'Tis but the final countdown. Roughly a seven-night 'till the frivolity shall commence. Yet, nature never framed a woman's heart so dry, old and brittle. 'Tis no hope for I devise honest slanders toward myself. Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps, and I doubt such shall hang upon me, ere I die. Just speak of me as Lady Disdain, for I may say I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me, but such is a complete Lie. Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul,I admit to being lonely.
And yet, I am there for all others, to aid in their joys.
[How can I focus on NaNoWriMo?]
Sarah
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