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A gasp. A tightening of firefingers around cool metal headboard.

Sensations kaleidoscope. I become a pulsebeat of helpless responses. Yours.

But what I remember most is

 your eyes as you held me

 as the 
aftershocks subsided.


Mustela Kathiah Cerebri

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I need to put together a Sunday-and-equivalent evening survival kit.

Because they are almost without exception tricky. Obviously, the looming Mondayness of Monday is a significant part of that, and on those inevitable occasions in life when work is more challenging than usual it is still more so, but it is a little more nuanced than that.

They are a quiet time. Quieter than most evenings. Friends and loved ones are generally busy with their families or other parts of their lives, and the chances are that I’ll be missing some of them and there’s nowhere for that energy to go. And there’s that weird thing where if you haven’t spent any real quality time with anyone over the weekend you miss contact (physical and social) and yet if you have, you feel a certain withdrawal from that contact. I’m not ready to share my home with anyone again just yet, and who knows if I ever will be, but while I adore having my own space I do sometimes miss all those little interactions that spring from having created a shared space.

So this survival kit.

I’m not quite sure yet what it should contain. The usual suggestions don’t really apply to this situation – alcohol doesn’t play well with my brain chemistry in this mood and isn’t a great idea with work the next day anyway, long hot baths just give me time to dwell, I can’t settle to a film, I don’t seem to be able to make myself write (she writes), it’s too dark to tackle the garden, which has been the project of late. A book will be picked up again shortly and will distract me for a while, but won’t work entirely, and it will be a re-read, because in this mood, new words are wasted on me.

It boils down to this.

I know the natural predators of brainweasels and they are all of them difficult to access for one reason or another right now.

So what on earth can I do instead?


On writing and value

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The thing with the written word being how you express your inner self…

And the thing with being someone who is only in the last few years getting used to the general idea of feeling valued…

The thing with those things, in combination, is that putting your words out there becomes more terrifying the more close to your feelings they are.

And the less you hear back from anyone else, the less you feel able to let those words out anywhere public. When your effort is not acknowledged, why bother?

Because creative writing *always* feels poor and inadequate, since it can never adequately express the inner. I know that I can explain the factual, but I don’t *feel* that I’m any good at the expressive, and every time the public expression of that goes publicly unacknowledged, that’s that view reinforced.

So I’m sorry.

But no-one seems to care. Or no-one says that they do, and being a person of words, that’s what I take in.

And my heart is brittle and fragile and scared, and it risks enough in person for me to not to be able to risk it in front of all the world. Especially not in front of the people whose opinions I value the most.

So for now… I’ll write. But I can’t publish.

And I’m unlikely to even share.

Because if no-one shows that they value it when I do, what’s the point?

Since I was reminded…

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That I hadn’t done anything with the obligatory  results…

98% Switch
97% Non-monogamist
91% Voyeur
87% Experimentalist
86% Exhibitionist
80% Rigger
74% Masochist
72% Rope Bunny
71% Sadist
70% Dominant
60% Submissive
57% Primal (Hunter)
56% Primal (Prey)
40% Brat Tamer
38% Vanilla
33% Brat
27% Master/Mistress
17% Daddy/Mommy
8% Degrader
6% Owner
5% Degradee
5% Slave
4% Girl/Boy
2% Pet
2% Ageplayer
See my results online at


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Oh. Look what I published privately months ago, because it was too raw at the time.

Upgrading the status of my feelings towards festive week to ‘dread’. The time off work is both necessary and welcome, but I am running out of tears to shed and things to distract the brainweasels. And you’re not allowed ever to admit that it’s anything other than fairy lights and joy and everyone assumes you’ve been as socially overrun as them when the truth is that my family is small and cold and only one person besides them has sought my company. And yes, I could the seeking, but… I pretty much always do.

And that hurts.

And it feeds the brainweasels. Because as the saying goes, if you have to ask…

The ridiculous thing is… I love the trappings of Christmas! Fairy lights and decorations and food and warmth; I love spending ages poring over possible presents to find that something that I hope will raise a smile because to me that’s a hug in consumable form.

It’s like I somehow manage to get all excited about someone else’s week!