She practices the Edinburgh accent each morning, mostly in the shower where no one judges.
Fresh today · Saturday, 4 July
New Wishes
A handful of wishes pulled from the cabinet this morning. Pick one up — copy, save it to your pinboard, or send it on.
A convention badge from 2018 still lives in her wallet between her library card and a four-leaf clover.
She bookmarked every Beecake song before the band was technically a band.
Her wish is small — one handshake, maybe a photograph, definitely a quoted line about second breakfast.
She rewatches the Edge of Night scene whenever the week refuses to be kind.
Her saved searches include flight prices to Glasgow and convention dates two years out.
↑ pick one up
Browse by occasion
What are we writing today?
Cabinets sorted by occasion. Open one — pages are arranged by warmth, not algorithm.
- Anniversary
- Baby
- Belated
- Best
- Birthday
- Boy
- Boyfriend
- Christian
- Christmas
- Congratulation
- Diwali
- Easter
- Eid Mubarak
- Engagement
- Farewell
- Fathers Day
- Friendship
- Funny
- Get Well
- Girl
- Girlfriend
- Good Morning
- Good Night
- Graduation
- Hanukkah
- Heart Touching
- Holiday
- Invitation
- Job
- Love
- Miss You
- Mothers Day
- New Year
- Recovery
- Retirement
- Romantic
- Thank You
- Thanksgiving
- Wedding
- Well
- Women's Day
- Sympathy
- Valentine's Day
- Halloween
- Veterans Day
More from today
She drafted a letter to him once and folded it into a paper boat instead of sending it.
The Pippin scarf she knitted is mostly even, except for the part she finished crying through.
She quotes him so frequently her coworkers have stopped asking which film.
A tea blend in her cupboard is labeled, in pencil, Boyd Blend — Do Not Touch.
She'd settle for catching a podcast taping in person, third row, no questions asked.
Her dog answers to Pippin and ignores all other names with steady dignity.
She has a backup wish about Dominic Monaghan, but the primary one stands firm.
She follows three fan accounts that post grainy red-carpet photos from a decade ago.
Her wish list lives on the fridge, and his name occupies the top line in red ink.
A signed cast print costs more than her rent, and she checks the auction weekly anyway.
She practices what she'd say in line, then forgets all of it whenever she rehearses aloud.
Her phone wallpaper has rotated through eleven photos this year, all the same general smile.
She'd give up coffee for a week — possibly two — for a brief hello after a panel.
Her sister teases her about it, but also drove her to the last meet-and-greet without complaint.
She owns the Pippin chainmail replica, displayed beside a candle she never lights.
The wish gets quieter with age, but it has not gone away, and she suspects it will not.
She'd ask about the song first — the Edge of Night — and save the autograph for last.
Her ringtone is a four-second clip she edited herself one slow Tuesday afternoon.
She keeps a journal of every interview he's given since 2002, color-coded by topic.