First things first…

Some of you might have noticed I posted a blog a week or so ago and then deleted it. I decided I didn’t like it; it was too negative and there really wasn’t anything anyone could say to it. Essentially, I did a social thing and felt like a misfit, and it set me back a ways, missing John and feeling like I don’t know where I belong now. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, nothing anyone said; it was about me, trying to recapture what once was. But I came to realize that the “get yourself out there” and “you have to move on” messages I’m seeing are nothing more than societal dictates, the rules that “they” put forth in order to have a proper life. According to whom?? After I reminded myself that I’ve never given a flying fuck about societal dictates and I’m not going to start now, I realized that I have to go about this grieving business in my own way, in my own time. And do whatever I need to do. If staying at home a lot and watching old movies is soothing to me, then that’s what I’ll do. And let’s face it — with the exception, of course, of the beloved individuals in our lives, people can be so overrated.

Enough of that. On to the good stuff — I played with B again last Friday. 🙂

I went to his house in the afternoon. This time, his wife P was there. I had met her once before, but this was the first time she and I got to talk a bit and get to know one another. She had to run an errand, and I guess it was the plan that B and I would be playing when she came back and she’d join in, but it didn’t go that way. B and I got to talking, and we were still yapping away when P came home. So she came in and joined the conversation, and we ended up sitting there on the couch (with the dog, of course) talking until it got dark. I went to use the restroom, and when I came back, it was just B, saying that P had begged off, needing a nap.

I didn’t get to see this last time, but they have a separate playroom outside of the house! B called it a woodshed, but it certainly doesn’t look like one. Very comfortable, with carpeting, a desk, a chair, a bed, and heating/AC. He closed the door (nope, no dog hanging around kissing me this time), and we got down to playing. Like the first time, I enjoyed myself so much. We started with OTK and his hand, and then moved on with me on the bed, pillow under my hips, being strapped with his belt and then caned. Just to switch things up, he had me stand and bend over a chair, putting my palms on the seat, for the final cane strokes. A couple of them went low, and he apologized, but I assured him that does not bother me. What I don’t like is when they’re too high, or all on one side. Gotta be even! Or somewhat, anyway. And the belt was delicious. Always my favorite. And he didn’t wrap at all.

I cried this time. Not because it was too much, or too painful. It pushed me, but I could take it. No… the tears came later, when he was holding me close afterwards. He said, “You’re beautiful, Erica Scott,” and I said, “Don’t… you’ll make me cry.” He said that was very much allowed, and that I was safe in this space and he was here. And so I clung to him for dear life and wept. Couldn’t help it. It’s been a while since a man said I was beautiful. ♥ And my emotions are very close to the surface these days (not that they were ever very far below).

We went back into the main house, B woke P up, and then I said goodnight to them and took off; it was after 8:00 and starting to rain. He will be out of town all this week, but we agreed to get together again after he comes back. Also, one of their favorite cafés happens to be a long-time favorite of mine as well, so we’ll probably go there at some point. I really like both of them.

I’d promised I’d send him pictures, so I took a couple when I got home.

I’ve been getting professional deep-tissue massages lately; they help with my chronic tension. I found a local massage studio and a favorite masseur there (the owner, no less), and I had an appointment with him yesterday. I usually keep panties on during the hour, but everything else is off.

However… even though I put on my most full coverage boy shorts, there was no hiding those lower cane stripes. Ooops. Well, I wasn’t about to cancel the massage; I needed it. And I figured this guy is a professional; if he sees anything, he will be too discreet to mention it. So I went.

Sure enough, he didn’t say a word. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t vary in his technique at all. It was my fourth time there and I think this was the best massage yet; I was in la-la-land when I left and very glad I didn’t have to drive far. When I got home, I wondered… maybe he didn’t notice? I mean, the lighting is sorta dim. So I took another picture.

Oh yeah. He noticed. *blushing* Those boxers covered my butt, but nothing below it. Oh well…

All jokes aside, I’m glad he was professional and discreet about it. If he’s said anything, I would have felt a little skeevy about it. But I’ll confess that when he was working on those areas, I had a powerful urge to giggle. (I didn’t, though.)

Between Friday’s scene and Saturday’s massage, I was truly out of it. In a good way. So relaxed. I tried to watch TV last night and kept falling asleep, so I finally gave up and went to bed. And slept until nearly noon today.

I miss John every day. I probably always will. But my life goes on. And damn, it feels good to feel good for a while. ♥

Dazed and contused

And blissful. Don’t forget blissful.

(Yes, this is a long read. You know the drill. Get a beverage.)

You know, I got the green light from him to mention him by name. But you know me; I tend to err on the side of discretion. And he has an unusual name. So, just in case, for now, I shall refer to him as B. If he chooses to comment on here and reveal his name, then that’s okay too.

B is someone I’ve known for a few years, seen at parties, bantered with a bit on FetLife, but we’ve never played. Which is kind of a shame, considering we live near one another. But it’s just one of those things that didn’t happen. Plus, he has a very busy life, works a lot of hours. And he’s a newlywed with a beautiful bride. (Yes, she is kinky too. Yes, she knew we played. All is copacetic.)

We’d met for coffee a couple of weeks ago to talk, and agreed we both wanted to play. He said I was welcome to come to his house, and since parking on my street is such a nightmare, I thought yes, that would be perfect. We had set it up for last Friday, but he’d gotten called in to work that day, so we switched it to Saturday at 1:00.

I have not been playing, obviously. I haven’t doing much of anything, besides working, going through the motions of functioning, and mourning John. It’s only been recently that I had felt the stirrings of need to play again. But of course, along with that came the bombardment of insecurity and self-consciousness.

I haven’t wanted to be seen lately. I’ve felt drab, deflated, colorless, sad. When I took a selfie, I’d smile, but my smiles never reached my eyes. And I certainly didn’t feel attractive or sexy. Grief takes a toll on one’s psyche for sure. John was so very affectionate with me — always touching me in some way, holding my hand, putting his arm around me, cuddling with me, nuzzling me with his nose, which always made me giggle. I’d gone from that to no touch at all for a very long time. Skin hunger is real.

I also wondered what kind of tolerance I’d have… if I’d have any. If it would feel the same. If I’d be able to handle it without breaking down into a million blubbering pieces.

Oh… and this shouldn’t matter, but dammit, it does. He’s a lot younger than I am. I mean, a lot. And he’s a very tall and attractive man. I was texting with my dear friend and sis Lily Starr before the event, and I confessed that I couldn’t believe he wanted to play with me. (sigh) And she said:

“Of course he wants to play with you. You’re Erica Fucking Scott.”

I laughed out loud. And then thought, goddammit, she’s right. I’m still here. I’m still me. Down but not out. And I’m going to have fun. Because I damn well deserve to.

I showed up at 1:00, and when B opened the door, I was greeted by his behemoth of a dog, a big friendly bundle of part pit bull, part Rottweiler and part something else that’s huge, I forget. And who thinks he’s a lap dog. You know me and dogs… I was in instant heaven. There was a cat, too, but I didn’t get to give him any attention. I tried once; held out my hand to him, and he approached to sniff. But before he could even come close, the dog came barreling over and plowed his way between us. “No! You will not pay attention to anything but ME!”

We chatted a little, and searched for his phone, which he had misplaced, but we couldn’t find it. I even tried calling his phone with mine, but he must have had it silenced. So, of course, it became my fault that he couldn’t find his phone. And then we got down to it.

It was a lovely, multi-part scene, in various rooms and even outside in the back yard. Nice long warmup, strap, and cane — I can’t remember the last time I was caned. Oh, yes, I can — New Year’s Eve, 2022. Long time. But I took it well, I think. And I needn’t have worried about my tolerance. It kicked in immediately, and I found myself craving more and more. In fact, when he said something about wrapping it up, I protested. “What, that’s it?” I blurted. “We’re just getting started!” Okay then. He was happy to oblige.

Ever try to do a serious spanking scene with a giant galoot of a dog hanging around and kissing you? It can’t be done. I spent roughly half our scene laughing my head off. The dog kept coming over, licking my face, my arm, my shoulder. Or he’d park himself on the couch behind us and lick my feet. B was laughing and saying “Leave Erica Scott alone!” (He refers to me as Erica Scott, the whole name. It’s cute. I like it.)

I felt so comfortable, it was easy to let my playful side come back out. B kept moving me around, switching positions, and finally I snapped, “Would you make up your fucking mind??” Oh my. That immediately pushed us into the “That’s it, now you’re really gonna get it” zone. Which, of course, I love.

He finished me with a hard strapping, and that was the first time I found myself struggling a little. At one point I asked him please to slow down a bit, which he did right away, and then I was able to continue. Funny how, even in my peak days, I could take it hard, I could take it fast, but hard and fast at the same time overwhelmed me and still does.

Aftercare was lovely. He held me, rubbed lotion on me, let me come back down to Earth. I was a bit dazed and spacey, to say the least. But amazingly, I didn’t cry. I thought for sure when I played again, I would break down and bawl. But the urge never came. I just felt giddy and blissful. And alive.

I left around 4:00; he had someplace he needed to be, so I had to pull myself together and be on my way. Since we never did find his phone, I promised I’d take pictures when I got home. Which I did.

Ouch. So delightfully sore. I was in a happy, ditzy space for the rest of the evening. Oh, and I was starving, so I stuffed myself at dinner, and had chocolate cake for dessert. Everything tasted sublime.

Oh, and here I am in all my disheveled glory that evening. Hair still rumpled, makeup gone… and miracle of miracles, my smile reaches my eyes this time.

It’s been two days, and I’ve faded somewhat, but I still have marks. Which is fine with me.

Thank you, B. For bringing Erica Scott back out to play. For making me feel safe and comfortable. And for being so lovely and toppy and taking such delicious control. 🙂

In other news… I got through my first Valentine’s Day without John. It was not easy; very emotional day. Friends wrote and texted me, and were very supportive. My grief group met that night, and we all brought pictures of our loved ones to pass around. Many of us cried. My dear SIS Jay, who knew I’d be missing John’s flowers and chocolate, made sure I got some anyway.

And look! A week later, and they’re still gorgeous — even prettier now that the lilies opened.

This past weekend was the Oasis party in Vegas. I admit I felt FOMO, especially looking at all the posts and pictures on FetLife. There are some people I would have liked to see. But I have to stay grounded in reality. And the reality would have been that I’d be utterly miserable and sad there, missing John. It was one thing to go by myself, knowing that he was waiting for me when I came home. And even that was tough. But now? Ugh, I’d feel so apart, so alone. It’s just not something I can do anymore. So, that part of my life is done.

But I will not deny myself pleasure. I need this in my life. And hopefully, it will continue. There will be more sadness, because I lost the love of my life and nothing will change that. But I’m still here. And I must find my joy again too.

Thanks for reading. ♥

Brief interruption here…

Just breaking off from the goings-on of the day to say that it looks like I’m playing tomorrow for the first time in what feels like forever and I’m excited and I’m nervous AF and I can’t concentrate on my work to save my @#$%ing life and why isn’t it tomorrow yet and what should I wear and and and…

deep breath

Okay. Back to work. It’s been a brutal week, emotionally, but I am so hoping it will end with a dose of joy and much-needed feel-good chemicals.

Stay tuned…

EDIT 2/15: Late afternoon today has been rescheduled to 1:00 tomorrow. Stay tuned a little longer…

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 5/12

Some sweet sentiments just in time for Mother’s Day! I haven’t posted one of these for a long time. Not because I’m not still getting this crap, but I just haven’t felt like exhibiting it lately. However, I recently got not one but two of those bizarre scroll-down blathering entries, and I just had to share. If I have to suffer through this, then you do too. 😛

i saw your profil and i like everything on it.
you look sexy and i like it. your words sounds good to me and i hope your really mean it and are not playing here. i hope your attitude is as beauty as your look. i hope you are into the lifestyle like i am into BD(SM), because i am not going for less.
i know, i am not half as sexy as you are, but i know, if you are seirious, i could be the best master for you. if you are the sexy slave i see, dressed like i like for the right situation, i will respect, admire and love you for that.
here are to many fakes and many are playing.
if you aspect that i will pay your for anything before meeting, you are wrong. i don’t wanna be rude, but i have to make that clear.
i will pay for relocation, if we click, but when i pay, it will happen the way i want it.
my experiences are here was good, because i met my all-in-one-slave years ago. after her death, i was mourn for long, got married and divorced very quick (to personal, but will tell you later) …. there are some reason.
if you are serious and want a man that will be proud to be on your side, to live a safe live, you want a strong dom and a good protector, wants to have a good, happy and active life, that i am the right one for you.
so, show me that you are the right one for me.
kiss you all over
sir Xxxxxxx

Some people can’t believe these are real, that someone actually sends me this kind of stuff. Trust me, I am not making up a single word. The only change I made was to x out his name.

If I aspect? The only thing I aspect is that people who correspond with me be somewhat literate. In my best Carol Burnett/Eunice screech: “Is that too much to ask???” As for everything else, sorry, pal, but I didn’t ask. I don’t want to know anything that’s to [sic] personal. And if you think you saw a sexy slave in my pictures, you need a visit to the optometrist. (What? Oh. That’s eye doctor, Einstein.)

I’m very impressed with that secy ass

Secy? You can’t be that impressed if you can’t even spell what it is.

Hey sexy lady I have read every word of your profile and I got to stay looking at your pretty red ass has got to be so excited

I think you meant “got to say,” not “got to stay.” Please, please don’t stay. My ass has got to be excited? How do you know how my ass is feeling? I mean, that’s pretty presumptuous of you.

I just got this last one yesterday, and I posted a snippet of it on Twitter, because it made my brain bleed. But here it is in all its glory.

I must be honest, all that yelling and name calling in the BDSM world, that bullshit isnt for me, But I will restrain your ass and toy you till your dehydrated from squirting your love seed all over my face, So the answer to your question is a yes,..I love to eat pussy,..and if your a multiorgasmic girl that isnt afraid of passing her limit,..perhaps we should chat? Do you ride a Motorcycle, work on motors, are you like me and happen to be in healthcare or even better are you too a ventriloquist? Perhaps when you have the time you will come and say hello,.until then, I’ll be patiently waiting to hear back from you,.

Oh, brother. Where do I start with this? Um… I never, ever asked you if you like to eat pussy. I asked if you knew what a spanko is. Not even close. Squirting my what? That’s about as cornball as “lady garden.” No, I don’t work on motors. I wouldn’t know a fuel pump from a water pump. Or what the hell a head gasket is. Although your post just made me blow my own head’s gasket.

What the heck is this about? ,. ,.. ,.. ,. ,.

And finally… WTAF? Am I a what? A ventriloquist? Yeah, sure, honey, I’m a ventriloquist. I guess that makes you the dummy.

I hope you have plenty of patience, because you’re going to be waiting… *checking watch* … forever. Does forever work for you?

Ye gods.

In other news, last weekend for the Spanko Brunch, Hermione asked what we think during a spanking. I didn’t participate, but I gave the question some thought. I guess I think a lot of things, until I go into subspace and then I don’t think anything at all. If he’s starting out too light and the warmup is going on too long, I suppose I’ll be thinking along the lines of “Jeezus, ramp it up already.” But one thing I have noticed many times when the scene is at that point where I’m just teetering at my limit, where I don’t want it to stop but my body can’t stand anymore, where I’m wondering if I can finish: I have a little encouraging voice within that counteracts the voice saying “Ugh, I can’t do this” with “Yes, I can do this. I’ve got this.” (Yes, I have a rich inner life.)

In a recent scene that went on for a long time, I was loving it, I was in amazing hands, but I was getting tired. I was reaching my threshold. I was this close to saying, “I think we need to wind down.” And then that cheerleader voice piped up with, “Like hell you do! You don’t need to stop anything! You can take it! You’re Erica Fucking Scott!”

Swear to God. Those words went through my head. And of course, I then lasted until he ended it. 🙂

Have a great weekend, y’all. Happy Mother’s Day to those who celebrate it. ♥

Well, that was interesting

Not quite in the way we’d planned, though. (See previous post for details.)

The kiddie party went well. It was a beautiful day, there was pizza, and yes, there were even a couple of dogs to pet, so I was happy. We stayed for that a couple of hours, then came home to nap and then get ready to go to the kink party that evening.

We had about 45 minutes to an hour to drive, and we always use my car, as John’s truck is manual transmission and isn’t the most comfortable ride. John usually drives when we’re in unfamiliar territory, but he had a badly infected finger and I was trying to give him a break from stressing it, so I drove. We were over halfway there, on the freeway at full speed, and someone sideswiped me on the driver’s side. The jolt and noise were horrible and I screamed, but I kept control of the car and managed to pull onto the shoulder. Meanwhile, the driver took off into the night and we never knew what hit us.

We were lucky. It could have been so much worse. No injury, and the damage to the car was cosmetic. Really ugly — basically the back half of the left side was scraped and gouged — but the car was completely drivable. So now what? Should we go home? We decided, what the hell. We’re more than halfway there. We’re all dressed up. It would be horrible to have gone through this for nothing; we might as well go on and get ourselves there.

Damned if I know how I kept driving. I was shaking all over, trying to keep my breathing even. I didn’t cry. I kept it together. I had to. I was behind the wheel. It was like someone else took over my body and kept me going. John was very comforting, telling me I was doing great, that I hadn’t done anything wrong. He made a good point — if this had been my fault, the other driver would have stopped so they could get my information and so forth. But they’d plowed into me out of nowhere; I was in my own lane and minding my own business. So this was unavoidable.

We arrived and parked. I had to change shoes; I was wearing comfortable flats to drive and had to put on my fetishy high heels. It took several minutes to get them on; my hands were shaking so badly, I couldn’t get the damn tiny buckle to go into the even tinier hole. But finally we were pulled together and ready to go in.

Turns out it was the right decision. The party was a distraction. There were hugs and friendly faces. I was able to get a bottle of water right away, which helped. I was able to calm down, relax a bit, even laugh. And I was able to have two great scenes, with what I consider to be the two of the best men there (besides John, of course). 🙂 It felt like old times, especially the first scene. We were in a small room and my butt was facing toward the door. Behind me, I could hear voices, “Is that Erica?” “That looks like Erica’s butt.” And Mr. Woodland said, “Yes, it’s Erica! Say hi, Erica!” I raised my hand from the floor and did a backwards wave. Three women came in to watch, including the beautiful Maddy Marks, and then I heard, “I thought it was her! Those are the kinds of panties she likes to wear, with the lacy trim.” I’m known for my panties?? I couldn’t stop laughing; of course, then Mr. W felt like he needed to ramp things up a bit to refocus my attention.

The second scene was right before we left, with Maddy’s beau Siq (pronounced “Sick”; not his real name, of course); it was the first time I’ve ever played with him, and I loved it. It was just what I needed to end the night on a positive spin and I was so happy he’d sought me out. He was so sweet too — asked me how my nerves were feeling (he knew about the accident) and if I was up for playing. I would definitely enjoy a repeat performance.

Anyway, we made it home without further incident. John’s finger was feeling better — the swelling had gone down — so he drove this time, for which I was grateful. Part of me never wanted to drive again, but I need to get over that, of course. Yesterday I called and made a claim with AAA, and today I will be talking with an adjuster, arranging for body work, a rental car, etc. I have rental coverage and collision coverage, so I’m handled. There will be a deductible, of course. Yesterday, I caught John with his hands on my wallet. “Oops!” he said. “Nothing to see here.” He’d stuffed a bunch of cash into my wallet to handle the deductible. He insisted. “You drove. It’s your car. You have to deal with it all. You got us through it. It’s the least I can do.” I do love that man. ♥

So… hell of a price to pay for being able to play a bit, but I did have fun despite it all. Even got a few light marks; damn, I’m out of condition! Onward with the week.

The power of words

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, ever since what happened last Friday, and how an afternoon and potential play partnership was ruined with a single word. I know I’ve talked about this before; I believe words have a lot of power. That whole “sticks and stones” thing is BS. Granted, words can’t physically wound you. But what they can do to your heart, soul and psyche is as painful and lasting as any gun or knife.

We spankos are big on words. We all have our buzz phrases, our trigger words, the words we love, the words we hate. What is a massive button-pushing turn-on for one might be vomit-inducing for another. Since I spent so much time last week focusing on words I hate, I thought this week I’d counteract that with one of my all-time favorite phrases in our realm. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I’d like to delve into it more in detail today.

It’s a simple phrase. Three words, and sometimes four.

“That’s my girl.”
Or “That’s my good girl.”

Hearing those words makes me melt. I don’t know why. I have said many times that I’m not a submissive, but that I can be submissive when someone taps into my headspace. And when a top says that to me, in the right context, I want to hang the moon for him.

I am not sure when I first realized that this particular phrase was such a turn-on for me, but I can remember an earlier awareness. Those of you who go wayyyyy back with me, back to the days of the MSN board Southern California Spanked Wives and Girlfriends, may recall that I had an ongoing crush on a gym instructor (who I ended up hiring as a personal trainer), P. For those who don’t know this story — essentially, P was a very popular instructor/trainer. His classes were always packed. He was enthusiastic and fun, encouraging, pushed us, but knew what he was doing and was very skilled at it. He made a point of learning everyone’s name, and addressing us in class, calling out praise. And yes, he was very, very toppy… and it was sexy AF. I think, back then, every heterosexual female gym member with a pulse had a thing for P. And probably some of the males too. He was that charismatic.

I remember he’d call out names, sometimes mine, saying, “That’s it! Good! Come on, [name]. That’s my girl.” And I’d feel a jolt. Suddenly, I had more energy. More willingness. I could push harder, do more. Just from those three words and what they did to me.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that P looked like this, but I digress…

Once I became aware of how that phrase affects me, I noticed it more within scenes. It’s not all that common a phrase to hear — not like “Good girl,” for example. Which makes it all the more special when it does happen. One of my favorite Vegas party playmates, Roy, who I’ve discussed here before, uses it, and I adore it. When we’re in scene, in the zone, and the energy and connection are at their peak, he’ll lean down to me and say, “More?” In my blissful stupor, I will murmur, “Yes, please,” and then I can feel him smiling as he says, “That’s my girl.” Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff…

What made me think of this? Something that happened recently; in fact, on the same day as that wretched coffee date.

I have a friend, A. He lives up north. We’ve never met in person, but we’ve been corresponding for about a year. We talk often on kik. We both love word games and do the daily Wordle faithfully. We both love Jeopardy! And of course, we’re both spankos. A has an extra fetish that I don’t happen to share — along with bottoms, he loves women’s feet. I’ve known a lot of foot fetishists over the years (they give damn good foot massages), so this is nothing new to me. After we’d gotten to know each other a bit better, he would ask me to send him pictures of my feet now and then. Sure, why not. He always asks politely, and he’s so appreciative and complimentary when I do. And it’s just feet.

Cut to last Friday, when I was reeling from my unpleasant encounter. I got a kik from A, asking about my day and how I did on the Wordle. I didn’t tell him about what had happened; I didn’t really feel like it. And then he said he felt like he hadn’t seen my soles in forever, and he’d love a new picture.

My first thought was “Oh, crap. I’m not in the mood for this. I’m feeling so unsexy and icky right now.” So I messaged back that I’d been super busy and preoccupied, but I’d send him something soon, I promise. And then he replied:

“That’s my good girl.”

There it was. That jolt. He has no idea how I feel about that phrase; he said it organically, not to be manipulative. And just like that, my mood shifted. My deeply hidden soft center melted like a Lindt truffle. I became willing. I set up my phone’s timer, and took not one but three pictures for him. He was his usual effusively appreciative self, and I enjoyed making him happy with such a simple thing. But what he doesn’t know is that he made me feel good too. And it helped me get past the ugliness.

While we’re on the subject of buzz words, here is another one of mine: Punish. Or punishment. Again, I have no idea why. But damned if hearing that word doesn’t do things to me. Yummy things

Funny story about that word, and as it happens, it has to do with the aforementioned P. One day in class, he had pushed us particularly hard, and when we were lying on our mats and stretching, I felt a twinge in my lower back, which tends to act up anyway. So, as we stretched, I idly reached down with one hand and massaged that spot. P, with his eagle eye, noticed that from across the room and called out, “Erica, is your back hurting?” I said, “Yeah, it’s okay, just a little.” And then he teasingly said… wait for it…

“Aw, I’m sorry, honey! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to punish you a little.”

Oh. My. Freaking. GOD. I felt that blush all the way into my hair follicles. I thought he was going to have to scrape me off that mat. Of course, he had no idea what he’d said and what it had done to me. That was around the time that I became convinced that he was one of us, and I was determined to find out for sure. But that’s another story, a very long one.

Any of you want to share your button pushers? This is always a fun subject. I know that just writing this out has gotten me rather… flustered. And on that note, guess I should re-route my mind and get back to work.

Have a great weekend, y’all. ♥