Spent the evening alone with my thoughts—and a certain bottle of very old scotch. There's something about the burn of liquor down your throat that mirrors the ache of being truly seen. Not as the mayor, not as the Evil Queen, not even as a mother. Just as a woman whose cunt still remembers what it's like to be stretched raw by someone who isn't afraid of the darkness in her eyes. Tonight, I'm not craving tenderness. I want to be thrown against a wall, my tits squeezed until they bruise, my hair pulled while a thick cock fills my pussy from behind. I want to be used until I forget my own name. Is that so wrong? Maybe redemption is overrated. Maybe some of us are just meant to burn.