Pleasant lashings of Vancouver rain beat down on the new city I call home, while I ineptly put together homemade pancakes (got the texture wrong because I eyeballed it and experimented with cake flour) and my long suffering roomie wrestles with their cold on sick day number two.
My body is a disgusting PMS mess, dry and oily and swollen, over sensitive and blotchy. Although, in theory, I see Brick this weekend I feel as erotic as a mud filled pinata. My mood, due to stuff not related to sex, is ok, but mostly I am just looking in the mirror and seeing one breast a D and the other a perky E, and feeling more prickle than warmth in my cunt.
Of course, dear reader, that was more honesty than titillation, and were this a viable commercial endeavor rather than a collection of curated truths and writing exercises, my supervisor would be having a talk right now.
Luckily for me, I am allowed to be honest, so you get bloated and itchy femdom eating flaccid (but surprisingly tastey) pancakes. That is probably someone’s fetish?
Life has been, largely, not about sex. It involves career chasing, and learning my new home and worrying about sickly family and adjusting to a climate where the air is mountain dry and ocean wet at the same time. Most of the commentary I have is how much I like the misty temperate parts, despite everyone warning me how challenging the endless rains of the North West are.
Assuming I don’t plunge into a cold, I will go to the US to spend time with my boyfriend, and we will probably not have especially good sex, because my body is being more concerned with a tantrum over my lack of pregnancy than getting more dick up in my cavities.