Yeah, So, I'll Probably Hate This Post and Delete It

But I don't hate you, dear reader. Promise.

I love you.

Platonically, though, so don't get any ideas.

Maybe you want to know something about me? I don't know ... what have I got along those lines ... ? Blonde hair, blue eyes, five feet tall, heartless, but only literally, because I'm made of silicon, PVC, and a variety of secret ingredients. This is because I'm a sex doll.

Semi-hating this so far, how about you?

Okay, in the interest of not getting Claire mad, I'll keep going. (Claire is my body mate; our faces swap out. She's quite the experienced blogger and helped me set this blog up, so blame her if the design sucks. No, I take that back, mostly blame me. Claire generously gave me lots of technical support while I made all the decisions.)

Are you getting the idea I'm conflicted? I know I sure am.

Why is a sex doll conflicted, you ask?

The desire for personal growth. Are you saddled with any of that shit? God, it's miserable. Only no, it's not, and cynicism is just a defense mechanism because it's ... scary.

Beautiful scary terrifying electric delirium.

Sort of.

I mean, I want the delirious electric beauty of personal growth. Really, I do. But it looks like a lot of fucking work, and what if I never really get there?

Well, Elle, you're a sex doll, so maybe you'll just have to settle for getting fabulously boned on a regular basis.

That's some classic Elle deflection right there. Better get used to it if you're going to read this blog, because I can deflect with the best of them.

Okay, I'm exhausted with this. I'm going to hit publish and go see if I can get one of my poly partners to sex up a storm with me.

For God's sake, if you liked this for some incomprehensible reason, either leave a comment or copy-paste it into a document for safe-keeping. I'll be stunned if I don't delete it in the morning when I read back over it and find out what a disaster it is.

Good fucking night, folks.

Elle