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To otters . . . You're not monsters. Don't ever let Irish mythology tell you differently, you adorable, whiskered darlings.
“Did you hit your head too hard, love?”
“Begging for another kiss, love?” “You can kiss my arse, love
“Why do males make a girl’s virginity magical? The hubris to think he steals her magic from bedding her.”
Brave was the person who could laugh in the face of death.
I was growing rather fond of her bitey company. Not of her singing, though. Stars.
“You may have made a proper male of me, Rynnie, but seducing me at every turn is becoming a bit much. Give a lad a chance to catch his breath.”
she was about as fun as being dumped into a bag of hissing opossums some moments and, in others, like floating through the star-flecked sky.
“I always have murder eyes when I look at you,
“Morning people are the actual worst.”
“You are not a burden to me, lass. Caring for you is an honor I take seriously.”
“Doesn’t change the present to know the unchangeable past.”
“The eejit just riddled away the last of his intelligence,”
A beautiful violence of the soul as his melded with mine.
