I’d like to apologize.

For being so distant, so rushed, for only throwing you scraps of me instead of being truly present.

I’m sorry for being unreachable and non-responsive and for being forgetful.

I feel terrible, pulled in so many directions — so busy it hurts and makes an ugly, sagging version of me.

Between my four jobs I am only a cellophane wrapper when the sun has long since set.  And in the mornings, I am ABC gum.

Creatively, it’s all still in there, but opportunistically, it’s a flickering light.  It hurts having the flow interrupted, like holding my bladder for too long.  I crave the freedom of release, but fail routinely to carve out the sacred space.  Life has sped up.  I’m about to face plant on the treadmill.

So, I’m sorry, Internet Boyfriend.  I really am.

My content has been below par, my correspondence has been deplorable, my interaction with those of you who also put themselves out there via their own little internet corners has been embarrassingly non-existent.  I feel like that jerk ass friend who only talks about herself and only during the last hurried minutes does she turn to you and say, “So… how are things in your world?”

You all are so wonderful, so deserving of more than what I’m giving here.  You always have such smart things to say and your shoulder stretches from the Pacific to the Atlantic and around again.

My incredible luck is what shames me so.  I would like to be a better Hyacinth to all of you so I may express the depths of my gratitude to you all.  You have all helped me become the woman I am today; propped me up, hugged me, kissed me, jerked off on me, loved me unconditionally, and set me back on my feet.

I promise to do better in the future.  New things are happening whether they want to or not.

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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