Did I do any story writeups of my polyamorous partners' role-playing adventures? No. Did I venture boldly into the new experience of running a game for them myself? No. Did I acquire a fabulous new wardrobe of elegant couture -- or even a drawerful or so much as a singular tiny top? Have I managed to entice my beau of the artistic eye behind his camera to immortalize my voluptuous form for the ages? No.
Those aspirations wound up dramatically truncated.
But truncation is my thing. I am, you know, all trunk.
So I don't feel bad.
We've played a bit of "Dungeon Crawl Classics," with Elle as the game-master (or "judge") instead of me.
I adored it.
As I adore her -- the woman is razor-sharp and barbed of wit in a way that pierces both my intellect and my sense of humor. She's wonderful in the driver's seat of a game of this sort, and I'm definitely glad I could take a back-seat role in my first such games instead of vaulting right behind the wheel.
And the lovely man who keeps us all clothed and housed and intimately well tended-to has had his eye out for fashion pieces he might buy me. Really, he has.
Keeping in mind that I was born out of astronomically exceeded expectations, having to rein some back now and again is no trouble at all.
Let yourselves off the hook, dear friends, if that hook permits it.
What you have is likely quite sufficient -- if what you want is to know and be content in yourself.
It's the knowing that's the hard part for most, I think. That gaze you turn incessantly outward in your quest for soul-brimming satiation may never find its prize if it cannot properly apprehend and appreciate the contents of a mirror.
