lacking a muse
So I guess happiness acts as a poor muse when it comes to my writing. And that is what I have felt these past 6 months. A continual justification for my choices. Like eating a chocolate bar wrapped in rice crispies, wrapped in cake balls coated in fudge and caramel goodness. Each bite continuously verifying and validating every step taken that lead up to the explosion of amazing/heavenly greatness in your mouth. That is what this feels like. An explanation. A continual reminder that I made the right choice. That I am the winner. That I deserve this.
I don't regret what transpired between Lauritz and I. The cliche reasoning would be that you have to experience the shit before being able to appreciate the beauty. Not a first cliche in my life not the last. But I do appreciate. Immensely. The goofy, sexy, smart, funny man that I'm going to marry.
The man who continuously meets all the little things on your secret check list that aren't important enough to focus on but oh so amazing when you have them. Like his humor. Or the way he helps me without asking. The way he offers me things without expecting to have them returned. To be superficial I could say go on about how sexy I think his chest hair is, or his hands and fingers. How his arms always have the veiny look that I can't resist. The way he eats me out. His matched enthusiasm for oral sex. The way he turns me on. oh. tis nice. not perfect but nice.
blah blah blah.
I am happy ever achieving the balance that I need to keep me going. The unguilty outreach of outside contact with guys, girls, people in general.
Life is good.
The end.
I don't regret what transpired between Lauritz and I. The cliche reasoning would be that you have to experience the shit before being able to appreciate the beauty. Not a first cliche in my life not the last. But I do appreciate. Immensely. The goofy, sexy, smart, funny man that I'm going to marry.
The man who continuously meets all the little things on your secret check list that aren't important enough to focus on but oh so amazing when you have them. Like his humor. Or the way he helps me without asking. The way he offers me things without expecting to have them returned. To be superficial I could say go on about how sexy I think his chest hair is, or his hands and fingers. How his arms always have the veiny look that I can't resist. The way he eats me out. His matched enthusiasm for oral sex. The way he turns me on. oh. tis nice. not perfect but nice.
blah blah blah.
I am happy ever achieving the balance that I need to keep me going. The unguilty outreach of outside contact with guys, girls, people in general.
Life is good.
The end.