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Young Writers Society


Eimear

About Eimear

Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a f*cking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of f*cking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f*ck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f*cking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, p*shing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f*cked up brats you spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life.


Interests

Running and Swimming. Creating/Writing/Films/Plays. Musical Theatre, Meeting New People.

Occupation

Student, Book Critic XD


It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats—the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill —The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it—and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another.
— JRR Tolkien