The Blog of Eugenia H. Watson, Well-Mannered Frivolity

I’m so bloody sick of crying. I’m disappointing myself. I ought to be strong and tough and keeping of a stiff upper lip. I’m a Watson, goddammit. I’m a Watson and a Pepperidge and a Holmes, and my parentage is so damned full of badassitude that it ought to be coming out my ears. This isn’t me, this weepy scared girl who can’t even sleep alone. I don’t know who this is. I don’t like her, not at all. I want her to go far away and never come back.

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