Personal whimsy has sometimes led me to petty crime.

I occasionally lack impulse control.

I have to own to being one of those annoying college students who stole garden gnomes. Well took them for a walk down the street to swap them with another person’s garden gnomes is more like it. IMHO garden gnome swapping should be something practiced in all Australian suburbs, at least everyone can get some entertainment over rearranging their gardens around the new visitors. I have always imagined that most people would find their day a little more interesting rocking out to the car only to notice their gnome had morphed into a toad or a ceramic cat. Like a taste of modern day suburban magic.

The only reason I don’t dabble in petty crime more often is … well I have been well trained and indoctrinated. I have a super-overbearing-conscious that was religiously constructed for me in my youth. I know not every brain is wired like my own … my thoughts drift from how amused I would be to discover the crockery in my garden has fled to considering how some peeps would stagger out , notice the intrusion and feel nothing but irritation, violation… maybe anger. Heck worst case scenario is that maybe a little old man would have actually valued some crappy piece of pottery he had left rotting in the garden, maybe it was an important gift from an important person… maybe he would be left wandering the streets seeking his lost gnome.

Then lost inside the complex tale the over-conscious has spun for me I feel sad.

Mind you there is nothing to say i can’t just give go-home-gnomes away freely. Hmmm actually from now on I will make a pact to start a personal tradition of off-loading old ornaments in other people’s rock gardens whenever I move house, you know for the cause and all. Maybe I will sucker some friends in on this venture.

O_o

My mother was visiting and helping me about my latest rental. We decided to clean the birdcage together and medicate my pet budgie which is prone to scaly face. This is a two person job really – one person holds the bird and keeps it’s pecking appendage occupied with a Q-tip while the other person uses another Q-tip to dab the ever-so poisonous medication on the bird beak. We complete this task successfully and my mother mentions I should clip one of the little fellows wings so it can be allowed out and about the house.

Clipping the feathers along one wing renders a bird unable to fly away into the blue yonder and is typical practice for someone that gives their pet budgie the occasional run of the house. I am not really a bird person though. I own two cats and tend to view the little fellow as something like cat TV. I assuage my guilt about not really loving the little feathered rat or spending much time with him by purchasing him a myriad of bird toys to keep him occupied. He appears happy enough with this arrangement.

In anycase I agree to partake in the wing clipping with idle thoughts about perhaps giving the bird a bit of freedom… if I can be bothered.

This dream is pretty focused on my mother as she takes the lead here, she leans in close and goes about showing me how you clip the wing – how scissors should follow the second layer of feathers and not clip to close to anything important… like bone… and things that bleed. I know all this, my grandmother and my mother have both demonstrated this many many times as I was growing up. In the dream I remember idling thinking “I know I know”, in fact I like to play it safe and only ever cut into the lowest layer of feather.

My mother takes the scissors as I hold the bird in my two hands, I stretch the left wing out carefully so that the clipping can begin…. and my mother startles me by making the diagonal cut in compeletly the wrong direction, against the wing not with the fall of the feathers. The wing is severed there is blood everywhere, the bird is distressed.

As I sit in shock, my mother reaches into the mess and extends the other wing out from within my grasp, and she leans into me as she neatly snips that wing off as well. There is more blood. Distressed cheeping. Wetness pooling thought my shaking fingers.

I am left with the feeling that I hadn’t agreed to this. Broken trust.

I return the bird to its cage and it glares resentfully at me… it seems healthy enough although the blood is congealing and causing it to stick painfully to its perch. I feel pity. I feel at fault. A little guilt, though I figure the bird will live, will not even remember this incident.

FADE OUT to waking to a cat on the face … sigh.

So anyway I remember the dream and it sits in my mind enough for me to waste ten minutes googling dream interpretations and meanings, something I used to do in college with a more alternative cultured friend… that and purifying crystals with incense lol.

Most interpretations didn’t really strike a cord. There were lots of interpretations to do with angels (blegh) with wealth (I should be so lucky), with rising above the material to the spiritual (nope) and with leaving unpleasent surroundings (actually yes that worked… but I am looking for the opposite what with the chopping and the blood and the loss of wings)- but then I find one that did rather. Interpretation is all in the mind of the beholder of course.

Wings:

• The means to achieve, to gain freedom, to experience success
• Ability to see clearly, understand, see the “big picture” or the truth
• The ability to “rise above” pettiness and negative behavior
• A feeling of superpower—for example, through love or strength

And there it was on the third dot point… made a lot of sense actually. I recently picked an argument while playing the role of my mother. It was rather petty and negative. I certainly wasn’t rising above it. Wallowing with enjoyment in it would be more the story. It’s quite the tale:

I have been having a somewhat turbulent time attempting to flat with four blokes. No issues with the younger two, ones a sweet heart the other has been in my life since the little snot was thirteen, but the third bloke has been dubbed the little toad by my girl circle. He is older, socially awkward (least with the ladies, indluges in excessive male behaviour like yelling “punch it up your arse lovely boy” when with male friends), short, round, bald, prone to humping your leg when drunk and he is terriblly insecure with women – at some point in our story developed from me making the little bastard cheesecake ‘just-because’ to us having an alteration due to one of my hot gym-bunny friends subbing him - he decided to pop his insecure load in my face… with a lot of public yelling. The arse. We don’t talk. I could probably mend that bridge if I wanted but I couldn’t be fucked because he is the butt-buddy to my biggest problem in the house… the landlord.

My problems with the landlord predates my issues with the toad.

It was all dandy when I first moved in, mutually beneficial even. The landlord needed cash bad, and I needed somewhere in town to live  that was cheap and would let me have cats. That need for money had him bending over backwards, new doors were installed for the cats. I was reasonably happy if dreadfully allergic to the room, nothing like a dusty, mouldy basement room containing a wood fire to kill an asthmatic, in fact the only way to make it even more deathly is to stuff it with cats… sigh. But all the same I was settling in okay – oh I was stressed at the idea of living with people, and on tenterhooks because of the fact that there was no lease (illegal renting situation) and no more than a two week rent cycle (distrustful landlord is a bit of a control freak) meaning  my living conditions existed on pure faith and trust in the landlord… a situation that really forced my naturally distrustful butt out on a limb … never done well with investing faith in anyone or anything since I lost religion. So I figure I was dealing well… if being excessively whiney here and there.

Unfortunately the landlord wasn’t. He had a few fights with his ex-fiancé at work, he copped some excessive financial debt just before the tax year – all serving to send him into a spiral of depression and … well more drinking. The idiot is already an alcoholic, he will totally shit his liver one day. Anyway needless to say the whine didn’t mix well with whatever was eating his guts.

It all goes a bit twilight zone for me here… still confused over what happened but it seems the landlord decided I was trying to date his chubby-drunken butt. Please really. I am sure I could do better than a man in love with his ex. Grumble. Apparently this assumption entitled him to put his mongrel face on and put me in my place. A girlfriend reckons he was probably engaging in dating behaviour himself and scared himself shitless. I dunno. I am accustomed to the landlord running with a number of pseudo girlfriends on a string, I have no problem being treated as one so long as no one is being hurt by it (like Cough a fricken actual girlfriend… he can be a sod like that. That’s why he is in my book un-dateable… I would warn any girlfriend off him to be honest.)

So it was a bit rich.

I was terribly offended really. I couldn’t really get over my own issues on the matter which did not help reconciliation. I don’t come back well from broken trust. Well to be honest I don’t come back at all normally, I was only still trying to reconnect because of the living situation… else I would have been foot-prints in the sand. Paws in the grass and totally out of dodge is far more my style.

It is never a good idea to be on the outside of a mongrel pack. After a while there were household in-jokes involving me but not including me. The landlord started insinuating I was being argumentative when argument was furthest from my mind. From him there came many “well when my last girlfriend did blah blah blah she meant this so you must too” occasions. O_O hello not your ex-girlfriend, not even a girlfriend. And hey I thought we were friends you arse, this is not how you treat your friends.  

It escalated. I was depressed and upset and withdrawn. My friends saved me from letting the black in too much bless em. But I did take to drinking more than I should.

There came a point where I found my last straw, gift-wrapped and waiting for me. With nothing left to lose … or more to the point nothing left to preserve I decided to show this landlord what an argument with a female from my family is really like. It seemed important for some reason. It was my one for the road project.

I initiated an argument.

Just as my great-grand mother and my mother have demonstrated argument for me from my earliest years.

There is a method and a tradition to a proper argument in my family. First seek not rational debate. An argument must be emotional, engage the others emotions. As they will be uninterested in your emotional hurt create an emotional hurt in them so that they can join you on an equal playing field.

1. Desecrate something important. You need to know your target well for this. This move needs to be underhanded, an underhanded blow strikes more powerfully and will give you an upper hand for the coming conflict.

Just for a taste, actions my mother has started arguments with in her time have included:

• Using my father’s tithed money (god money) to shout the entire family to dinner out without him
• Shovelling an entire harvest of my father’s pot-crop into the compost (ahh don’t come between a man and his drugs)
• Stealing some of his ‘treasures’ and hiding them around the house

2. The second stage of an argument is to keep the momentum rolling. Let the victim stew in the hurt from the first play for a while, they need to be starting to feel like the injured party. Then start a second conflict, play on their dislikes and weaknesses: for example the landlord dislikes victims, I get the feeling he is keen to be clean of blame … easy enough to construct a grievance story where he is the big bad wolf and throw it in his face. Dislikes drunks? Well then kid rock home plastered and put it into play drunk (what you suffer for in articulation you will make up for in sheer annoying flippancy).

Say things you don’t necessarily believe but know cause the other party aggravation and upset. Get them on the defensive. The more defensive a person is the more aggressive they are able to be.

3. Another important family rule: Incite physical violence.

I believe the last argument my parents had my mother cracked my father over the head with her modem… and broke it. Police were called.

4. Finally do not let up. Hound and harass, should the target of the argument show their face then re-engage. Should they seek to leave, follow. There should be no quarter, no inch, no peace given.

To be honest I barely had my claws out and the male on the other side of the argument was bellowing like a bull and red faced. Interesting, the generationally family approved method of starting a fight is surprisingly effective.

So yes there I was wallowing in the joy of pettiness and negativity – guided by the teachings of my seriously dysfunctional family… sigh the man probably just needs a hug and a bit of human understanding. No wonder I was dreaming about cutting the wings off of harmless budgies.

It was sort of nice to let myself play though, to test drive that pattern of behaviour my mother indulges in with my father… a naughty little bit of play acting. But I feel like I got myself a C on a test where I could have gotten an A+. Empathy stopped me from really going to town on him… empathy or apathy – kind of hard to tell the difference sometimes. What sort of brain-dead moron would constantly harass me saying I am trying to start a fight, and transpose their ex-girlfriend issues onto my head with my reputation? There is no try about it… If I want a fight I’ll get one, if I have to reverse my fucking car over you, your dog or your elderly mother to get it.

These kind of arguments are not really my style, I detest watching them on the home front and they are a lot of effort. In my family an argument is a year long commitment. But that doesn’t mean I lack the bitch-bone to be able follow through with one.

Over the years I have done all sorts of odd-job volunteer work for the RSPCA but never the pet caring because I am a shifty flat renter who does not own her own house. However the rental I have at the moment is in fact a little house in a quite country town, and it has plenty of room as well as the owners already allowing me to have two adult cats on the bond – so naturally I thought “hey why not” and I did indeed ring the RSPCA up to say that I would be available to babysit kittens in care over the Christmas break seeing as how my family was descending upon me this year and I did not have to travel.

Yup.

Of course they found me two completely homeless strays to look after that were ‘off to the vets’ should no one be able to take them in… and when I did successfully rehome the little hairballs after Christmas at an adopt a pet day I somehow found two different little C-class critters (C is for Crappy-Kitten-that-hates-humans-and-wishes –to-piss-in-your-eye) being stuffed merrily into my empty cat carrier.

My cat hating mate is calling me a box head for going along with this. But there are 30 kittens in care at the moment and C-class also means ‘if-it-doesn’t-come-good-it-is-off-to-the-vets-for-a-very-long-nap”. Possibly the friend is calling me knuckle-head and giant-box-head because I also discovered (rediscovered?) that I am hugely, ginormously allergic to kittens. It appears that the minor discomfort I suffer with my adult cats is due to years and years of tolerance building to their particular flavour of cat spit or something. Little kittens = immediate asthma attacks and snot like WOW… total primary school flashback. My nose was a river. But they have eyes. Great big eyes in their little kitten bobble heads and it is rather hard to resist. Despite the stink factor.

In any case a major aspect of being a kitten carer that totally cracks me up is naming the little beasts and writing up kitten profiles for the web and the adopt a pet site. Naming can be quite political – you can’t use a name that is already on the books or has recently been in the books. They also don’t like you naming the little fuzz buckets anything appropriately descriptive like ‘Stink-bomb’ or ‘vomit-pet’ /sigh.

And the pet profiles… bwahahahahah. Say you have a cat that was taken off the streets only three days ago and it hasn’t yet worked out that humans are the new food tickets *hiss hiss spit hiss* This will become XXX is shy… or XXX is timid.

What I would have liked to write on their profiles:

The Brewery Lane kittens Ginger Megs & Taya
(Siblings named after some friends who have an ‘active social life’ bwahahahah)

Ginger Megs
Megs’ selling point is that he is ginger; I hear wranger kittens go like hot cookies, get yours now before someone else takes him home. Megs is a mighty adventurer. The first thing he did when released into my lounge room was shoot up the Christmas tree whereupon he popped out of the fake plastic foliage at exactly eye level with me and smugly proceeded to de-bauble the branch. He quickly learnt the basics of being a house cat, that food comes out of the refrigerator, that begging is best done when the human is cooking, that you can scratch couches as well as scratching posts, that beds are for sleeping on and that loud meowing is the fastest way to summon a human slave.

Being a wranger Megs found a family on the very first adopt a pet day he went to: I will best remember Megs for the incident after his flea bath where he promptly marched to his litter box, buried his head in the litter and proceeded to steam shovel himself backwards and forwards for a solid twenty minutes. I assume this was to remove the flea wash stink… in any case he looked like a mini-freak.

Taya
Runs like grease lightning. The first thing Taya did upon release into the living room was go into ninja mode – at the sign of any movement or noise she would dive with great skill into the scenery and attempt to ‘blend’ with the environment. Happily her main line of defense is to pretend to be a rock… making her reasonably easy to catch and handle despite her obvious disgust with the human race. Actually her whole ‘pretend to be stone’ rountine made her far more cuddly than Ginger Megs who has beans in his pants.

Taya went to live with her sister after Megs got himself a family: I will best remember Taya for the ninja doo-doo she left behind the washing machine -_- thankyou stinkbutt thankyou.

The C-Class Combo

Felix C-class
Fleix’s online profile says that he looks like he is wearing a little tux… fair enough. He totally acts like a little mobster. He spends most days pretending he is a turtle in his RSPCA cage… he will dedicate immense effort into turning his little kitty basket over so that he can nest under it like a turtle. The turtle out of Neverending story with the bad attitude. His nose sticks out of the hole and a rumbling growl can be heard if you venture anywhere within his range of perception. He has a real crim’s voice… the other day he attempted to meow for food and it sounded like some kinda hybrid growl-meow as performed by dirty harry after smoking six cigars.

Brenna C-class
Is the road runner reborn as a kitten. She doesn’t meow she beeps. When she isn’t beeping or purring she hisses… pftt pftt pftt. It is mildly hilarious. She has used her road runner powers to somehow scale every curtain in the house including the slinky barely tractable ones in the computer room.

Ahhh kittens. I am a glorified poop-scooper and fur slave really.

I walk on red earth
clotted and broken by stone
beneath twisted shadows
that grasp my mind
and bend it towards old thoughts
that swirl like smoke
and burn my soul to cinders
which fly from me
towards a distant sky
to be strangled by twisted shadows
and fall back choking to my feet

I walk this earth
the path that winds ahead
birthed from the dust of those who came this way before

(written year 10 of high school as I was losing my religion – those emo years of self realisation)

A friend posted the following article on facebook. The article is all about poly relationships if you can’t be bothered to click the link. Well in particular one rather low key relationship where three people are looking forward to raising a baby together.

Below is a taste of how facebook went off.

This discussion was mostly between two peeps in particular, a previously bisexual lass (currently monogamous with hubby and one baby) and a conservative church girl. Why do I feel the need to type about this? Well my wow-blog post this month was all about friendships online and in RL… why not have the RL-blog post be about the stepped up version of “love and sexual relations” eh especially seeing as my life is currently inundated with people who have been waxing poetical to me about what love is and telling me how odd my own take on this emotion is, there is a bit of symmetry to it all that way.  

And to be honest it stung me – it was like listening to an argument between a past and present me and hell this blog WAS meant to be a rant board for shite like this. Kinda like a super cheap therapy couch… or graffiti wall… its probably too open access to be a couch… well least it is on an obscure wall in a back alley that few visit.

My opinion:  poly relationships don’t offend me (unless they involve horses and people) or there are people being hurt by the set up. But then to be fair I am terribly bias on this issue (currently in a polystyle relationship) and sometimes I do wonder at the state of my morality… like is it too flexible? After all to describe it in nerd terms, my alignment usually rolls as chaotic-good or even chaotic-neutral.  But my background, my childhood, my upbringing was strictly religious. Total Lawful-Good. Not Catholic but at least as structured, probably more uptight about sex… sex before marriage? A Sin! But hey I mean masturbation was “A Sin!”… thinking about sex was “Sinful!” All sins were equivalent, none lesser or greater - so to think about adultery was to commit said adultery. You are born a dirty dirty sinner, your thoughts are naturally corrupt and the most you can do is take these thoughts and strive to make it up to god through worship and service.

My religious indoctrination was considerable… and well constructed. For example there were books published specifically for the teenagers and interestingly enough as soon as you became a ‘young adult’ you would be taken away from the kiddy bible study groups and you would be farmed out on your own to a married couple for mentoring. A couple who were outside of your family group and selected by the congregation elders to insure that this indoctrination was reasonably effective and according to the religion not according to your parents own beliefs. It was like a religious factory line for turning out cookie cutter people with cookie cutter moralities – custom designer children where the schematics were crafted by the brotherhood back at central office… and the whole community would pull together to mould your soul and heart.

The religious upbringing left me with a fairly rigid moral compass and set of life values. Right and wrong are clearly defined in such environment, this is right that is wrong and we shall follow the good-word and live all self righteous walking the narrow morally correct path of the select and virtuous few.

But how do ideals get you through the reality and complexity of life?

It could only possibly work if you remained sheltered in your ideal community or if you have incredible will power and faith in the face on consistent negation of everything you have been taught. The indoctrination will give you thought processes and reasoning to support you in the face of the terrible contradictions the reality of life will bring to your heart. Mantras like “the rest of the world is worldly and unrighteous”, “the devil will seek to corrupt your thoughts and should you feel doubt about this religious path then this is what is happening stand strong”, “to suffer for your beliefs is righteous” and “once you have suffered you should not fall for that would be a waste of all you have endured prior”. And should you feel anything other than certainty in your path as dictated by your religion it is an indication that your ‘faith’ is failing, that YOU are a failure and you need to try harder… ‘move mountains’ with your sheer will power and belief harder.

You come out of this sort of thing with a stubborn ability to believe in the face of anything. You really can’t argue with a true believer. No wonder the J-Dubs the Hitler regime got their hands on just became more and more stubborn the worse the situation got… already indoctrinated and every hardship is just validating the belief system, and the closer you get to death the less likely it is that you will throw in the towel on your afterlife preparations.

So yeah I have come from the original belief system that god ordains relationships, that they can only be between two people one of each gender. That love itself is pure and should be established without sex. That the sex comes after the relationship is ordained before god and congregation and is purely for producing children and binding a marriage tighter. Homosexualty is corrupt and sex outside of marraige is indecent.

But my religious faith was shattered in such a way it will never be reclaimed. There was a remaking of world view as I was confronted with truth. TRUTH was something I was indoctrinated to revere, to slaviously worship even – and it was life altering to be confronted with inconsistencies, manmade error, fallibility and the outright lies that constructed the religion that shaped my life and my future as I comprehended it. It hurt to undergo this kind of self realization and actualization. Everything that supported my being and validated my existence was ripped away. No encompassing god remained in my mind or heart to carry me through the emotionally tough times, no supportive community existed to surround me with order and like minded thinkings. My religion was a cult and I had not one emotional connection to any individual on the outside of it.

Everything was a lie and my internal life was in ruins.

To be honest there was a very real chance of me killing myself in this period of life, my childhood wasn’t exactly smooth sailing and I had emotional baggage and mental scars even at the tender age of 16, and I had been using my religion to stand strong in the face of domestic abuse PTS and the typical crushing teenaged insecurities for years. And woosh all gone it was… what to cling to? I existed in an isolated broken family unit compromised of a single-parent mother that was suffering from chemical depression, a Catholic grandmother who viewed me as a bastard child born out of wedlock, an estranged abusive father and my half siblings were all younger beings that existed as a burden of responsibility. This god I had been raised to fear and obey was the best thing I had in the way of emotional security and consistancy and it wasn’t real anymore.

At a time of life development when I should have been developing a sexual identity and maturing into adulthood I was in fact too busy trying to find a way to reconstruct my inner world in a way that would enable me to simply survive… being alive. (Ahh the joy of the teenager eh :p) As a consequence of all this upheaval, my sexuality and views on relationships didn’t get a chance to develop further until I hit University – sexuality was one of the final things to undergo reassessment and reconstruction and it just so happen that this occurred in the middle of a hotbed of cultural and social diversity… a college *snerk. There were homosexuals, lesbians, transgendered peeps the whole GLBTI rainbow, and intercultural, interracial interactions. And I was a blank canvas having decided that my preconceptions could no longer be trusted.

And as my path has unfolded I find that outside the rare monogamous regular style relationship I have almost always been either a solo-roller or a third wheel; it’s totally my slot in life I think, thus my bias statement. I like friendship! I like rich relationships in nice tight groups. This need often translates to me picking up a couple and building a deep meaninful relationship with both parts of the couple, or I find two female friends and it will work much the same way. Three is my magic number. Paint it with a metaphor and I could say that I am never alpha wolf, never omega wolf … but I am richly suited to be beta wolf ^_^ be it in a platonic manner (far more common for me as sex isn’t something I feel I require to love peeps) or full on bisexual poly-style relationships.

Religion taught me to love.

A sundered religion taught me to be open minded about when sex can enter the equation.

I guess what I really love is a song with a story thread and symbolism or failing that just a beat :p Sadly I love the sound of auto tuned voices O-o guess thats a personal oddity.

All this dance music is making me wish my small country town had a decent night scene! Man I desire the all-night clubbing the way most peeps ache for sex, these CD’s are starting to feel like Ima being all wound up. There’s a roving house party in town, bit of a drug fest but maybe I should try to hook up with it. Failing that I may really have to hit Melbourne for the new years like my drama-lass wants /sigh good bye ready cash.

It’s a pity I getting tangled in the barbed wire of life eh.

Ah well if wishes were fishes I would totally open a sushi shop! Back to reading this highly recommended Sci-fi, well recommended that is if you enjoy a slice of crazy adventure and female leads:

Three cheers for space hopping mutant dogs,  hedonists and weird hairy space aliens that propel themselves via cactus farts O_o Oh and cowboys!  Three cheers for interfering cowboys.

“Dealing with the manticores of anger”

…. Bwahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Incidentally… my solution immerse in online multimedia… preoccupy myself by fitting social medias together in a manner that is reminiscent of playing Tetris as a kid (the facebook, the twitter, the podbean, the igoogle, the steam, the wordpress, the MMO … you name it information overload is my drug of choice) … hum, you know Tetris like when it was black and white and you were eight and you fitted bits with the concentration of an OCD nuclear scientist. Meh – like this bullshit is important.

Question for the net: do you delete the porn when it is over? Cause I never have, it totally gets catalogued, all of it – take that!

Ima sick puppy like that, so kiss my pirate butt!

At it some lass I know was reading Cleo… in a most awkward manner – totally not engaged, totally a target really. (Do peeps do this to get attention or are they just social awkward? Ima bad at picking it to be honest) In any case enter hurricane me. And enter Cleo topical based conversation… so thus sex based, of course.

Individual declares she is incredibly kinky… kinks out the wazooo… has done bondage.. with the cuffs… on both limbs.

Enter excessive honesty (hell I was drunk) and I tell her that really “I don’t count it as kinky unless it involves goats” …yeah … then I asked her how many goats were involved. Head/desk. Sometimes I wonder who the social retard is and then a mirror eyeballs me. Incidentally goats are far far too kinky for me … thus my belief that if it includes goats it is kinky see. Well that and sitting down with a knife and fork and actually eating fecal matter.

Cough… yeah anyway tried to change the subject… shared that kiddy bondage game where you use cotton thread, tie the thumbs to the bed head and when the bloke or lass breaks the connection the game is off – the pussy/dick teasing aspect of this kiddy game has always cracked me up something awesome. Hmmm but she has never played this one… it is totally new to the girl. Later I find out the bondage story/experience is a few years dated, wow gossip is weirdly specific and informative sometimes.

Action item: Some day I totally gotta introduce “Bondage girl” to “Bondage boy” this will be hard because one is totally from a stale social circle now… still should opportunity strike Kabam! Doing! Done! :3 – maaaa he is what twice times her age? But really she needs a taste of the real deal… well realish… he at least knows how to do proper rope ties… eeheeeheee then they can loudly talk about their sex kinks together at the pub or something, lol.