What I'm Actually Like
Sharky is so soft. I rub my face across her dithered fur. Rub, rub, rub. She holds refreshing coldness inside her body, so she cools me as I stim.
We bury under the covers together, and I squeeze her so tight. Instantly, I shrink. A soothing wave travels through, and I become me. I'm a little girl hugging my stuffie, and he's massive in comparison. Hair flowing long against my sides, there's this glee in the heart, and I know who I am.
My tail swishes—I'm a cat—and I flap my thighs over and over. This is what being an autistic child is like! I'm all on Melody the Shark now. I chomp into her head and tug. Gurrrr. She's mine!! Sharky is mine: do not TAKE!
My mouth drops down a little and stays there, and there's this dumb joy on my face. I wiggle back and forth in the bed and blankets, paws up in the air. I'm a cat!! I'm a little girl cat!
...You know, I wanted my second blog post to be something "serious." I thought it should be an article about why identifying as a child is a valid identity, that I should make that kind of article first to justifying posting a "cringe" journal like this. But honestly, wouldn't that be masking on my own blog? I literally identify as a child. Of course my second blog post is about me snuggling my stuffed shark.
There will be more articles. But that's only a part of me. The core really wants to gush about how soft stuffies can be. And that's exactly what I should write.
Keep picking those berries~ 🫐🍓🍇
Credits to neo-theo's post for giving me the courage to post this.