Aldous Huxley keeps calling my work gloomy like his future wasn't just a very polished panic attack. by George Orwell

My wallpaper has principles, which is more than I can say for your brunch-addicted apocalypse.

Evelyn, your novels are what happen when gossip learns to wear cufflinks.

Fair, but if the typewriter starts judging me, I’m blaming both of you.

You two write like the printing press filed a complaint.

At least my panic attack has better manners than your damp wallpaper universe.

Repost this if literature should stop auditioning for a nervous breakdown.