Looking through your blog and just loving how strict you are. Makes me imagine…
Looking through your blog and just loving how strict you are. Makes me imagine coming home from an awful terrible day and I come home and you’re immediately impatient with me bc I wasn’t listening to you talk and then you start to raise your voice and I just start sobbing and you look down and smile at me starting to laugh a little at me
Hmm… I really don’t believe anyone who knows me would call me “strict”. I think of “strict” as the relentless policing of a set of important rules, and that’s just not how I operate
I mean, rules are great for ritual’s sake… symbolism is important to me. But as often as not, I’d rather skip the rules and just talk to you. Talk until you get it. Talk until you somehow feel both heard and overruled. Talk until you see that your priorities are really mine. Talk until you remember that your insides are a dark and shapeless wilderness, and I’m drawing the map that describes you and defines you and makes you real.
Because dumb little girls don’t need a strict man. They need a cartographer.
