masculinity. I love him and I love his secret tenderness and generosity.  Bad boys with feelings, forever.
  2. JOSEPH KAVINSKY (The Raven Boys) – Hear me out, okay. I know that he’s kind of a piece of shit but he is the prime example of self-destruction and if I know something about anything, it is self-destructive habits. Poor K, who just loved Ronan and wanted Ronan to love him. I love how he uses humor to cover up his emotions because that’s my primary coping mechanism, too. He’s an asshole and I love him and it broke my heart that he died the way he did. #josephkaviskymatters2017 SAT that, Dick. 
  3. DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY – This is fairly self-explanatory. He’s the Slytherin-with-too-many-feelings poster child and my life would be a horrible, dark place without his overly-assertive existence. Come here, my precious douche-bag child. I love all the douche bags and I’m proud. 
  4. SETH MORGAN (Wicked Lovely) – Draco and Seth were my first book-boyfriends. He’s the kind of guy that girls dream of; the selfless best friend. I loved Seth from the start and I knew that he was going to end up being like “Here’s my life, babe. Just take it” Seth was so wise and humble, too. He needs All of the Love Forever. If he would’ve died, I would have gone with him.
  5. DORIAN HAVILLARD (Throne of Glass) – Protect him, please. I’m not gonna say much about him but if any of you who are reading this have any connection to Queen Maas… Please, just… spare my book-loving, magic-wielding nerd son. You can kill Chaol – just don’t touch my king cinnamon roll.
  6. TYRANNUS BASILTON GRIMM PITCH (Carry On) – Ah, yes. Another dark-souled, self-deprecating, asshole who turns out to be in love with The Golden Boy and hopelessly gay. Can you see the pattern, yet? 
  7. DEATH (The Arcana Chronicles) – Complete asshole with too many feels – not gay, but very relevant. His whole back story just sucks and he just keeps drawing the short end of the proverbial scythe.
  8. NEWT SCAMANDER – Terribly awkward beast mom. 10/10 would cuddle.
  9. RICHARD GANSEY III (Raven Cycle) – Honestly, he puts up with so much shit. I might think he’s a little bitch, sometimes, but like… he has been the Group Dad since Day 1 and will probably never stop… Adam straight went to him?! and was like?! Hey, can I date your daughter, Ronan?! I promise I won’t kill him?! and Gansey was like ‘Don’t you harm a hair on his angry, attractive head and I won’t have to pay someone to bury your body. Just kidding, here’s a $100… I’m happy for you, but really, he’s very sensitive”

 

Here are some photos of my new stickers! I have more coming! I love stickers!

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Shout out to Jason, who puts up with my book merch addiction and lets me use him as a photo prop. 10/10 would marry.

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Have a great week, everyone! Go read a book series that destroys the core of your being so that we can suffer together 🙂

 

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personal

the winter queen (and how I became her)

All throughout high school I was an INFP; for those of you who aren’t familiar with Myer’s Briggs on a formal level, here’s what that means – you take a medium-length personality quiz and and they present you with a series of four letters, your MBTI. this sequence of I/E, N/S, F/T, and P/J sum up the gist of your personality. INFP – introverted, intuitive, feeling, perceiving, was how I defined myself, until recently. I took the MBTI test a couple weeks ago, out of curiosity, and much to my surprise… I was labeled an INTJ, or introverted, intuitive, thinking, and judging. That’s a pretty significant leap. Two aspects of my personality had become the opposite of what I had branded into my skull so long ago, it left me reeling – who am I? I had gone from dreamer to architect, from common to rare, from summer child to ice queen, from Lovegood to Malfoy. I wasn’t upset as the consequences of this questionnaire didn’t impact my future directly, I was just confused. Since then, I’ve been trying to pinpoint the exact moment that this shift in personality happened.

As with most things, it happened in increments; tiny waves instead of a hurricane, all at once. It started in my eyes – a warm, welcoming hope for interaction turned to caution and cold observance. The hazel transitioned from an autumn brown to mossy green with a warning in the depths. From there it spread to my mind – someone who felt the emotions of others and wore her feelings on a sleeve became someone who learned to control the faucet. A person who was gracious and hopeful towards the human race became wary of intentions. A girl who loved bright colors and thought in pastels replaced her wardrobe and introspection with dusky tones. A woman who turned away love stories and spoke to the darkest sides of humanity was born. The metamorphosis spread to my mouth – compliments and kindness were handed out sparingly; I stopped offering my compassion to anyone who glanced my way. Years of anxiety and depression from losing a parent figure had left a bitter taste. They gave me medication that reminded me of swallowing smoke. I stopped using my prescription and the icy fingertips of the woman I was becoming sunk into my heart. The pieces of myself that I was so desperately trying to glue together cemented themselves with frostbite. I learned, in time, that I was continuing to allow toxic people affect me because they had made tiny cracks in my soul and filled the fissures with fragments of themselves. I turned the anger and sadness and hatred inwards and allowed them to freeze the memories inhabiting the crevices. It hurt like a bitch, but when they were immobile and shivering, I slipped tendrils of myself into the open wounds. The cold found my fingers next; I stopped reaching for others. I stopped holding my arms out for the people who would never come back, or worse, leave me bleeding and shattered again… and again… and again. I reached, instead, for a select few and then for my pen. I filled my arms with stories and covered the flesh with ink.

I have days where I melt – when the sun is too strong and the tear tracks melt my cheeks. Those days are rarer now since I have embraced the winter queen who resides in my soul. Her and I are close, you see. No one gets to her and very few get to me. She’s taught me when to sneer and when to purr, when to grin and when to snarl, to bring her out when I need strength. She whispers to me “You can love yourself now. I am not anxiety or self-hatred or even rage, can’t you tell? Where he felt like barbed wire, I feel like fresh snow and cold sunshine.”

So here I stand today, a product of long awaited self acceptance. I have grown and I will continue to grow, like frost on a windowpane.

Carry on,

The Book Witch

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On the left, two pictures of me, shy of 17. On the right, both barely 22.

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