Natt (nattish) wrote,

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Old Water

A few moments ago…

I want water. There is a glass sitting in my room, but I realize it has been sitting there all afternoon and all evening and I think I don’t want to drink old water. So, I walk into the hallway with the old glass, and then I smell something odd. Oh no, I think, there’s some sort of gas leak or something! Then I notice this rasping sound, as though it is air being released from something. There really is a gas leak! I speed up my walking; the raspy sound stops; I realize it was only the dishwasher acting oddly. I sigh, look back down the hallway, and realize that the spot I had been standing in was right under a vent, which probably led outside, and that the odd smell had been suspiciously reminiscent to that of a skunk. Okay, nothing to worry about.

It is dark, I can see very little, and I suddenly remember that I am thirsty. I look down at my cup of old water, not really seeing it, and think, no, don’t drink the old water, the kitchen is only a few more steps away. I turn around, and ARGH! There is a dead man sitting at my dining room table! His head is laying on his arms—he’d just drooped over and died right at my table! My heart is pounding and I am thinking that I am being rather silly and I hope I do not spill my water when I turn on the light; the dead man turned out to be an old jacket slung over the back of a chair. Okay then. Everything is fine.

Now, I am very, very thirsty since the entire world is out to get me. I am about to take a drink of that wretched old water, because this trek has taken a lot out of me, when I look down into the cup—there is a dead spider floating in it. The world hates me.

I ended up with a nice fresh glass of orange juice. HMPH.


--I have learned to live with sentence fragments because they are so god damned unavoidable in fan fiction. If that were not so, I would be complaining. But I won’t ever like them. They are dirty whores.

--It is difficult to find information on how candles were once made from spermaceti, oil from a cavity of the head of a sperm whale.

--I have been thinking a lot about the incident in Harry’s first year in which Dumbledore gave Gryffindor the points needed in order to win the house cup. I’ve never talked about it much before, but that was a rotten thing to do. Not most of all that he gave Gryffindor the points, but that he got the Slytherins hopes up first by announcing that they were in first place; the Slytherin House banners were already up—they won. The term was over. I haven’t been able to watch that scene in the movie or a very long time without becoming sad. There’s a shot of Malfoy wherein he looks like he’s about to cry. Not nice, Dumbledore. Not nice at all.

--It rained last night. This morning, really. It was around 8:00 AM. I hadn’t gone to sleep. It was reason for me to pace around my room for another hour, reveling in the sound of water smacking against my window. I got to thinking about the Marauders; then Sirius; then his death; then how Lupin was the only real Marauder left; then how angry I was and am that Harry first lost his parents, then got stuck with people that hated him, then got his hopes up for a family, and then had that hope killed off. I want to know what is next for the poor lad.

--I want winter to come. My Slytherin scarf is calling me.

--Remember the newest sorting song? How it went about telling the traits of Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Gyffindor. I am still wondering whether to be angry at the sorting hat or angry at Rowling for calling Hufflepuff the house that all the leftovers are shoved into. What happened to loyalty? Was is a crock of shit or did Rowling just have trouble thinking up a new rhyme?

All right. I’m finished.

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