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Description
This is just a different version of my new "Avatar".This one is simply taken at an angle at which the paragraph is more legible. I of course realized no one would be able to read the paragraph I had agonized over, making sure it all looked perfect. So I knew I'd have to post the pic again separately.
Yes that's my stuff. Those are my glasses, my books, my pen, and my notebook with my handwriting. (On my bed.) This is 100% originally mine so no stealing!
I liked the idea of books and pens and such but didn't want to use a picture that was already out there.

In case you couldn't see/read that, here it is.

"There once was a girl who loved to write. She wrote about psychotic killers, manipulative lovers, and good hearted cops. Her fear of people left her stranded inside with plenty of time to weave her convoluted tales of lies and murder. This sad girl wrote about death while her own heart bled. Her sadness surrounded her nearly every lonely night. As her hands shook and her eyes watered, she typed until her fingers were sore. She knew better than to bother anyone. There was no need to fret about her trivial worries and woes. The girl tried hard not to be selfish and instead chose to sob alone in the dark, where no one could hurt her but herself. There once was a girl who loved to write. And that girl is me."

Description
This is just a different version of my new "Avatar".This one is simply taken at an angle at which the paragraph is more legible. I of course realized no one would be able to read the paragraph I had agonized over, making sure it all looked perfect. So I knew I'd have to post the pic again separately.
Yes that's my stuff. Those are my glasses, my books, my pen, and my notebook with my handwriting. (On my bed.) This is 100% originally mine so no stealing!
I liked the idea of books and pens and such but didn't want to use a picture that was already out there.

In case you couldn't see/read that, here it is.

"There once was a girl who loved to write. She wrote about psychotic killers, manipulative lovers, and good hearted cops. Her fear of people left her stranded inside with plenty of time to weave her convoluted tales of lies and murder. This sad girl wrote about death while her own heart bled. Her sadness surrounded her nearly every lonely night. As her hands shook and her eyes watered, she typed until her fingers were sore. She knew better than to bother anyone. There was no need to fret about her trivial worries and woes. The girl tried hard not to be selfish and instead chose to sob alone in the dark, where no one could hurt her but herself. There once was a girl who loved to write. And that girl is me."