Because I could spend hours looking at his photo.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Le melt
Does anyone else think that Eugene Simon is ridiculously hot?
Because I could spend hours looking at his photo.
Because I could spend hours looking at his photo.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
do you know what my least favourite word is?
smooch.
what an ugly word.
whoever created that word should have something mildly disgusting set upon them as a punishment.
what an ugly word.
whoever created that word should have something mildly disgusting set upon them as a punishment.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Another one.
My creativity has gone out the window and has hence been replaced with collages.
Thank goodness I finally found a use for my year-long subscription to possibly the most atrocious magazine for tweens ever - Dolly.
Um, the subscription was a present from my uncle.
Don't judge me.
Thank goodness I finally found a use for my year-long subscription to possibly the most atrocious magazine for tweens ever - Dolly.
Um, the subscription was a present from my uncle.
Don't judge me.
Monday, April 19, 2010
hallow!
I felt like being slightly creative, so this is what i came up with.
wretched isn't it?
It's all over my science book. it's like a cult symbol for me. sigh.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
a picture's worth a thousand words - essay done.
So I have 50 words I can write to aid me in my christian studies in-class essay about Paul and Ephesians (yay.)
I wonder if I draw a picture I'll be deducted points for being over the limit.
Amongst pondering the merits of cheating, plagerism and schoolwork, I have done nothing of interest at all.
Defenestration.
I wonder if I draw a picture I'll be deducted points for being over the limit.
Amongst pondering the merits of cheating, plagerism and schoolwork, I have done nothing of interest at all.
Defenestration.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
i was wondering
why people think i'm weird.
then i realised i was in a swimming pool littered with jumping insects the sixe of small mice in the middle of the australian desert, with my brother collecting rocks from the bottom of the pool and making a dam, my father sitting under an exclusively natty umbrella, hat over his face with a utensil similar to a whip in his hand whisking away flies reading the economist, and me sitting in the corner of abovementioned pool in speedos with bright orange, pink, green, yellow and black stripes to rival a licorice allsort.
then i realised.
then i realised i was in a swimming pool littered with jumping insects the sixe of small mice in the middle of the australian desert, with my brother collecting rocks from the bottom of the pool and making a dam, my father sitting under an exclusively natty umbrella, hat over his face with a utensil similar to a whip in his hand whisking away flies reading the economist, and me sitting in the corner of abovementioned pool in speedos with bright orange, pink, green, yellow and black stripes to rival a licorice allsort.
then i realised.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Yes, I'm writing a fanfiction about Vincent Crabbe.
Part 1
Vincent Crabbe awoke with a start, the afternoon sunlight pouring out from under the door, blinding him momentarily. Wiping the drool from his face, he glanced at his father’s old wristwatch, groaned, and tumbled out of bed. He tried to remember the dream he’d had, but all that came to mind was a blurred image of Professor Binns being offered Spellotape by a small house elf. Vincent realised in his blearily-minded state that he only had a week left of summer holidays before he returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year.
Vincent had spent the entirety of the holidays running, exercising and occasionally peeking through his books to attempt the set homework, before realising it was far too difficult to accomplish. Normally, he did his homework with his best friend Gregory Goyle, who, although slightly less intelligent that he, could at least cheer him up. Greg was in the same class for everything with Vincent, both of them did their homework simultaneously and they managed to pull through the year with a lot of guesswork and cheating together. Vincent had managed to achieve three O.W.L.s in the previous year and was on his way to becoming a Security Troll trainer for the wizarding bank, Gringott’s, with contacts from his father.
Vincent never saw much of his father. Hewitt Crabbe was a very busy man, who oversaw the safety of the maximum security vaults in Gringott’s, though never performed the spells himself. Hewitt often went around to the other major wizarding banks to spy on their techniques, a job he was surprisingly good at for such a heavily built man. He was strong, broad and intimidating, softened slightly by the same flat nose as his son’s. When he wasn’t travelling the various wizarding banks around the world, he would be at home, bragging about the lax security of the four main competitor banks in comparison to Gringott’s. From his many reports, Vincent could only remember that one bank called Huckleberry-Hollace, situated somewhere in Malaysia, had the equivalent of 750 Galleons stolen every other week. Hewitt had never taken an interest in his son until it came up that he wanted to go into the bank-security business himself. Hewitt wasn’t the most intelligent man, but that was how Vincent liked him. Crabbe could tolerate his father – it was his sister who gave him the most trouble.
Shirley, five years out of Hogwarts, was the brightest Crabbe in memory. The Sorting Hat had barely touched her black hair before declaring “Ravenclaw!” to the school. Painfully obnoxious, Shirley was always keen to share her findings, with confusing facts and figures that made the rest of the family’s heads ache for a good hour afterwards. During holidays, she would shut herself in her room, memorising textbooks and spells, before heading out to work in one of the Irish wizarding universities as a lecturer. Vincent could never fully forgive her for having all the brains of the family, but he needed physical strength more than he needed Transfiguration for his future career, so he wasn’t too bothered.
Vincent slid down the polished banisters and shuffled over to his favourite room – the kitchen. There, his mother stood, absentmindedly twisting her wand so that a loganberry cake was taking shape. Vincent loved watching his mother baking, though he didn’t like to admit it. With a last flick of her wand which sent eggs plummeting into the china bowl, Adalyn Crabbe looked up at her stout son fondly.
“Pumpkin juice, sweetie?”
“Mmph,” Vincent grunted in reply.
She turned around to the drinks cabinet, smiling to herself. She and her son didn’t need words to have a conversation – talking had never been one of Vincent’s strong points. She was not overjoyed with her son’s O.W.L. results, but she knew that pressing him about them would not solve anything. Returning to him with a large glass of pumpkin juice in hand, she watched as Vincent gulped it down eagerly, locked eyes with her, nodded briefly as a way of thanks and left the room.
Vincent Crabbe awoke with a start, the afternoon sunlight pouring out from under the door, blinding him momentarily. Wiping the drool from his face, he glanced at his father’s old wristwatch, groaned, and tumbled out of bed. He tried to remember the dream he’d had, but all that came to mind was a blurred image of Professor Binns being offered Spellotape by a small house elf. Vincent realised in his blearily-minded state that he only had a week left of summer holidays before he returned to Hogwarts for his sixth year.
Vincent had spent the entirety of the holidays running, exercising and occasionally peeking through his books to attempt the set homework, before realising it was far too difficult to accomplish. Normally, he did his homework with his best friend Gregory Goyle, who, although slightly less intelligent that he, could at least cheer him up. Greg was in the same class for everything with Vincent, both of them did their homework simultaneously and they managed to pull through the year with a lot of guesswork and cheating together. Vincent had managed to achieve three O.W.L.s in the previous year and was on his way to becoming a Security Troll trainer for the wizarding bank, Gringott’s, with contacts from his father.
Vincent never saw much of his father. Hewitt Crabbe was a very busy man, who oversaw the safety of the maximum security vaults in Gringott’s, though never performed the spells himself. Hewitt often went around to the other major wizarding banks to spy on their techniques, a job he was surprisingly good at for such a heavily built man. He was strong, broad and intimidating, softened slightly by the same flat nose as his son’s. When he wasn’t travelling the various wizarding banks around the world, he would be at home, bragging about the lax security of the four main competitor banks in comparison to Gringott’s. From his many reports, Vincent could only remember that one bank called Huckleberry-Hollace, situated somewhere in Malaysia, had the equivalent of 750 Galleons stolen every other week. Hewitt had never taken an interest in his son until it came up that he wanted to go into the bank-security business himself. Hewitt wasn’t the most intelligent man, but that was how Vincent liked him. Crabbe could tolerate his father – it was his sister who gave him the most trouble.
Shirley, five years out of Hogwarts, was the brightest Crabbe in memory. The Sorting Hat had barely touched her black hair before declaring “Ravenclaw!” to the school. Painfully obnoxious, Shirley was always keen to share her findings, with confusing facts and figures that made the rest of the family’s heads ache for a good hour afterwards. During holidays, she would shut herself in her room, memorising textbooks and spells, before heading out to work in one of the Irish wizarding universities as a lecturer. Vincent could never fully forgive her for having all the brains of the family, but he needed physical strength more than he needed Transfiguration for his future career, so he wasn’t too bothered.
Vincent slid down the polished banisters and shuffled over to his favourite room – the kitchen. There, his mother stood, absentmindedly twisting her wand so that a loganberry cake was taking shape. Vincent loved watching his mother baking, though he didn’t like to admit it. With a last flick of her wand which sent eggs plummeting into the china bowl, Adalyn Crabbe looked up at her stout son fondly.
“Pumpkin juice, sweetie?”
“Mmph,” Vincent grunted in reply.
She turned around to the drinks cabinet, smiling to herself. She and her son didn’t need words to have a conversation – talking had never been one of Vincent’s strong points. She was not overjoyed with her son’s O.W.L. results, but she knew that pressing him about them would not solve anything. Returning to him with a large glass of pumpkin juice in hand, she watched as Vincent gulped it down eagerly, locked eyes with her, nodded briefly as a way of thanks and left the room.
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