-Freaks out at empty space-

Ok... Let's start with the basics.

Name: (Let's not talk about that, shall we? Begins with 'Y')

Gender: Female (whaddya think?)

Story: Unknown title for now.

If anyone cares, my earlier story (The Urchin Society) is discontinued, because I hate it.

Steal any of my stuff, and I'll hunt you down in the middle of the night and slice your throat out with a sharpened pencil.

A poem about the "downtrodden peasants and urban workers" that I found (written by this guy called Ivan Krylov in Pre-Stalin Russia) in a book:

We are they,

Who digging deep beneath the light of day,

Keep you alive - or do the leaves not know? -

The roots of that same tree on which yourselves grow

Then flaunt, the summer through,

And yet this difference between us keep in view!

When spring returns again, new leaves wave hither, thither,

But if but once the roots should wither,

The tree is gone, and so are you.

What an awesome poem.

Update on Rendezvous (22.10.09): So I deleted it, along with 4 (very special) reviews and my alerts. =( It just... didn't feel right. For those of you interested, I'm going to try a different genre, though I'm not sure if I'll be able to stick to it.

To put it in the terms of my classmates, I feel so fail.

Stripped: Video of a raccoon dog being killed for its skin