Neurotic Owl

flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread

Teehee. Poop.


It doesn’t matter how many times I sit through Antony and Cleopatra, or how well I know my Shakespeare, or, indeed, my basic nautical terms.  I will never not giggle at ‘the poop was beaten gold’, and you can’t make me stop.  Because I’m twelve.

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