Anger Is My Fall-back

MacKinsey was sitting on one of the comfy chairs in the library, her head in her hands. She did NOT, want to be a Ravenclaw. She had just been sorted yesterday, and right after eating today, came to the library to take out her anger. She removed her blue and silver Ravenclaw scarf from her neck, and tossed it away, only landing it a couple of yards away. She groaned and leaned back in her chair. She reached into her bag and pulled out The Hobbit, one of her favorite books. The cover was not soft from being bent and read so much, and there were pieces of paper sticking out from every other page. People may think "Oh, she just took notes!" but really, she would take anger out on this innocent book, and would then rewrite the parts that were now gone from memory. Of course, she had read it so many times that she knew it all but she liked having something to hold. To feel. She looked down at the book in her hands. She sighed, seeing that she had ripped out the first page. She pulled out a piece of parchment and started to write.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the
ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit
down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
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 tubeshaped 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.

She sighed and let go of her quill to massage her fingers. This was going to take a while. "Here we go..." She thought to herself and picked up her quill, yet again.