On consideration, it isn’t so much about being a brat. The reality is that I like being your indignant girl, your little unwilling martyr. I like letting outrage carry me through the things you do to me until it exonerates me from the shared guilt of the mess we’ve made. Until I’m pure and clean and right like a perfect little blade. It’s true: I don’t just want to play the victim, I need to be the victim.
feels
Sleepy little girls get tucked in special
when Daddy’s breath smells like whiskey.
That’s why I always make Daddy’s drinks way too strong. 😉
That munch yesterday was a big ol’ bust. The people there weren’t super chill, kind of were a little up their own asses. Some girl tried to accuse me of being a confused bottom when I tried to express that I am not super service-oriented as a submissive. Which like, okay, girlie.
So Pup and I booked it when we could to go home, have a Sunday afternoon beer and watch some Grace & Frankie. Because it’s an endless relief to have an amazing companion in this kind of stuff. (And now that we’ve broken the seal on going to munches in our new city, the next few will be easier!)
I find strands of my girl’s hair when I unpack my blankets from storage, little golden threads against the navy fleece, hidden from the sunlight for months. It makes me miss the way our bodies fit together so perfectly when we spoon.
Ugh, it is too early for feels.