There's a saying in Yorkshire: "Don't shit on your own doorstep", and as advice goes, it is pretty sound.
The thing is, it doesn't say anything about rezzing mesh poo on your dear friend and Uber-Domme Miss Eve Terr's new dance set. That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it. The excuse, not the poo, that is.
I'd like to say Antony dared me. He didn't, but I'd really like to say it anyway, because blaming him is fun, and then usually I get to punish him.
This evening, it backfired somewhat.
And that is how we ended up locked in separate cells (actually, the 'how' is another story, which will be the subject of a separate post). All because of one little poop.
I'd have gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for that pesky brat, who decided the evidence should be included in the album of photos he sent TO MISS EVE.
So here we are, locked in our cells writing, as instructed, blog posts about the dangers of egging each other on.
Will we learn from this?