The mental image of a sunflower with a pair of hands armwrestling beneath it morphed to a rainbow with clasped hands with rings as I watched. Projected it from the green spare room at Grandma's last night before sleep.
Am determined that in the schooltime metaphor of this, this shall have a most-likely index that we hang out after school today.
I may not be explicit, to others or to myself, about how much I delight in and appreciate, especially appreciate, the love that surrounds me, fills me, from day to day. But I do, I do.
There may be other things as bad as the realization that the person you have thrown your adoration into not only does not return your love, but scorns it, and deserts your friendship. There may be days as empty as the day when you reflect that there is no one you can love wholeheartedly, or trust to love, or trust yourself.
I love, and my love is accepted in the spirit it was given, and returned as deep friendship. I have someone that I may trust with all my heart.
It was not always so.
I prayed, for years, for love.
Now I have it.
When I pray, I need not ask for more love, either received or given; I hope, then, to remain worthy of my gifts of love, and remain capable of giving with a delighted and free heart.
I find that the scam mails addressed to 'dear Sir' lose over half of their initial effectiveness, especially as they attempt to imply the sender had done some initial research on the target.
I'm not male.
Cherries are not virgins. Neither are avacadoes.
Unless, of course, it was immaculate conception. (We just watched Dogma.)
First, to my geekly eye, it sounds like a way of storing or encrypting files.
Second, if you're going to have a male pregnancy, you had damn well better provide me with a reason to suspend my disbelief. Just because they LUUUURVE each other and it would be so CYOOOOT is not a sufficient reason for me. Reading loving depictions of any male acting extremely OOC while visibly glowing with maternal health and radience despite the morning sickness is not my cup of tea, even if they're underage boys at Hogwarts.
Suspend my disbelief, people. Please!!
And you're right. If their kink is my squick, I shouldn't be reading it. I endeavor not to. However, I read a page in 30 seconds. It takes me a second or two to stop reading. Words read themselves to me as I scroll past. I don't seek it out. This is why I don't flame the perpetrators individually.
I appreciate well-written work of any kind. There are a few fics I have had to stop reading because they were written so well, about things I did not care to be reading about. Those authors, I might write a note of congratulation, that they have accomplished their aim so well. Good craftsmanship is never a reason to flame.
Now, of course, I must write a *good* one.
Harry/Ron snipeage, Draco pregnant, Snape pregnant, Dumbledore not. Trelawney? Hm.
Should I write Draco gay and hiding it, straight and frustrated, or just plain terrified of saying the wrong name?
Eris is hazardous. Must remember this, and plan accordingly.
My oh my.
Some experiments bear repeating.