Given the fact that thing1 detoxed here last month, this post, or at least its title, may be in poor taste. But I'm happy. So I don't really care. Lol.
I swear the man is more of a sadist than he thinks or is willing to admit.
He watches me go through all my withdrawal symptoms:
At first I'm cool--just little miss independent doin her thing
then I start thinking that maybe, "doin my thing" isn't really so grand after all
so I start being on my best behavior--"see, I can be a good girl, a really really really good girl!"
Nada. Zip. Zilch.
Alright, I'll ask really, really, Really nicely.
Well that didn't work...
So he doesn't care huh!? I'm going to file an unofficial complaint.
So here I come, waving my little, "official complaint."
Hmmm, Office must be terribly backed up, because I'm not even getting an automated message.
So hey, might as well bang on the door and raise a bit of a stink.
Ha. Damn doors must be made of soundproof iron.
So I slouch off in defeat.
I don't really need to be Dominated! I'm little miss independent with road rage.
Pretty, pretty please with a cherry and tears on top?!
Okay, I'm begging...
Never mind. *sigh* Now I'll just sink into a shallow grave of self pity and depression.
That bridge is calling my name...Life is pointless, my existence has no meaning, I now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he no longer wants to own me.
He doesn't even like me!
I'm gonna die in my Cheerios.
Then, like a million years later, he says:
"Do you need to be used little one?"
Oh. Great. Green. Freakin. Goddess.