bellmusker

Ink stains my fingertips most days.

I have a fondness for whiskey, a passion for Germanic linguistics and a scowl that could knock small animals off their feet.

I get cranky if I don’t write. It’s never pretty.

I listen to the blues every day and am afraid of crumpets. I once ate a rat and always know when the moon is full. I don’t drive. Men with salt and pepper stubble take my breath away and boys who swagger bring venom to the thirteen serpents tattooed on my flesh. That’s not pretty either. I like cowboys though; they smell good.

I was agoraphobic for two years and wrote my way out. Solitude and silence still sit at my table, and make my heart sing. I often cosset myself in my flat, pour the whiskey, and dive into dictionaries. The words entwine themselves in my hair and keep me afloat, wrapping conjunctions around curls and trailing ink through auburn.

I ask for little more than that.

Well, if you could throw in a honey martini and someone to brush my hair, that’d be spectacular too.

Oh, and I also have no stomach for people who walk on stilts. Sinister little fuckers.

I’m done now.