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Crispin seems like the sort of man you want Santa to leave under the tree, but probably fucks like he was abandoned by Krampus.
Pitter-patter. My heart sounds like the hooves of Santa’s reindeers, having an orgy on the rooftop.
“I wish I could write,” Cyan mumbles, popping the pills in her throat and dry swallowing. Huh. I can’t do that. Does that mean she’s good at swallowing other— I cut that thought off before it poisons my entire body.
What is the threshold for pain? When is it worth feeling, and when is it something that should be pushed aside?
Sometimes, the most difficult prisons to break out of are the ones made of glass. When they shatter, they cut.”
I think Cyan could use some niceness in her life—some naughty, too. I am more than happy to provide both.
Even Ebenezer Scrooge was capable of falling in love. There’s hope for me yet.
This is my literal perfect idea of Christmas: group sex and gingerbread. Festive and deeply pleasurable.
Tina is one-hundred percent at the top of Santa’s naughty list. Hopefully also at the top of Krampus’ so she can be dragged screaming up the chimney.
The snow globe effect is back, and it has nothing to do with the snow-frosted windows or the decorations. It’s Vale. He makes me feel like we’re in a world of our own, like we’re safe from everything outside these walls.
I’m not listening to people who only put me down anymore. It makes no sense. If I can only keep one New Year’s resolution, it should be that.
He’s not such a terrible asshole when he’s half-asleep, right? “I figured after all that dick you took last night that you’d be out until noon—at least.” Hm. Never mind. He’s a week-old cinnamon roll, hard as a rock. You could kill someone with that desiccated pastry.
Sitting here like this, I realize it’s partially by choice. I let myself be lonely because it’s what I know, because it’s what I understand. Because sometimes, putting yourself out there is hard. Sometimes anticipation only ends in disappointment.

