I am hip deep in “I am a terrible writer” stage like so much cowshit, and yet.

Please, please understand how much further down in the cowshit being a terrible writer actually is.

They didn’t have ready access to cannabinoid derivatives in 1817 England so I can ONLY HOPE she’s got a half spinet shoved molderingly into one corner of her spinster-ass bedroom, Gentlethem!

Alongside all the pins and ribbons she isn't using on her hair?