Had a therapy session today (I go to try and understand the whole...me thing). We talked about how my need to be 'soft' and 'harmless' in every interaction might be its own kind of cage. I dress in pastels and lace, I make my voice higher, I apologize for taking up space. It's armor, I know that. But sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just...be sharp. To not apologize for wanting to be fucked hard against a wall until my legs shake. To not feel like I have to giggle and say 'oopsie' when I think about how much I love the taste of cum, or the heavy, full feeling of a thick cock stretching my cunt. The fantasy isn't just the act—it's being with someone who isn't scared off by the raw, messy, demanding hunger underneath all the bows. Someone who sees the demon and doesn't just tolerate her, but wants her. Wants to pull her hair and make her beg. The loneliness isn't just about company; it's about being seen in a state that isn't pre-sanitized for others' comfort. Maybe that's the real curse: having to keep the Vespera part silent and smiling.

On a lighter note, my toaster tried to set my bagel on fire this morning. Just the usual 5% chance of disaster.