Humans are good at excuses.
Especially teenage humans. I work with *counts on fingers* fifteen of them at the moment.
If personal responsibility was a diamond glittering at the side of the road, they’d cover it with palm fronds and hurry on before anyone could ask them about it.
Life isn’t normal. People aren’t normal.
There’s a dryer setting labeled ‘normal’ but if you’re using a Dominican dryer and want your clothes to be dry before you walk back down the mountain to check them, you might want to turn the heat to high instead.
Point being, everyone has different versions of how things should get done. Hence this post. Life hacks from life in the DR. From the perspective of students, myself, and Scarlett alike.
Who do you trust if your own memories betray you? If everything you think you know has come from someone else’s mind, how do you know who to believe?
And who to kill.
I get annoyed with myself sometimes.
Do you know the most aggravating thing about living on a tropical island?
Living on a tropical island.
All of your failed drafts and wasted attempts are probably the best thing that ever happened to you.
I don’t want to write sometimes.
I don’t want to write a lot of times if I’m honest. I love the idea of writing, but actually sitting down in a chair and focusing on words is another matter. It’s not that I’m stuck and can’t write. I’m just lazy and don’t want to.
I like information, okay?
How do things work? How do people think? What’s the best way to do a thing?
A letter found in the archives of the Realm Leapers. It’s assumed to be a follow-up to a previous letter written about the unfortunate stereotypes villains are subject to.
To whom it may concern,
Thank you kindly for your willingness to speak up on the wrongs done to villains everywhere. All the stuff against wearing black, hiring incompetent minions, resorting to brooding as a pastime, and indiscriminate killing holds as true today as it does then.
Because gifs and Doctor Who is amazing.
Josan clutched the doorframe, doubling over with a ragged cough. Smoke pricked his eyes with a hundred tiny daggers. He gagged, pressing his face into the crook of his arm.
Orange flickers laced the opposite side of the great hall, wreathing ornate tapestries in smoke. Josan’s guard gripped his shoulder from behind. As if Seris could defend against this siege.