stop whining like a child. [the parkinson manor in wiltshire is deathless, with ivies creeping in through the canvased windowsills to overtake the last of its remaining occupants once and for all. though it would neither be the slowly—molding statue of their grandfather eurymedon edmund iii parkinson’s as a boy by joseph durham anked by busts of his own parents nor the etchings of flooring covered in dizzying minton tiles to unnerve ant incoming guest but the residents. in their unbecoming glory of juvenile stubbornness.] and don’t yell at mama, you know how she gets. [violet took after her, it seemed, not listening to rhyme or reason. pansy nearly winced at the idea that this would insinuate she take after their father. she’ll return the french porcelain brimming with herbal tea to its place in the something—teen year old’s louis xv—style desk, accompanying it the polar bears as trophies from their cousins’ two-man 1897 trip to the norwegian arctic.] she only wants the best for you. [so did she, though that seldom went acknowledged.] so— will you listen to reason or not? i know it’s the ginger that’s getting to you, but you won’t get better otherwise. and if you push your luck any longer, i’ll make sure you won’t get better indefinitely. /drink/. ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ /⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀@ealres