I’m disgusted in one of my acquaintances.
I asked him to make a specific kind of application for me twice now. And, twice now, he decided to make something different and try to force me to pay for it. After a week, he finally figured out something to bait me with:
Fox, you blog, right? What if I make you a blog website from scratch?
Well, yeah, Togi, I blog. In fact, you interrupted me in the middle of my groove. Additionally, WordPress has tons of good features (though I can think of a few improvements), which include turning my text into a podcast with an A.I. voice, so I don’t exactly need this service. However, you could create a journal system for the web site I’m commissioning. I explained the technology and he runs away, whimpering that he doesn’t know the technologies my Chief Technology Officer is using. My C.T.O. refused to help a bro out, believing he needed much more experience and learning to join the project, and I told the boy just that.
I play pretend with my delusions of grandeur some days. They tell me that I’m going to make the most important web sites the world needs and employ nearly all the world (indirectly and directly) as I build up this crazy socialist business that benefits everyone, literally. I’m going to save mankind by providing a practical service.
Oh come on, Sansara, let’s make a new healing recipe together so we can open a diner!
No thanks, deli man. Your window of opportunity has closed. Now I do this solo.
That is, until the brown eyed and brown haired man arrives. The one who is talking himself into being in love with me without knowing much about me at all. He’s there somewhere, y’all. He’s totes real.
But missing. Somehow.
What I’m really waiting for is some man who will be sad over my story, which will stir up the fierce desire to protect me from all harm, and step into being a real man from the empathy he feels for me.
Real men protect women. They also protect other men, but women come first because we are tiny little delicate flowers (unless you’re Xena… I want to be her, but I’m too sick to be Xena. Come nurse me back to health, handsome man with an actual heart. I’m not too picky with the exterior package; I can make you well again.)
You can direct your fan mail to my e-mail, which is my name (with a dot in between first and last) at google mail. Sansara Solsinger, silly.
Over and over again, God and I role-play, until I logic out that the role-player on God’s side is not full of empathy. Check please! I’m outta here! Been there, done that, got the irremovable emotional scar of all eternity that I will carry into the next ten lifetimes.
You can read my story by reading the blog. I do repeat myself from time to time, sorry about that. I think everyone does it, but when it’s in writing, it can be hard to focus on relatively minor details.
Anyway, time to write some smut, I think. I finally exorcised my demons for the day to the point where I can think about something else. So, here we come, my tri-eyed goddess and gargoyle god pairing. Steamy hot monster smut! She rubs her hands together in anticipation.
If that bothers you, I rescind my offer to receive your fan mail.
Angel-Sansara 