poeticdesires

Category: Ex

  • Drunk Blogging

    [FYI: I’m writing this while tipsy.  My apologies for any spelling or grammatical errors.  Yes, even when I’m tipsy, I worry about these things.]

    I was going to name this blog ‘Size Queen’ but since I’m tipsy, I wanted to keep up with the drunk blogging tradition.  I publish about one or two of these a year.  I wonder if anyone actually reads them.

    A few days ago, a friend of mine got three of their fingers in my ass.  Tonight, at a company holiday party, I bowled with my Ex.  He was on my team along with two other people.  He was the first person to ever fuck me in the ass.  My first ex tried, but he didn’t do it right and it hurt, so I stopped him.  My Ex did it right and fucked me in the ass and it was kind of awesome.

    I want someone else, well actually many someone elses, to fuck me in the ass.  I have this fantasy I might try to make happen at Fusion where many someone elses fuck me in the ass.  They’ll be wearing leather.  It’ll be totally hot.

    My friend who got their fingers in my ass thinks I’ll be able to get a fist in my ass eventually.  I learned two great terms from some of my friends.  ‘The Impossible Dream’ is getting fucked in the ass with a cock or strap-on cock while the cock/strap-on owner is also fisting your cunt.  ‘Bridge and Tunneling’ is getting fisted in both the cunt and ass.  I want both of these things to happen in my future.

    Lately, I’ve been quite ass focused.  It wasn’t til recently that I realized how much I love being fucked in the ass.  In my most recent masturbation sessions, I’ve started with putting my butt plug in, which only takes a few minutes now (pats self on back), and then riding my Hitachi.  I’ve cum harder with just my plug in my ass and my Hitachi on my clit than I ever thought possible.

    Did you know orgasms start from the sacral nerve?  Know where the sacral nerve is located?  Near your butt.

    I already have a Tardis cunt.  I love my Tardis cunt.  And people love fisting my Tardis cunt.  But could I develop a Tardis ass too?

    To be fair, one of my friends already has a Tardis ass.  His anal skills far surpass my current abilities.  I am quite envious of his ass.  But maybe, with practice, I could come close to his level.

    People who fuck me: Please go for the ass more.  I would be so appreciative.

    That is all.

  • Hate Fuck

    I don’t want to get back together with my Ex.  I DON’T want to get back together with my Ex.  But there was this moment recently.

    About a week ago, I had an early morning gig.  The Sun wasn’t even up before I had to start work.  And, me being me, I arrived early.  My Ex was there already, too.  He drove the truck with the equipment.

    I saw him in the truck, walked over, and asked if I could hop in.  It was cold and I wanted shelter from the chill.  He didn’t mind my presence.

    Since it was so early, and I was still sleepy, I lounged back and closed my eyes.  I started blabbering, as I sometimes do when I’m fatigued.

    “Ssh, you’re suppose to be sleeping,” he said.  I quieted myself.

    I could feel his arm as he outstretched it on the back of the seat.  His arm wasn’t behind me at all, just elongated out.

    Then, for some reason, my mind flashed on a series of images.  His hand on my chin, turning my face.  His lips to mine, kissing me.  My crawling into his lap.  More kissing.

    Someone pounded on my Ex’s window.  We both jostled awake.  It was the lead for the gig.  Random thoughts ended.

    I don’t want to get back with my Ex, yet that fantasy still emerged during my tired state.

    The last time my Ex and I had sex was in the early afternoon on a weekday.  He had borrowed my car for work.  His job has roughly regular hours and that particular day I didn’t have a gig.

    I had taken a shower and then proceeded to lounge across the bed still in my robe.  He came into the apartment and into the bedroom.  I wasn’t expecting him.  It was maybe 2pm.

    He knelt down, opened up my robe, and began to eat me out.  This was kind of a big deal.  During our entire relationship I was never comfortable giving him head, so I often didn’t want it in return.  In my brain, it didn’t seem fair.  But I’d already broken up with him, so I no longer gave a shit.

    As I writhed with his face between my legs, I no longer held back.  All pretense of him being my dominant, of him being in charge, was gone.

    “Take off your pants,” I said.

    “What?”  He hadn’t quite heard me, being occupied and all.

    “Take off your pants so you can fuck me.”

    He immediately dropped trou.

    As he fucked me, I didn’t care.  I didn’t care about his pleasure, didn’t care about what he wanted.

    At a certain point, I had a vibrator against my clit while he fucked me bent over the bed.  I remember cuming and not screaming.  I wanted the orgasm just for me.  I didn’t want him to know I’d cum, didn’t want him to feel pride or any joy at my sexual pleasure.

    Our last fuck was a hate fuck, at least on my part.

    Occasionally I felt bad for the way I acted towards him in the end.  He became highly emotional, more emotional than in the entirety of our relationship.  I didn’t respond to his sad stares, his pouty behavior, his occasional temper tantrum.

    No, I did not want to cuddle in the early morning.  No, I did not want to be around him or his mother while in our apartment.

    He called me cold.  I wasn’t cold.  I just didn’t care.

    When I remember why I broke up with him, and why I don’t want to get back together with him, I no longer feel guilty about being something other than the girl who forgave him for so much.

    In the end, I ended our relationship because I needed someone other than him.  And that still holds true today, random fantasy or not.

  • Reminder

    Sometimes it’s easy to forget.  With time and space away from a situation, you can lose details, nuance to it all.  Occasionally, though, life reminds you of what you’ve forgotten.

    Because of random happenstance, I not only saw my Ex at work tonight, which occurs from time to time, but I actually had a decent conversation with him.  And we worked together a bunch.  And it was kinda fun.

    Initially I sat with him and chatted as we waited to begin our load out.  I joined him in his truck.  He apologized for the smoke filled cab.  I felt it wise to not mention how used to smoke filled rooms I’d become.

    As we talked about nothing of particular import, but nonetheless found ourselves laughing, I looked over at him and remembered, Right.  I actually liked you.

    I had forgotten I liked hanging out with my Ex, before he became my Ex.  I forgot we shared a dark and sometimes wry sense of humor.  I forgot about the deep bass voice.  The smile, when I could glean it.  The dominant air about him.  And the way I felt when I was around him.  Safe.  Cared for.  Protected.

    For the briefest of moments, there was temptation.  For five seconds maybe, I wondered what it would be like to be with him again.  I wouldn’t be the me of seven years ago, new and unknowning.  Nor would I be the girl who four years ago somehow mustered the courage to end it.

    I would be the now me.  Poetic Desires me.  Fully realized confident kinky submissive and service top me.  The bootblack.  The cigar slut.  The fisting phenom and proud dirty pig.

    Yet, even as I recalled the layers of our past, the same reasons why I left him remained.  He and I want two very different lives.  He is not as emotionally mature as I am, nor is he trying to be (that whole never calling me his girlfriend and never saying ‘I love you’ part still hurts like a bitch) .  He said some kinda fucked up shit (for instance, refusing to fool around while I was on my period, calling it “crime scene sex”).  And he did some kinda fucked up shit (namely the one big incident that made me end it all).

    However things played out, though, I feel it is a disservice to myself to forget the good parts.  I was with my Ex for three and a half years for a reason.  He was intelligent, whitty, caring, and protective.  He was kinky and I was searching.  He was a big part of my journey.  I need to honor that, even as his influence on my life has subsided.

    The night ended with my Ex giving me a high five.  I like to think it was his was way of saying, Yup, the situation is a little awkward, but I still like you too.

  • Normal

    I went to a company holiday party last night.

    I went to Happy Hour first, had drinks with friends, and made plans for the holidays, but then I left earlier than normal and found my way to the bowling alley where the event was held. It was hosted by one of the half dozen companies I work for, and, funny enough, the one I’ve worked for the longest.

    Driving over, I was a bit nervous. Not as nervous as I could have been, considering I had two drinks before leaving Happy Hour, which relaxed me a bit. But still, I was little nervous.

    The company hosting the event is the same company that my Ex works for. On the drive there, I was worried about making it before the party ended, and making sure the guy I was selling a scarf to* would be there. But also needling in the back of my head was whether or not I would see my Ex.

    I was arriving late, fully 2.5hrs into a 4hr party. And last time I checked, my Ex didn’t have a car. Maybe he wouldn’t be there. Maybe I would show up, get my $25 from scarf guy, have a free drink or two, and leave. Maybe things would be okay.

    Well, they were okay, but not for the reasons I listed above.

    It was rainy. And not the fun-light-playful rainy. It was cold-windy-puddle-making rainy; decidedly not fun. I parked my car and sprinted into the bowling alley.

    First thing I noticed, when I got inside, was that this was a nice bowling alley. New-ish carpet, mood lighting, and monitors in front of all the lanes as well as at the ends of the alleys. Okay, I thought. Guess they weren’t skimping when they picked this place.

    I looked left and glimpsed a “Private Bowling Lanes” sign above a set of French doors. Walking inside, I saw familiar faces. The first that caught my eye was my favorite work friend who I immediately walked towards.

    “You’re not wearing pants.”
    “No.”
    “This is my first time seeing you not wear pants.”
    “Yes, I have a strict no pants policy when I’m not working.”

    I was wearing my comfy gray skirt, red tank top, white snap shirt, awesome black & gray stripped socks, my purple flats, and my Santa hat. I gave him a big hug; then we began chatting.

    But almost as soon as I struck up a conversation with him, I saw movement in my periphery. It was my Ex. He stepped towards me, leaned in, gave me a hug, and said, “Hi. You look really cute.” I hugged him back and then we parted. He walked away while I stayed with my work friend.

    To say that I was shocked would be to both over and under state my mental-ness at that moment. I was surprised that 1) he made a gesture of pleasantries towards me, 2) that it seemed warm and genuine, & 3) that it felt… normal.

    It was just so normal.

    We didn’t speak again for the rest of the night, which was fine; I can’t say we have anything to talk about. But there was never a cross word, never a leering look, never anything negative to speak of. I hung out with my group of work friends; he hung out with his. I genuinely had a good time.

    All my nerves leading up to that moment now seemed silly, and, having had that simple interaction makes me hopeful that things are okay with us. Not perfect, because no breakup is perfect, but okay. And that’s pretty cool, considering how far we’ve come.

    So…yay. We made it to normal. It only took three years, but we made it to normal.

    *So I’ve sold two scarves this season, and have an order for a third. Super awesome!

  • Two States Away

    I saw my Ex at The Floating World.

    I looked about one hundred feet across the playspace, near its entrance, and there he was. I instantly recognized the brown skin, bald head, and stocky build.

    I immediately turned around.

    For good measure, I looked again. Yup, it was him. I turned back around.

    I followed a friend outside and stood with them as they smoked. I took deep breaths and tried to forget I had just seen my Ex, who I believe didn’t see me.

    Two states away, yet he was there.

    Two states away and this was the first time I’d seen him at an event. I suppose I should feel lucky. It took two years and two states for it to finally happen.

    Though, really, it didn’t happen. He never saw me.

    After chatting with my friend outside, he departed and I went back into the play area. I found a person I’d offered some rope time to, and we went over some basic ties. I taught her the gunslinger harness and two basic chest ties. I showed her how I could suspend myself (though I never do) by simply sitting into a gunslinger. (I find it too uncomfortable.)

    I talked about more basic rope info: types of rope, lengths, diameter. I encouraged her to take more classes and practice practice practice. She left happy.

    When I packed up my rope, I found Big Bro and watched him tie for a spell. I saw my Ex pass by while I stood near a vertical support beam. He was walking about fifty feet away, heading for the door, I assumed after having played. I never saw him again.

    So no, it hasn’t actually happened. He hasn’t seen me. Event me. PoeticDesires me.

    In my new clothes, with hair curly, wearing my boots.

    He hasn’t seen me tie, or get tied. He hasn’t seen me give cigar service. He hasn’t seen me bootblack. Hasn’t seen me get pummeled, with the tears and sobs and snot.

    He hasn’t seen who I’ve become since I left him.

    I don’t know if he knows how I’ve changed, how much I’ve changed, since I made the hard decision to not hang on to him, to not hang on to what was us.

    As I drove home yesterday, and thought about my event, I regretted not going up to him, not talking to him, not at least saying hi. I regretted that I felt the need to avoid him, to not engage, to not try to be if not friends than friendly.

    I didn’t get to talk to Doc about this today, but I have the distinct feeling he would say something like, “Why would you try to be someone you’re not?”

    In the moment, I needed to not talk to him. In the moment, I felt it best to not go there.

    So I didn’t go there.

  • My Necklace

    I walked away quickly, checking that I had everything as I went, when it struck me…

    My neck was bare.

    Rushing back to the guard post, I asked him if he had my necklace. I dropped to the floor and looked all around his station.

    Standing, he said he had found it. His stand was hollow inside, with one hole at the end. My necklace laid at the bottom of the stand, having fallen down that hole, very much out of my or his reach.

    He smiled, saying he didn’t have a key, but his supervisor should. He would call him.

    He shooed me off to the side as others entered the building. I stood, waiting anxiously as he checked them in. After the mini-rush died, he still had made no call, either on a phone or over a radio.

    “Um, Sir, when do you think you’ll be able to get my necklace?” I explained I was in the building to work and would need to leave soon. He took down my name and phone number.

    And then his supervisor approached. I hoped I would not be long parted from my jewelry. But this new man just reiterated with the first had said. They’d call me when they’d retrieved my necklace, saying instead of the key, which no one knew where it was, they would use a clothes hanger to fish it out.

    I walked away, anxious. As I sat waiting for the rest of the crew, I found it hard to think about anything but my necklace.

    There was no way for these men to understand how much the silver at the bottom of their stand (which by-the-way, WHY IS THERE A HOLE IN IT!?!), no way for them to comprehend how much that object means to me.

    The necklace itself is chainmail, bought at my first kink event. On it is a charm with the Chinese symbol for love and a ring, silver in color but certainly not the type of metal, a piece of costume jewelry from a relative who died many years ago.

    My profile picture for most everything is a shot of my necklace (less the ring). What people don’t know, what I don’t talk about much if at all, is the name I have for that picture.

    True, the necklace is a “chainmail collar”. I have had people ask me up front if I’m owned. (More on that in an upcoming podcast.) I tell them no, I am not. But that is only half true.

    The name I gave to my profile picture is “I Own Me”.

    When I was with the Ex, the one way he managed to show affection and give me some reassurance was through a necklace, his necklace which he put on me. It was made of black and red beads with the symbols of his clan. (He’s one of the Pensic folk.)

    Absentmindedly, throughout my day, I used to play with that necklace. When I was stressed, I often stroked it, remembering there was someone who cared for me and would be there when I got home to make things better.

    When I broke up with him, he knew what was coming before I even opened my mouth. I held his necklace in my hand, having only previously taken it off to shower. I gave it back to him that day, ending whatever we were.

    I’ve worn the Chinese character around my neck since college. In my mind, having the symbol for love about me would be my quiet beacon out to the world, hoping someone would hear the call.

    I put down the charm when he gave me his necklace. I put it back on when I left him, reminding myself there was more in this life than my time with him.

    Now I keep it on, wearing it for me. My kink life. My openness. My freedom. My caring, affection, love for others. I feel like, in some small way, the charm works/worked.

    When I finger the ring, I remember Aunties, Uncles, and Ella, a family passed on but not forgotten. So much of my life with three people so long gone…

    When I rub the symbol, I remember that I am loved, that I have so much love to give, and that there are those who want and deserve my affections, both known to me and the yet-to-meets.

    So yes, I was very anxious, and nervous, and downright distraught when my necklace dropped down that hole. I wear it everyday. I sleep with it on at night. I take it off only when I shower, and only rarely don’t wear it out.

    Thankfully, thirty minutes later, I got the call. They returned my necklace with both the ring and charm in tow.

    Crisis averted.

  • Eyes

    Often times, in the throws of passion, whether during sex or in the middle of a scene, my eyes are closed.

    My Ex once asked me what I thought about when we fucked, my lids shut. He said I looked like I was gone, somewhere else.

    He wasn’t wrong. When I fucked him, my head went to a Dominant place.

    Fuck him. Fuck him, girl. Fuck him hard. Make him your bitch. Ride him, harder. Harder. Take it. Take your orgasm. Ride this bitch to your cum.

    The one time I told him what I was thinking, yeah, he didn’t like hearing that.

    After him, after many other lays, so many more scenes, my head no longer goes to that place. Instead of being far away, I in fact feel more present.

    When I close my eyes, I close off the outside world. My presence exist only with you and me. I feel you, as much in my being as through my skin. Every fiber of me is with you, about you.

    Without fail, if I am about orgasm, my eyes are closed. The act of fucking, the act of playing, anything physical and sexual or passionate evokes a strong physical and emotional reaction. So much so that my brain cannot process more than a few senses at a time.

    When I am cuming, I close my eyes to feel it, relish in it. I allow my body to ride the waves, every bit of the ecstasy a part of me, racing through me. I scream because I have to express it, have to cry out the pleasure of my body. I have no other way of processing it, nor do I want another way.

    I love screaming, love verbalizing the lust inside of me. My eyes closed, my body arched, my being so interlaced with yours…

    When I close my eyes, I am not shutting off or shutting down. When I close my eyes, I am opening up, letting go, allowing myself to just be.

  • Don’t Shit Where You Eat

    You can’t make this shit up.

    Me. My Ex. In a slow elevator.

    He stood towards the front, staring at the doors. I leaned against the side wall, looking down at the floor. 

    I happened to gaze upon his shoes. They were Timberlands. I’d never seen him in them before. Brown, dirtied, nowhere near new. A quiet reminder of how long our lives have been apart.

    I wanted to say something to him. I wanted to say…something, anything to break the tension, ease the mood. 

    How’s it going? How’ve you been? Life treating you well? 

    Instead I kept my mouth shut. He didn’t speak either, nor did I expect him to. I think I made the right decision.

    The whole situation could have been more dramatic if we were alone, but there was another person on the lift. He worked for another company. He stood towards the back attending to a large cart. It made my Ex’s ignorance of my presence less…offensive is the wrong word, but it’s close.

    As the elevator approached our floor, I stood up straight and stepped closer to the doors. I swung my head around to crack my neck and rolled my shoulders to loosen them, mentally preparing myself for the impending shitty gig. As the doors opened, I walked left; my Ex walked right.

    I barely saw him, barely interacted with him for the rest of the night. Even though we both drove trucks, I calculated he probably didn’t want my help in packing his vehicle. When it came time to pack my truck, there came no offer of assistance on his part.

    For the night, I believe we each said two words to one another:

    As I was packing my truck, I paused, waiting for him to walk by. “Go ahead,” he said.
    “Thank you,” I said as I pushed my case past him.

    I’m not quite sure why it irked me that he barely acknowledged my presence. Maybe because I would have been pleasant if he’d wanted conversation, or even just a simple hello. (Fuck, he didn’t even say hello to me.)

    Maybe because I like to think we could be friendly, cordial even, in our interactions, that we could find a way to make the rare times we see each other not so fucking odd.

    Maybe because, during part of the gig, he was smoking a Black & Mild; the sweet scent tweaked me without my wanting it to.

    Either way, I left that night without him really acknowledging my presence. We are now, I assume, back to our mutually implicit avoidance pact.

    [Aha! It just dawned on me. He was being passive aggressive. That’s why I was so pissed. I was trying to be polite and he was being a dick.  Why that took me almost a day to realize, I don’t know.  But it sure explains why I drove away last night wanting to hit him.]

  • Passing By

    Twice in the past month I’ve almost run into the Ex. He is still employed by a company I occasionally work for. Both times it was when I was driving, dropping off rental equipment, and, if I had lagged at the rental house for but a few minutes, we would have interacted.

    It’s been two years since I broke up with him. Two years since he drove his mother, in my car, with me in the back seat, to our shared apartment in hopes that she would live with us. Two years since, after I hurriedly drove away from our home, I sat in my car, the same car I own now, sobbing, screaming, crying, not knowing what to do. Two years since that horrible conversation outside in the parking lot. Two years since I gave back his necklace. Two years.

    Fuck, how my life has changed.

    When I think back on who I was then, who I was with him, I am both sad and relieved. I spent three and a half years of my life, some of which you can read about on this very blog, waiting for a man to change. Waiting for him to make good on the hints he would drop. Waiting for him to commit to me as much as I had committed to him. Waiting for three words I never got.

    I can’t hate him. I still care about him, though I would never seek out anything from him and pretty much avoid him at all costs. It wasn’t that he was a horrible man; if he were I would not have stayed so long. And though at first glance he came off as hard, stern, a bit scary, he was mostly sweet and caring towards me. Of course except when he wasn’t. I can’t lie; I liked the moments when he dominated me.

    No, I’m not sad about the relationship. It was what we never achieved together that saddens me. It was how he didn’t change, didn’t grow, that truly makes me want to cry. He was a manchild, from the beginning of our interactions til the end. And though I was far younger than he, I often felt like the adult in the relationship.

    I had plans, goals for us. In the end, it seemed like he would be content to just stay as we were: cohabiting, but with no compass to guide us; emotionally choked off, not willing to talk about his feelings and therefore implicitly asking for my silence; me always wanting more and he never seeming to care.

    When I saw him recently, I noticed he had shaved his face. I never cared for that particular look. I always liked his scruffy beard, even as it got in the way when we kissed. As I passed by him in my van, he in his truck, I gave him a head nod. He returned it. There was no malice, no anger or hurt, just acknowledging the other’s presence and moving on.

    It could’ve just been work, or the first hot day of the Spring, but he didn’t seem happy. His ill temper was not directed towards me. I’ve noticed in the few times I have interacted with him since the split that he reverted back to his easily annoyed persona. Like I said, manchild.

    Even so, I learned a lot from my Ex. He helped me in my kink journey, teaching me as we grew together. I still remember once lying on his bed as he pulled out a book and talked to me about negotiations, the first time I’d had a formal conversation about play. He fostered my love of rope, though only from a bottom’s perspective. And when times were good, we were playful and, dare I admit it, happy.

    But, good or bad, he taught me quite a bit about what I don’t want in a partner. I need emotional openness, even as I struggle within myself to achieve it alone. I need affection, the simple ability to hold someone’s hand; he was not much for PDA. I need acknowledgement of our relationship; he called me his girlfriend once. I need a partner and a friend, not “She just keeps showing up and I never kick her out.” It was cute the first time; by the sixth, I just wanted to scream.

    All that aside, whatever his life has been in the past two years, I hope he has lived it well and found room to grow.

    With this blog as a testament, I know I sure have.

  • Panic

    Recently I hurt a friend.

    There was a miscommunication. I jumped to conclusions. I went into protect myself mode. And, in the process, I let them down. For that I apologized. We have since reconciled and all is well with our friendship.

    But as soon as things were better again, I began wondering why things had gone so wrong in the first place.

    The short answer is I panicked.

    I am a planner, not by profession but just as a general personality trait. I need to know details, information. I need to be able to say for certain I will be at this place at this time doing this activity.

    This habit was brow beaten into me during my high school years. The only way I was ever able to hang out with my friends was if I knew all the details of our excursion and imparted this information to my mother in advance. Otherwise a curt “no” was her answer.

    As an adult, I have come to do this for my own self easing. In part I continued this practice because it was good to have the information. But, to be brutally honest with myself, I know this habit has a lot to do with my Ex.

    My Ex was a manchild. He made more money than me and worked in my industry longer, yet I had less debt, owned a car, and lived in much better accommodations.

    It wasn’t long into our relationship that I learned I needed to make all the plans. He was very lazy about our outings. We once showed up for a company party after it had ended. He hadn’t bothered to check the event times.

    We once almost missed a theatre performance because he didn’t look up the address of the venue. It was that particular incident which tweaked my annoyance level the most. Before we left, I asked him specifically if he knew where the venue was. He said he did. I asked if he was sure, offering to look up the information. He assured me he knew where we were going.

    When we pulled up to the wrong theatre, too close to the start of the show, I kicked myself for not looking up the location. Unfortunately I did not do this with my mouth closed. He grumbled his discomfort as I called information to find out the address. (This was before I owned my fancy phone.)

    When we arrived at the theatre, it turned out our tickets were for the week before. The box office gave us tickets in the same seats for the show that evening, no charge. After the show, I told him I was sorry for my outburst. We were able to attend the performance, not missing any part of it.

    (But did you catch that? I apologized to him for criticizing him, even though he fucked up, twice. Yeah, my relationship with my Ex was not emotional healthy in the least.)

    So, with those paragraphs of explanation, I can now get to the crux of my realization.

    It is hard for me to trust people when it comes to planning events. It is hard for me to have faith that people won’t fuck up in some way, thereby screwing me in the process. It is hard for me to not immediately jump ship just because the deck is damp.

    In my mind, I have to take care of myself. I am an independent contractor, making sure my shit smells like roses. So if I get a whiff of funk, I immediately go into panic mode. I find a solution for myself and allow others to live or die on their failings.

    In how I hurt my friend, I did not trust that they had everything taken care of. I doubted their abilities. I panicked. And for that I was and am truly sorry.

    Sadly, to be frank, I’m not quite sure how I can keep myself from doing this again.

    Suggestions?