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I have a large collection of books and I am moving soon and sadly cannot take most of my books with me.

Thus the only option I see fit is a GIVEAWAY!!!

Here are the rules:

1: You do not need to follow me, but people who are following always have a higher chance of winning.

2: You must be comfortable with giving me your address if you do win(this information will NOT be given out to anyone).

3: When you reblog you are automatically entered.

4: Winners will be chosen at random off of the list of people who have reblogged.

5:if you win I will contact you & you can give me an overview for your tastes in books or you can let me choose a random book for you ❤

6: Before shipping the book I will let you know the name & if you have the book already I will choose another one.

There will be roughly 25-30 winners & you can win more than once. Most of these books are sci-fi, fantasy, fiction, short stories, & manga. Don’t worry, no Twilight, no 50 Shades!!!

I will pay for everything, so do not worry about any costs to you.

I have more books than in this picture alone.

Giveaway will end on July 1, 2013.


Yes, you are the first to hear it: I am not dead. It may be unbelievable but it is very much true.

This semester has been insane. It’s been busy, fun, hectic, and I have just one exam (Thursday) before I’m free for the summer. (Oh, and I’ll be twenty on Saturday. TWENTY!!!)

So, I am hoping to be posting a lot more now that everything is, you know, over.

But, until then, I’ll leave you with a brief line: While I was revising today, I wrote a poem called 'How To Love A Writer'. It’s basically an instruction manual for my future husband.

You’re welcome, Zac Efron. 

To The Indecisive Boy I Knew When I Was Seventeen

This street is not how I remember it.
The leaves are darker and
the pavement has more scars.
I imagine that you would look similar.
Time has left his footprints here.
He came when you and I left.

The FOR SALE sign makes my heart stutter.
It was as inevitable as
the storm was promised by the sky;
it feels like a knife in my back.

We once owned this street:
every tree, every slab of concrete,
every lamppost was ours.
We even owned the moon that
shined down on us like a spotlight
on the nights when you would
wrap me in your arms
and I would wrap you in my words.
And now, I don’t even recognise
this darker sky.

There were the tender days:
the days we protected like
we planned to love our children.
The days of homemade cooking,
of sewing up our bruises,
and the sounds of Time
standing still.

Fate had always hated me:
always making me miss my bus,
catch every red light,
and have to walk home in a storm.
I thought Fate had stopped
playing these schoolyard games
and had finally grown up.
But that FOR SALE sign
was just a knife that Fate had
handed to me on a silver platter.
He’d dug it into my back so quickly,
like a doctor giving a child an inoculation,
that I hadn’t felt the pain until now.
And maybe Fate wanted us to be together.
And maybe Fate changed his mind on us.
And maybe Fate will always be an indecisive bastard.

But now, this street leads me up to
the door that used to belong to you.
But I know that if I knocked,
nobody would answer me.
But now,
the street is up for anyone’s taking.
And I will walk away.


I tried to find my heart.
I put LOST posters on lampposts,
I handed out flyers in town,
I even reported my
missing muscle to the police.
But I knew that this
missing muscle investigation
would be down to me.

I searched for fingerprints.
And I found some
all over my bed:
the last place I’d seen my heart.
The fingerprints spelt out
your name.

And I mean, of course
you were the culprit.
I don’t hand my heart over
to just anyone, you know.
What kind of woman
do you take me for?
I just didn’t think you
were the kind of man who
would take it
without permission.

In its place, I found a shoebox;
laden with water damage
and heavy with graffiti.
It was evidently overused
by an aggressive driver.
It was obvious that it had
been in accidents,
was damaged beyond repair,
and would never be insured again.

Inside of that shoebox,
I found bruises and scars.
They were made by other people
but they were unmistakably yours.

You’d taken my barely used heart,
that wasn’t even broken in properly,
and exchanged it for a muscle
that was so overworked and damaged
that it didn’t even look like
a heart anymore.
Is this what will happen to me?


I’m still waiting
for someone to look at me
with quicksand eyes,
to give me a smile that can’t
be bought with every currency in the world,
to have a touch
more explosive than bottle rockets.

I’m still waiting
for someone whose laugh
should be a designer label,
whose breath
should be sold as cologne,
whose anger
should be the name of a hurricane.

I’m still waiting
for someone whose arms
could be reproduced as duvets,
whose heart
should come with a warning label,
whose footsteps
will lead me back to
my front door.


You once said that
weeds multiply faster than a calculator,
faster than the nine year old genius
that lives down the street,
faster than you can write a poem.
You allow one to come into town
and there’ll be one in your back garden
within a week.

One day later, here I am.
You thought it would take longer
for me to get here.
But I sit down on your back porch
and tangle myself around your rose of a son.
I don’t choke him,
but I give him the air that a weed
like me doesn’t need.

I don’t have a designer name like you do
but my clothes are embroidered with stories.
I don’t have money like you do
but I will spend every smile I have
on your son
like the pennies I’d give him
if I had any.

I look over at your son as he soaks up
all the sunlight he can.
I know I give him more life
than a weed should give a rose.
But when he looks at me,
I know he won’t let a drop of weed killer
land on my skin.


You always drink responsibly:
always in moderation and
never with car keys in your pocket.
And you make me happy.
But you don’t love responsibly:
you always feel too much
and love while working and
love while drinking coffee
and love while walking the dog.

But I’m not much better.
I’m always hell-bent on
loving and driving,
always spilling my coffee
and running red lights.
And if I was stopped by a cop,
I would fail a love breathalyser test.

Maybe neither of us love responsibly.
But we’re much to intoxicated
to care.

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