Apparition - Non-Verbal Spell

For those not "In The Know", the above is a Harry Potter spell. And that's about as cultured as this post is going to get.

The rest of this post is going to be a) an apology to myself for not writing, b) a touch and go recount of three months of my life, and c) explicit sexual narration of the erotic trist which occured between Minerva McGonagall and I last october. I won't shy away from details, but I probably will replace things like "enormous throbbin man meat" with "cucumber", as in "she had ten cucumbers piercing her from all directions."

As for me, I've been pretty well. Rather than the usual stream of constant endorphines and sparkle happy time I've been teeter tottering between usual human emotions as of late; something I'm going to largely blame on not writing (My Personal Therapist). I don't generally think of myself as emotionally unstable, but there comes a point (between throwing dishes at the floor and driving your car into a bus full of kids) where you have to go "I should take a few steps back." So I'm considering the end of December my few steps back, so I can re-appreciate everything incredible in my life and also stop punching cats as a release.
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Constellations

Right now I can hear some kind of bug clicking away in the tree next to me.  I don't know what it is, but it sounds like a door creaking slowly open as a serial killer comes in to claim my precious virgin bosoms.  This doesn't really set me at ease because these bosoms are like, primotaglio.  Grade A virgin organic meat bosoms.  Top shelf beef product.  The kind of bosoms that you splurge for at the company picnic because you want your bosom sandwiches to really impress the secretary.
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It's been monsooning here a lot lately; last week I didn't go a day without driving home in downpour with enormous beams of explosion-white light blasting away above me.  In the day time everything seems bright and sunny, but come evening the sky sets on fire.  Cut to me and josh pulled off to the side of the road, watching the pitch black sky all around us while rain drops pelt away at our skulls, me trying my damnedest to catch the megazeus lightning bolts on camera.  Failing quite expertly.
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I think I've had a long running issue with feeling not masculine enough.  I'm sure that goes without saying.  You don't get given a multi-octive too-high voice and the walk of an alley cat without feeling ramifications.
But I don't think I really appreciate how happy I am when I'm doing things that are sharply feminine, like making sure my fook mi wig was properly curled and bobby pinned back, or that my fook mi skirt perfectly fit on my hips, or that my torso popped out of my fook mi cuttoff blue sweater just the right amount to hide my nipples and my crotch, but no more, like a really whorish lady.
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