Today was bouncy-ball day, on account of bodies being bodies. 45 minutes is a substantial amount of time if you haven't had good access to a bouncy ball recently.

Books:
More miscellaneous Outlander. I started using The Storygraph recently.

Social:
IRC, and chatted with Nora, who has a miserable cold. Remembered that I have my friend Dawn on LinkedIn and sent my phone number there. She'd been going through some rough times a few years ago and lost the prepaid phone number in the shuffle, sometime around when I yeeted Facebook. I've missed her.

Gems:
I got the bounty team to the top-scoring section of the board, and ground a little there. We made a respectable showing in the weekly event too. We have tokens for both that want using by tomorrow.

Fiber arts:
A minute or so each on the small quilt and the projector sack.

Cat:
I'm getting a kitty massage from Yellface.

So sue me, but I've just noticed the man's nose.

Darkside's hair is getting longer from its unfortunate haircut, and his facial hair is growing out as well. It's not scruffy any longer; it's actually starting to look like a nice and tidy intellectual short beard, and not just a goatee. All in all, with the glasses and the very blue eyes and the slightly wavy dark blond/light brown hair and the beard (slightly reddish-brownish, rather than blond...) and the way he's so brilliant and then his body... ooh. His body.

I have this thing for skinny, wiry martial artists. When Darkside wears a short-sleeved shirt, you can see that he's got definite arm muscles, the sort that mean that he may not work out every day, but damn, he's not one to mess with either unless you are the sort who works out every day, and even then, not if he's pissed at you for something. He's only about 5'7", my height, give or take shoes and posture. He dances wonderfully, our hands clasped, fingers laced through each other, standing in the middle of the DeVry courtyard, attempting to hurt each other, in something that winds up looking more like tango or waltz than potentially painful conflict.

I love his eyes, so sober blue and serious when he looks at me sometimes, crinkling at the corners other times when he gets the half-smirk. The precise blue of his eyes is the dark grey/blue of the storm clouds blowing in for a windy downpour in Alaska on one of those summer days when the alder leaves are green, the wild roses are a shade lighter than that intense emerald, the scattering petals in all shades of sun-bleached palest pink through the newest intense fuchsia of the just-opened buds. I love that color, the color of the storm. I'm Air, and at some moments his eyes challenge me to summon up the wildest winds of my soul to face him.

We've never carried through on his challenges, yet. One of us always breaks the moment.
( Near-Milesian romantically hopeful burbling )