I make my husband a sandwich everyday for work. Once, I jokingly kissed it to show him that I made it “with love.” But then for some reason it stuck, and that just became the habit. Make sandwich, give it a little smooch, put into baggie. Except when I’m mad at him. Then that sandwich isn’t made with love. It gets no kiss. Yeah, enjoy that sandwich, jerkface. I hope it tastes like despair.
imagine if instead of calling voldemort “you know who”, they had done the benedict cumberbatch thing, so they would speak in hushed whispers about lollipop vladimir or lanky vanderbilt