Tis Sunday...am half way between a bubble, the coating of which i am not quite sure...always on Sunday eve's, this doubt creeps along the grape vine to ask so many questions within, i babble to myself as a buffoon, maybe tis work perhaps the evil grin confides, that in a few hours i will be once more in the saddle of the protestant work ethic. The claws will dig deep auto pilot will seep in and the clock work Orange will spice the working day into tiny blue forget-me-nots.
Autumn is now well entrenched it has finally pulled off summers panties gripped hold of the soft bra in sunshine mode and shredded all doubt to whom is the domme as the seasons roll across this urban valley my tiny abode sits in or in Dylan's words..shelter from the storm. Tomorrow i am going to confuse myself even more as i am going to ride the giant albatross of trying to be a TV-Domme... i have been requested to perform and down the years past i know so well what rejection feels like, so if i can bring some pleasure to a soul whom desires such, the world will roll oblivious but one small human will probably think Ha.....and perhaps be a bit richer.