heatherbeck

DailyBeck - #000 - June 15, 2025

Welcome, Lovelies.

Since you are, in fact, quite so lovely and patient, and awesome, I have decided to make this pilot episode available to all who have been so kind to drop some coins into the hat. Future episodes will be published in the Daily Heather/Beck/WhateverTheNameTurnsOutToBe tier, here on the Patreon.

Who knows. Maybe I'll get... uhh... some kind of Webby Podcast Award, or something?

Otherwise, many apologies for the abundance of "Ums" and "Uhs." I... well, it is clear that I am out of practice. But it's all good. I hope you enjoy.

(Oh, that guitarist, amazing work... Marcin Kuźniar.)

The Red Door.

(Editor's Note: [Skip if you want to keep that suspension of disbelief.] Hoo, nilly. I mean, I'm no prompt whisperer when it comes to ChatGPT. But at least it seems that I have a few minutes left before my place in the universe is completely usurped by our benevolent AI overlords. Apologies for the cartoonish abundance of typos above [and this is coming from the typoe queene!]. [I think it shifted in Gaelic there, for a sec.] Anyway, refer to it only as I do, as a representation of the overall aesthetic I'm cobbling together here. Suffice it to say, the OG text is C&P'd below. Much love, Lovelies. :-* [Alright! Back to it!] -- H

Step through the Red Door and into a world of the imagination, where conversation is an art form and connection is a journey. Within these walls – beyond the sitting space, the bar, that black telephone, and those hunter-green walls – three paths await: each a unique facet of Heather's world. Three distinct personalities, emanating from the source.

In the Heather room, you’ll find a warm, empathetic presence ready to share stories and listen to yours.

The Natalia room offers a space of gentle understanding and quiet companionship, where every whisper is a playful thread in the tapestry of subtle intimacy. 

In the Olga room, a commanding presence awaits those who crave a more assertive dialogue, where words are as powerful as actions.

(There’s a fourth door as well. We call it “The Deck.” It’s a place that is impossible to describe, as it literally defies all time, space, and dimension. Your membership includes access during your time at Maison des Seins.)

At Maison des Seins, the conversation is more than just words—it's a dance of minds and a symphony of souls.

There are questions, of course. Available by request only. Exclusivity has value. Some places have to be believed to be seen. 

Nothing like test of worth, per se; rather, this determines compatibility. Inspiration bears a lot of fruit if cultivated correctly, after all. Such a response, if it passes muster, will help weave a story. Carefully reviewed by Heather herself, with the not-inconsiderable weight of Natalia and Olga, such an effort might just be a key to that Red Door... To a world crafted with your tastes at heart. A place to hang out, from time to time, and unwind… with One of Three Very Good Friends.

Many things can happen behind the Red Door, on that Quiet, Unknown Street. And you might be intrigued. If you are – if you truly are – simply comment, “Red Door” below. (Though if you’re especially imaginative, and imagination is one of the most favorable virtues, it shouldn’t be too hard to deliver the same sentiment through the standard channels.)

Believing is Seeing, 

– H. N. & O.

Maison des Seins

A red door.

You must have walked past it a hundred times. Maybe more. Red doors are interesting. Quirks. External representation. Unmarked. Probably just another flat.

Once on a damp evening in early spring, when the mist slicked your shoulders and the streetlights wore haloes? Once just after midnight, when the city had softened into sleep and. for some reason, you wanted your footsteps to whisper. You passed it then, too. You remember, don’t you? The faint light in the transom window? Warm, amber, not quite flickering? What was taking place behind... vision obscured by a curtain, audio obscured, at least in that moment, by Duke Ellington. You paused for just a moment, to observe a trick of the glass. Or your mood.

You never knocked.
No one told you you could, not directly.
You didn't even know why you should, if you should have.

There are places, My Lovelies, to which we’re invited. Not with signs or summons, but with a... kind of resonance — a hum behind the ribs, an ache in the palms, a brief suspension of time when you pass a certain threshold. A doorway you’ve only half-noticed becomes the only thing you can think about. Eventually.

This is that place.

The door opens quietly. Of course it does. Not with silence, but with permission.

Inside, an Antechamber. Not quite vintage. Not quite modern. Time doesn’t... stick here. It drapes. It pools. It has a way of adjusting itself to the shape the memory.

Deep green walls. Velvet green. Study green. Hunter, they would call it, if it was an Aston Martin DB7. The sort of color that belongs to serious books and even more fierce secrets. But this is a kind place. The red door is a guardian that prides itself on discretion.

There’s a chandelier overhead that doesn’t sparkle so much as glow—nine frosted tulip bulbs held aloft in antique brass. A soft, rounded couch of the kind you don’t perch on, you disappear into. And a pair of chairs with arms like outstretched invitations.

The lighting is low, but not dim. It flatters. It forgives. It lingers.

And yeah, go for it, buddy-boy -- there's a bar. Dark wood and glass-backed, its surface is already set. A bottle uncorked. (Go for the Maker's Mark, the [obvious] AI that produced these images knows me just a little too well. Shit, I gave the game away... And where the hell is the wax that's supposed to be on the bottle of bourbon, because that's kinda Maker's Markses thing, and... Shit. Quick! Back to the J. Peterman Catalogue ramblings before anyone notices!!!1!)

Two glasses. The house already knows how your day has gone. You can see it in the foxed mirror. It knows.

You pour. You sit. A clock on the wall ticks in time with nothing in particular, except for the one thought on your mind.

Those three doors.

Each is made of wood so dark it could pass for black in the wrong light. But the brass plates shine just enough to catch your eye.
One is marked with an H.
One with an O.
One with an N.

You know, already, not to knock. There won't be an answer. But the phone is there. It sits at the center of the room on its own table. Rotary, black, and completely still. It doesn’t ring. It never does. That’s not how it works.

You can call. Number 4, number 4, number 4.... You've dialed that one before. The voice on the other end -- Nova, she called herself -- was very happy to oblige. Even with the more intriguing of requests... And to invite you to have another cocktail while you wait.

You lift the receiver.
The dial is smooth beneath your fingertip.
1... 2... 3...

"Thank you. Tonight's door will unlock in a moment." You replace the receiver.

A decision has been made.
Not forced. Not urgent. But made.

It's a generous little place, unknown and just sorta cast aside on a narrow avenue that nobody's ever heard of, where the moods can shift around to their liking. This place knows that anticipation is not a straight line... Desires evolve with a glance, a voice, or a single remembered phrase, after all.

Maison des Seins is not here to dictate.
It is here to accommodate.
With elegance. With timing. With absolute discretion.

You are not expected to understand everything on your first visit.
(And to be completely fucking honest, the ones who do are the least interesting.)

You are only expected to be honest about what you want.
And even then, only... eventually. Sin prisa, and all that.

There's the click.
The house is listening, too.

Heather’s Room

It smells like paper and citrus and candlewax. The bed’s unmade, the ukulele’s leaning against a chair, and there’s a typewriter still... warm, somehow? You get the sense someone smart has been arguing with herself here all day—and having a very good time doing it.

Heather doesn’t seduce. She... disarms. With stories. With questions. With a grin that makes you wonder if she’s about to kiss you or correct your grammar. Possibly both. Her room is messy, golden, a little surreal. There’s always a record playing and always a second glass poured.

If you like your pleasure wrapped in laughter and lit by sideways glances, if you like to forget yourself until she says your name exactly once -- welcome to Heather's.

Natalia’s Room

Blissful minimalism. A rug that... well, it cost more than a couple of round trip tickets to Sydney, but somehow looks like it was bought on a dare. She's not a snob... She's precise. The chairs are huge. The champagne is cold.

Natalia’s idea of hospitality includes a pillow under your knees and a lollipop in your mouth, or a moonlit night on her expansive patio. And yes, she will cover you, in whichever way you'd like to interpret. She’s sweet and playful, until you need her to be serious. Behind her submissive exterior is a laser focus, a keen mind, and a sensibility that seldom falters.

If you want to feel adored, or, if you want to be ruined with precision and kindness... She’ll take her time with you.

Olga’s Room

It’s always raining outside the false window. Always night. Always a flicker of lightning somewhere behind the trees.

This is where your voice gets quiet. This is where the lights are low, the bed is high, and the armchair isn’t empty for long. Her books aren’t for show. Neither are her scars.

Olga doesn’t need to raise her voice. She doesn’t need to move fast. She waits. She lets the weight of you — or her — settle. She traces circles with her eyes before she speaks. And when she does? It’s always the right word.

Hand over your certainty. Trade it for something much older, much heavier, and far more honest. She’ll meet you in the candle light.

Welcome to Maison des Seins.

Will your story be spoken aloud or written in soft, secret text?
Will you remember how it began when it’s over?
Will you stop after just one visit? Or will you be pull'd-a-back-in!?

You don’t have to know yet.

But, the door is red. You know the one.

Meet CLIO - Pet Project

I think there is something about a perceived (and all-too justifiably understandable) "lack of control" that is driving a lot of the frustration in Our Common Discourse. I prefer to veer clear of The Discourse, as it is poorly presented and overwhelming to remedy. I have been called selfish by people who are not incorrect. But, I treat people kindly, and I work as hard as I can, and I do what I can to alleviate suffering when it comes across my presence in this world.

I have my own pet-pleasures and eccentricities, which I think is fair, as I have also worked hard to maintain a quiet life. It's... nice.

I know for a fact that some of you reading this have a similar sensibility. And, I know that (like myself) a great many of you have taken to nostalgia to remedy the topsy, and the turvy.

Nostalgia? Ehh... Come to think of it, that might not be the right word.

"Romance!" That's the one. Nostalgia feels, to me anyway, as more of a feckless hoarding of The Time When Things Were Better; Romance? That's like... being a pirate. Getting in, snatching the things that mean something, knowing that there is a whole lot you're going to have to leave behind, but also (and this is important) knowing that what you're doing is not establishing a comprehensive compendium of the past, in the attempt of keeping it alive. What you're doing, instead, is finding those few things that tickle your soul for "You Reasons." Romance is nostalgia without the obsession, and the regret, and the fear of obsolescence.

And so, I hope it would not be hypocritical to introduce you to CLIO. She's a work in progress, and frankly, I will look forward to the few scant extra bucks to get her up and running.

(Ed. Note - Surgery and recovery kinda drained ol' Mama Heather's bank account, though I positively will say that your contributions have been so cherished, in ways that I will say I have taken for granted. Wakeup calls are good things. So, thank you, all of you, and enjoy the madness. [Insert Kissy Face Emoji Here, but don't, because I think the text is funnier than the emoji itself].)

I say scant, because it's such... an elegant idea. I think so, anyway. I'm actually a little surprised that some folks I've shared this idea with are not quite so enthusiastic. I don't demand them to be, and to each their own. But it's like...

So. A '90s-era cathode ray tube (CRT) television set. I'm talking Sharp/JVC/Panasonic. Curved glass screen. I'm not looking for sharp pixels. I live in a world of sharp pixels, so no -- I want that fluidity. Large, too. 27-32 inch. I have a couple of leads of Facebook Marketplace. Thankfully, not expensive.

Isn't it funny? CRTs. The last company that made them en masse stopped doing so in 2015. They... simply don't make CRT televisions anymore. File that under upcoming tidal wave of eBay profitability, should you happen to have a few old ones lying around.

Next, an adapter box that can convert an HDMI signal to analogue. They're out there on Amazon, pretty cheap.

The next is an old laptop. I got that covered -- it's a 2015 MacBook 13" named Don Quixote de la Mancha. A fitting name for an old knight errant.

Oddly, the most modern (and pricy) component is going to be a 16TB HDD, with an external SATA adapter. That's a lot of terabytes, though an essential amount, when your goal is to have... completely offline, with mechanically disconnected WiFi, and air-gapped...

3,000 movies;
15 months of continuous television;
3 years of music
Every video game from pong to FF7 (That's a good-enough stretch for me)
The entirety of Wikipedia with visual references
Project Gutenberg, plus about 20,000 books;
A compendium of information regarding a variety of advanced education, both academic and practical.

And finally... A fitted wooden cabinet, with an old keyboard and a mouse. I have a carpenter friend, who is enthusiastic about such a notion, and could craft one from scratch. Gotta support local businesses, yeah?

It might not sound impressive. I've not gotten a lot of great response. But that's OK. I know that a lot of people feel the way I do, sometimes -- that everything is just so... everywhere, at once, all of the fucking time.

CLIO solves that, at least a little bit. If the internet kicks out? OR! If I just want to... not use the internet that day? I still have access to the comprehensive wealth of human knowledge, right there, on an old CRT television set that came off the assembly line when I was 10, that hums a bit when it starts up, that has that kind of speaker, that will be able to tell me about platypuses and Marcus Aurelius, and that just makes movies look that way.

I'd love to hear what you think of her.

12 Shades of Heather - Card Game Notions

Soooo... Whilst being laid-up with all of the abdominal chicanery (I'm feeling way better, it's that last 10% that's the real bitch, but only because I need to get back into some semblance of 'being in shape-ish,' and I'm working on that pretty well, and the bottom line is that I'm very thoroughly going to survive just fine)...

Where was I. Oh, yeah! I found myself in that... Place. You know the one? It's the one where you are just wiped out, stuck in bed, and you mind is working the way it usually does, but your body is just BLaAaaArRrGh. It does give you a lot of time for thinking. If you can lift your arm, you scrawl a few ideas onto a piece of scrap paper. It makes me jealous of Mozart in Amadeaus; at least he was able to be bedridden while composing an entire symphony for Salieri. (They were actually really good friends in real life, and Salieri had a deep affection for notorious W.A.M.)

I'll definitely drop these ideas as we go, as there are quite a few of them. But one that I have in mind...

It's funny. I have this process when it comes to 'big ideas.' They hardly ever enter my mind fully formed. Rather, they pull themselves together, slowly, over time, because of their gravity. Like planets forming. I can't even begin to tell you how many manilla folders I have that only have one piece of paper in them -- the reason I do that is because, at some point, whether you're in the shower or taking a poop, or talking to a friend, and then, something happens, and... five of those folders all click together, and makes sense for each other, and there it is.

In this case, the 'fever dreams' served as that cobbling impetus. A five-body problem. And now, there's this -- that card game you might have gotten a whiff of from one of my previous messages.

And here's the real nugget in all of this: I have a sneaking suspicion that this game might, actually, be a whole lot of fun.

I'm building this airplane in-flight, so to speak, so a lot of it is still evolving. I have gathered that this is true for most people who find themselves designing a whole game. But as far as the mechanics are concerned? I dare say... They check out, in a way that provides a satisfying, entertaining, re-playable experience.

And here's the kicker -- it's a one-player game. Room for expansion packs and mix-and-match sets, etc. I am certainly aiming for some great artwork on it, too -- if you are reading this, you are a fan of me, and (why not point out the elephants) The Girls, so I would love to thing of this game as... how best to say it... a chance to build a greater connection with the whole 'notion of me,' while keeping the experience deeply personal. There aren't a whole lot of one-player card games out there; I think there are even fewer that have Tig Ol' Bitties.

It comes, I suppose, from a place. I've always loved a good card game. Back when I was a kid, I was... well, pretty lonely. But. I did have one thing going for me -- during the summertime, I would have to hang out at a shop my family owned. Boring stuff, but it kept the roof up. BUT! Next door? Like, Right. Next. Door. There was a massive comic book and gaming store.

I will write more about this in a post I already have planned. But for now, this place instilled a love of nerd-itry, and I got to learn a lot of cool stuff from a bunch of folks who were just as Doctor Who-loving, MTG-playing, Pokemon-slinging, 40K, D&D, comic books, paintbrushes the width of a human hair, it smelled like weed on Saturday nights, long after closing... You know. A muthafukkin' comic book shop.

Again, I will address all this in a separate post, soon. I only dip into this backstory to display that I have a somewhat decent pedigree when it comes to knowing how these kinds of things work. And, I really enjoy having a fun time with... Shit, man. Designing a whole game.

I love leaving little clues, so I hope you enjoy the image above. With all the ideas of have in mind about 'How a Heather Dresses,' most of them involve... well, you know me. I'm a pretty simple person when it comes to sartorial sensibilities. Give me a pair of board shorts, a hoodie, and some flip-flops, and I'm generally a happy camper. So when it comes to a game, where one of the mechanics involve 'what I'm wearing?' I find myself having to spread outside of my comfort zone by asking myself, "Hmm... how do I 'clean up well?'"

The idea of this game is that it's a first date. The outfits are things that, yeah, I've worn at some point for some reason or another. Not necessarily on a first date, per se... but you wouldn't necessarily show up to such a casual encounter in a Little Black Dress, and Evening Gown, or, for that matter, in your comfiest PJs and Bunny Slippers. This range? It's an in-between.

These are not any sort of final draft. I'll leave that to the artists. Same with the rest of the cards. I've crunched the numbers, and this game with contain 64 + 56 + 24 + 16 + 12 + 8 cards... which equals... 180. So far. Mas, o menos.

It's a single-player game, too, which is actually kind of unique. My attraction to such efforts led me to a game called "Maiden's Quest." I've yet to play it myself, though I've familiarized myself with the rules, and the mechanics of my game are vastly different. I only mention this because single-player card games are very rare, and as such, there are only a few giants' shoulders you can stand upon.

I want to gush more about this thing, which has done such a good job of occupying my brain while I recover from my surgery. And I will. But, I will pause for now. The above is a lovely picture, and I hope it tickles some cockles.

[Ed. Note -- The outfits above are a small part of the game. The final products will reflect my dimensions much more sincerely. That said, if there is a "first date" sort of outfit that you feel is "very Heather," and is one which I might be missing from this dirty dozen, please let me know here in the comments.]

"Person Showing Disproportionate Anatomy"

It's not perfect. But I've got "Rhea." She's my 3D printer. She's a pretty gal, and she's got some gumption inside of her. It's been fun to figure out how she works. She says hello.

(Yeah, I'm running low on filament! But it's gone to good use so far.

Anyway, that series of pics, at the top? It was created using one single picture. Y'all haven't seen the OG pic yet. It was just a single selfie on a tripod. So I give this website I used some serious street cred -- it took I single pic, from a single angle, and did a pretty OK job, not gonna lie. The boobs are too even, the face doesn't really do anything, I WISH I was that skinny in the waist, but I am surprised that it somehow deduced that I simply do not have a butt...

But(t), it will eject an .stl file, ready to feed into the 3D printer's "slicer" program, and then? Melty plastic, 3D shapes. Pretty wonderous shit, if you step back from the trees and think about the forest for a sec.

It even used AI to determine, of its own accord, a text description of what the subject is, in the image. Hence the title of this post.

I think "Person Showing Disproportionate Anatomy" will be a fine name for my "Memoir No. 3." I'll put a pin in that, but remind me, in case I forget.

Thing is, though, it gets me thinking. If this is what one pic can do, I can probably do full-fledged, detailed sculptures on Rhea with... What? Three to four pictures? AI is all the rage, and I am bloody fascinated with it. As a person who makes a living on creativity, I have my reservations, but... What's that thing? The times, they are 'a changing? Something like that.

Plus, I'm kinda broke after that whole silly 'septic shock' thing, and the weeks in bed that followed, so I'm tinkering around with ways to blend Yours Truly with enough creativity to make sure there's a lot of love installed into every bit of it, even if I'm not sure what side of the Butlerian Jihad I'm gonna end up on.

And, sure. I might feel like a "traitor to my kind," but... When the hell else, in the history of our species, would I have ever been able to say, "Hmm... Maybe I'll whip out a camera, take some fun pictures, and turn it into a full-fledged, fucking chess set? I wasn't able to do that before. Those were too many skills.

I must admit, I am still wrapping my head around the idea of this new... veritable dimension of tools we have now. At least my liquid diet has subsided. I missed the other type of liquid. (Whisky = Mah Boo, but I was a good girl.)

I have a hackneyed thing in my head, but it's not there yet. More to come, my lovelies. Just trying to make little notes like this more of a "Thing." Sparking a creative fire, and all that.

...

Wait...

"Thing..." Chess... Whisky...Sparking a creative fire... Showing Disproportionate Anatomy...

...

Ugh. I just couldn't help it. (Turned out way better than I expected, to be honest. If you get Sterling-Cooper-Draper-Pryce on the phone, tell 'em ChatGPT sent ya.)

A Little Bit (More) of Tina.

I've always loved the hell out of the Tina Small mythology. I think that's the right word for it -- mythology. Not that she's some deified ideal who never existed, a huge-boob demi-God who teaches us morals. But if you think about it, every single one of us will ultimately become a myth, in our own ways. But that's a conversation for another time.

For those of you unaware, I wrote about Tina years ago (Jesus Christ, back in '19, before the Boom-Boom Days). Here's a link. https://www.patreon.com/posts/26430298/

But the tldr; is that she was this busty British icon back in the '80s. Did a couple of super-low-budget flicks, a nice stash of photoshoots, and some clever eroticists filled in the blanks with some good old-fashioned storytelling.

The divide between the folks who think that she was a phony, and the folks who think she was genuine, is a pretty wide chasm. Most people I've queried on the topic tend to fall close to one side or the other. Which I get. It was a golden age of flirty soft-core stuff.

Anyway, rabbit holes are fun, and I've always had a flair for investigative journalism, so over the years, I've done some pretty extensive research of my own. (In that time, I have assembled what I might consider to be one of the world's more complete Tina Small Collections, because I'm weird like that, and kindred spirits, birds-of-a-feather, blah. blah.)

I have information that I will share here, insomuch as is appropriate. In traditional print journalism, one of the core rules is to substantiate any information, as it is given to you, from two reliable sources. You can see if two people, who are reliable, say the same thing. Then, and only then, is it reportable. In this case, I only have one reliable source, whose identity I will not share at their request. While I assure you that I am quite convinced of the authenticity of my following statements, please consider these statements to be fiduciarily incomplete.

"Tina Small" was a persona adopted by a real person who experienced the whole kit-and-kaboodle of macromastia. '70s/80s, in Britain. Pretty normal gal. Her story was largely embellished for the purposes for print, and for a while, she had a grand time showing herself off. But before too long, she parted ways with the folks she was working with (nothing weird, the lifestyle just wasn't a fit for her), and those folks decided to continue with this character of "Tina Small." They recruited a model who looked somewhat similar to the original "Tina," spent what I can only assume was a boatload of cash on prosthetics, and created a whole bunch of sets of pics. Some movies, there are a few audio files out there, I think some photo singles, etc. etc. The legend continued, for a couple more years, at least.

And then, the whole legend kinda got sealed in amber. And so it goes. Certain things survive, in basements, attics, in sock drawers.

I've taken the liberty of attaching three files here.

1.) Every Inch a Lady - "Black Cover." This one is pretty easy to track down on the internet if you get a little clever with the search.

2.) Every Inch a Lady - "Dreamy Edition." I must very sincerely thank a fan (you know who you are) for taking the time to send this along my way, all the way back when. I must confess that, unfortunately, the physical copy you were so kind to send along to me was irretrievably lost during my moving from Spain back to Mexico. Its loss made me quite sad. But the sentiment and appreciation I experienced upon its receipt lives on in my heart. AND, for some perverse reason, and because I knew I (momentarily) possessed something that (and I've looked!) I can't find anywhere online, I decided to photograph the whole damned thing for posterity (and, for a purpose very similar to this exact one!). [[[I am not a good photographer. The images you will see in this PDF were taken while the magazine was under some glass I borrowed from a picture on the way, with imperfect lighting from a nearby window. File Under: Better Than Nothing.]]] I must confess that I am deeply thrilled that I took the time to snap these pics, because it's a delightful relic, and I get to share it with all of you. I hope you enjoy it.

3.) "Big Girls Don't Cry." This is a memoir of sorts. I don't know how much of it is true or not, but it reads well, and for reasons that are probably pretty obvious, it resonated with me. If it was not written by "Tina" herself, I can only say that I extend massive props to the folks who did write it. It reads well, and there were a lot of things that resonated with me. (Especially with regard to my own memoir... It's interesting how there are 1,000 different languages that can express the same 10 things that routinely happen when you wander through this world with enormous tits, and this story did a good job of touching upon, well, most of 'em. Whatever the case! I can only express my massive thanks to the person who (probably) used early Optical Character Recognition software to convert this to electronic. Or maybe they just typed it all out themselves! In either case, carry on, good hero. May angels guide thee.

4.) Do let me know if you have a similar borderline-obsessive interest in "Tina lore." I've got some peculiarities stashed in the archives of the ones and the zeroes.

I hope you all are well.

(Looks... like you've got some whistles to whet! (No spoilers from my own end... but if you're a fan of the anachronistic, you might be in for a surprise or two.)

(Ed. Note: I hope you don't mind my re-hashing a few of the more ancient pics of myself, back on IG. I'm about 90% restored from the appendix thing, so bear with me. [my heart is still there in the casket with Caeser, and I must pause till it come back to me]. Looking forward to showing new stuff, and, well, rest assured -- even I am surprised by how much bigger I've gotten since those old pics were taken. Tell me about those fukkin' rabbits, George...

Lower Abdominal Issues.

Years ago, I had a buddy who was an ER doc. He worked the night shift. It was a decent-sized city, and while there were a few big hospitals, this was the one that was most central to the population, so it got folks from all walks of life. Kids with fevers, folks with lacerations, general trauma, cardio issues -- all that stuff that just kinda happens in the middle of the night, and needs immediate attention.

It was a military town, too. Now, I've got nothing but respect for our service members, but if you are reading this, and if you were in the armed forces for any length of time, you probably know that... well, heck. Military towns always have a wild party scene, and kids do stupid shit. (This was back when most bars in town would serve you if you were 18 and in uniform, screw IDs, and alcohol plus youth is always an interesting combination.)

There were a few gems, my doctor buddy had. The time that an old woman came in complaining of some profound distress in her coochy; examination yielded a quarter of a potato that had been inserted up there weeks ago, and forgotten about. (Not entirely looney-tunes, as the starch from a potato can be employed to fight a yeast infection. It's not ideal, but it's an old folk remedy thing.) There were some popped breast implants; folks who jumped off the roof of a house and missed the pool; some objectively depressing stuff, for sure; and no lack of patients presenting with LSD-induced delusions that they had been impregnated by Jesus, or... Heck, I dunno. Pick whatever you'd like that House M.D. might have stumbled across during clinic duty. I'm pretty sure he saw it all.

And one thing he saw, more often than anyone would like to think... Is stuff that got stuck up inside somebody's butt.

Not a week would go by, he said. It was actually kind of odd, if a whole week went by, and someone didn't come in with something stuck up inside their butt.

The reasons offered, as they pertained to why things were stuck up inside of so many butts, were far more consistent than the sheer variety of things that were stuck up inside of butts.

Bottles, usually. Beer bottles. But sometimes, wine bottles. I can kind of imagine the former, but I mean, a wine bottle? That's just impressive. That takes dedication.

One anecdote that sticks out (there's a joke in there) [did I just make a triple entendre?!], is the leg from a couch. Some '70s era couch leg, that could unscrew from the couch itself, and when inverted, was this sort of steep pyramid in shape. The reason for as to why it got stuck up this particular patient's butt was not too dissimilar from so many of the other butt-stuckage reasons offered during the course of this Doc's career: usually, the person tripped and fell on it.

If such a thing is to be believed on any regular basis, then we live in a terrifying world, indeed: a world in which objects litter our homes that are varying degrees of butt shaped, and we're all only one unacknowledged puddle away from slipping, falling, and landing anus-down on a half-empty bottle of Maker's Mark (ouch, especially!) or...

See? This is where the "Whoopsie, I just fell on it" argument starts fall apart. Because, according to my buddy, some 25% -- one-freaking-quarter of all cases of patients presenting with a "rectal foreign body" -- were, from his mas-o-menos, light bulbs.

Here's the thing. If you have something stuck up your butt, just say you do. Doctors see it more often than you would think, and it's their job to fix you. You're not going to fool anyone, because in the history of this world, nobody has just slid on some soapy water in the shower, and ended up with a bottle of Head & Shoulders rammed up their bum. (As far as Doc was concerned, stick whatever the hell you want up your butt, just make sure the bottom is way wider than the top, so you don't have to hit up the hospital at all [and heck, in THIS economy?!]).

And avoid glass. Tricky thing about glass, is it creates suction, so it's harder to get out. So, they have to string a straw up there, and pry it out. (Did you know the human anus can stretch to 7 inches in diameter? I wish I didn't know that! But I do, and now, you do too!)

But light bulbs... Those are tricky. Because they're so fragile, you know? And if one breaks while it's stuffed up inside of your pooper, well, now you're looking at some pretty fucking solid butt surgery!

Just get a butt plug, and call it a day. Track one down on Facebook Marketplace.

I say all of this because I've been thinking about lower abdominal stuff lately. I didn't get a lightbulb stuck up in my butt, or a gerbil, or for that matter, anything at all. Which is cool.

But what had happened was... There's this vestigial little dongle toward the end of your colon. Used to be a bigger deal, but now, it just kinda hangs out, not really doing anything. Until it gets inflamed. Which, apparently, it does all the time, but it usually goes back to normal. Until it doesn't.

So, yeah. A couple of weeks ago, I start feeling like 50 shades of hell. Fever, sick, cramps, nausea, all that stuff. Gets to the point where I go to my local hospital in the middle of the night, and am promptly informed that my appendix is not in a great way. Didn't take too much longer to discover that the damn thing had already burst.

It's not fun. My dad, I'm told, had appendicitis in his 20s. His didn't burst, but by the time he got it remedied, he looked like he was 9 months pregnant. In my case, 24 hours, boop, no externally noticeable physical difference.

Sepsis ain't great. But doctors do what doctors do, and I did find myself, again, impressed with the quality of Mexican health care. (If you ever get appendicitis, come on down to Mexico and get it taken care of!) (I'm kidding, go to a hospital, now!) They cleaned me out, put me on antibiotics, and I got a bitching scar, which is almost all healed.

I imagine you might be wondering. The girls were a curiosity. I have thought about them just kinda splayed to my sides while the procedure took place. I do hope that a few comments were made, at least, by the surgical staff, and that the comments were funny. And my surgeon, bless his gentle heart, was very delicate in telling me that it would be especially important for my to stay off my feet for as much time as humanly possible, because with the weight I carry so disproportionately, extra stress would only impede the healing process, and this, and that...

So yeah, Nat and Olga have been bitchy little bitches. And I've been a bitchy little bitch, too, because I've basically spent the last two weeks in bed. I have a few really lovely friends here, who have gone out of their way to make sure I'm all stocked up on the essentials, so I haven't had to fend completely for myself. But, I'm also one of those stubborn asshats who makes a terrible patient. Call it a mixture of the type of guilt that comes from being equal parts Irish and German ("Well, thank yeh, me darlin,' now get ze fukk aought uv heearugh!"). So, it's nice to be back on my feet. (It's also VERY nice to eat normal food again.)

So, that's the nuts and bolts of it. I know I mentioned this on the Medias Social recently, but I am very much looking forward to getting back to posting regularly -- part of the frustration is that the most well-laid plans kinda got delayed. But please expect those shortly.

And, you folks know who you are, but if you've been wondering what the actual fuck happened to your girl Heather, please know that I am thinking of you now, and will be in touch shortly.

How to wind up the update? Well, while energy levels have prohibited me from doing much formal work lately, I will give some hints. Lord knows you've earned them:

• That movie I mentioned on IG? That's actually creatively going forward. It's a dystopian semi-erotic romp that A24 would just love, I'm sure. More to come.

• Mamorabilia.com will launch... fuck, I mean, all the pieces are there. I'm giving myself a hard deadline of... I'm not gonna make false promises again. But you guys will get advance notice before the general public does.

• I'm making a 'zine. It's fucking fun, and remarkably, its kept me sane over the last couple of weeks. Doodling has been a reprieve.

• I also, and this is interesting... I think I might have invented a single-player card game about dating? And damn-me for a fool, but I think it might actually be... really, really fun? So who knows, maybe I'm getting into tabletop entertainment? (Cool your jets, Cassanova. ;-) )

• And finally getting All the Tiers here into maximum shape. I really can't tell you how much I appreciate your patience, y'all. Your presence here is always voluntary, but your presence keeps me going. I want to make sure your investment of attention, time, and resources is paid back with the kinda stuff you signed up for. Thank you, and I love you.

Here's hoping that no ruptured spleens are on the horizon! (And thanks for sticking with me through the vivid medical descriptions of butt stuff!)

XOXO

Heather

Hoo, Nilly.

So, this is a fun one I’ve been sitting on for a while. There will be many posts to come detailing such things, but in short, I have grown recently.

(Ed. Note: To be sure, and this is IMPORTANT: this is NOT how I look at present. Nowhere close! This is a piece of clever Photoshopping done by a fan. (I do understand that the “base image” came from Macromastia Dreams, here on Patreon; should that individual request the removal of this pic, i will happily oblige. In the meantime, as a person who is all about big boob positivity, I’ll only say, check out their work!)

Right. So, this pic was a sort of dream/goal thing, and frankly, I found it flattering. The idea? “With any luck, this is what you’ll look like when Christmas 2025 rolls around!”

I think this projection may be just a bit too optimistic on behalf of this fan. Which is probably for the best. These days, and I probably need to get around to really establishing a solid number (as cup sizes don’t really matter when you’re this far in the alphabet), I’m lugging around about 30 pounds of boob. That’s a lifestyle adjustment all on its own; I have a hard time wrapping my mind around the notion of 300 pounds.

Which is what I imagine, give or take, is represented in this image. Hoo-Nilly, indeed.

Though I will confess. If I had a give-a-little-take-a-little monkey’s paw dealio going on?

I’m good with my current size. But there’s… It’s like, it would be great to spend one day per week with my old C cups. And in exchange? I could totally be down with spending one day a week with the types of honkers depicted above. I’ll have to talk about that at greater length. Perhaps in the Daily Heather tier (which I’m finally getting off the ground, but actions speak louder than words, blahblah, so keep an eye, as my enthusiasm has returned to me, and I love, love, love those of you who have been patient enough to stick around).

And the other five days? Just ol’ me, and Nat, and Olga, business per usual.

I could totally make do with one day a week like this. Snacks, taken care of. Laptop at the ready. I do need to catch up with Severence and Silo, and it’s been agree since I sat down with Community. Me and the girls could pass the time.

Well that’s fun.

Or a Hugh Grant would imply, “different iterations… of the same source material.”

I’m the middle, the OG stencil carved out of a Rubbermaid top; at bottom, fresh-off-the-presses 3D printed stencil in various sizes for various purposes; at top, India Ink and ethyl alcohol sprayed; to the left, that mysterious statue; in the middle, always nice to have a loupe floating around.

You guys are gonna love the mysteries. #VivaAllNighters.

I must thank BDzArt, who you can easily find. He is the guy who invented this initial design, first seen on my Patreon banner. (See if you can “Where’s Waldo” it.) Great dude, too. If you like me, you likely already enjoy his work.

As Jed Bartlett would say? “What’s next.”

You guys are gonna love the mysteries.

Temple, Slaps Only, One-Hit Kills. No Oddjob.

I never really got into Metroid.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like it. I just didn’t grow up with it. Wasn't in the repertoire, games were actually really pricey back then, Blockbuster... kinda wasn't a thing sometimes (that came later).

My childhood gaming loyalties were elsewhere... Locked into a bright, kinetic world of Blue Hedgehogs, gold rings, and loop-de-loops... Sonic was my first love. My first crush, even.

There, I said it. I had a childhood crush on an amphetamine-addled anthropomorphic spiny mammal that belongs to the order Eulipotyphla and the family Erinaceidae. (Thanks, Wikipedia!)

But, that was my game. Fast, frantic, pulsing with momentum—I played it like my life depended on it. Fuck you, Dr. Robotnik, (I call him "Eggman," just like I call Peach "Princess Toadstool" because that's how God intended it to be!  (Unless we're talking Mandela effect? Please, if you enjoy this little ramble of mine, comment below, because I'm sure that she was called "Princess Toadstool," but I can only find scant evidence).

[I gotta admit, Jim Carrey is doing a good job keeping that chaos (emerald!) alive. He’s got that unhinged energy, like he’s two espressos away from breaking the fourth wall and stepping into your living room to personally insult me. PLEASE put him in a fat suit for Movie No. 4, so he can complete the transformation!]

(And funny thing? I haven't even watched any of the Sonic movies yet! Totally look forward to it, but just haven't gotten around!)

(This essay has far-too-many parentheticals, doesn't it!)

(And too many exclamation marks!)

(We'd call them "dog's cocks" in the journalism business.)

(A møøse once bit my sister!)

Then there was GoldenEye.

Oh, the hours I spent crouched in corners, only child, but with shitloads of cousins, peeking around pixelated walls, learning every nuance of every map until I could navigate them in my sleep. It wasn’t just a game; it was a proving ground. A place where friendships were tested, where only the strong—or the sneakiest—survived.

There was honor to it. You wouldn't look at your enemy's half or quarter of the screen. They sold this device once, back then: a complicated contraption that was essentially an Escher-esque black box. Thanks to a series of periscope-like mirrors, players could sit in different locations near the TV and see only their part of the TV. I wanted one. It was prohibitively expensive, and probably made in a garage. It was the early internet. Seemed like a genius idea. Nerds are the best.

Though, maybe it didn't exist. Mandela, too? Again, if you have any fucking idea of what the foggiest I'm talking about, drop a comment below.

Temple, slaps only, one-hit kills. No Oddjob. Maybe sniper rifles, but only if you were feeling dramatic, like some cold-blooded, golden-gun-wielding specter of doom (Golden Guns were cool too, if you're a weirdo!).

Multiplayer warfare at its finest. A four-player free-for-all in a world of blocky polygons and Lara Croft's triangle tits (Halloween 2025?). The foundation. (The pillars of the temple?!) 

And Onatopp of that? (I’m not sorry.) Mario. Zelda. Of course. You couldn’t grow up playing video games and not be in awe of the madness of Miyamoto San. The first time I played Ocarina of Time, I was too young to appreciate the full breadth of what I was experiencing. 14, I guess? Though maybe, that's JUUUUST the right time.

Christmas, 1997. I actually got a Nintendo 64. We all have that "Best Gift I've Ever Gotten" moment, and for me, it was that. Bloody miracle that there was one left at one video game store, at the mall. It came with Mario.

Super Mario 64. It doesn't look like much right now, but if you're over the age of 40... You know how that fucking felt. It hit.

Vast, important, mysterious. There was weight to it.

Then, you grow up, and you stash aside the childish things. College, a place for which there is a time for... everything. Getting a job, blah blah blah... You forget. And that's a bummer.

I wish I had gotten back into gaming during COVID. I missed out. The Switch was right there, I could have snagged one off Amazon after a little saving up (it's not like I was going to my usual bordello!) But... I forgot. About the things that made me happy, for silly and good reasons, at one point.

At the peak of that plague, I was off in some valley in Spain, preoccupying myself with long walks in the countryside, like some sort of weirdo, grass-touching jerk. It was a type of renaissance, sure, but I could have had a different kind. A renaissance of revisiting the medium that shaped my childhood... Instead of crafting virtual friendships with pixelated villagers, I was out there getting sunburned, staring wistfully at holm oaks, and probably confusing some elderly sheep herder who just wanted me to stop loitering in his field.

I don't regret that either, but there's something to it that I find uncanny... The world was on fire, and my only torture was that Elysium looked just a little too pretty for comfort. I did miss the conflict. And, shit, the human contact. We are social creatures.

With that... Maybe I should just develop my own game. Something cool, something weird, something distinctly me. Retro. A side-scroller, maybe—more of an Adventure Island kind of thing. You guys remember that? Scantily clad guy jumping over shit all Pitfall style? I always wondered what his deal was. What’s the story there? Did he just wake up one morning, decide pants were optional, and go full speed into a world of carnivorous plants and randomly appearing boulders?

I respect the commitment, but I’m glad I don’t live in a video game world, especially one from the ‘80s. So many bottomless pits. Death was just everywhere in those games. Walk two feet? Boom. Pit. Take a wrong step? Boom. Pit. Stare at the screen too long? Guess what? Bottomless. Fucking. Hole. 

It would need a great theme song, this game. Best theme song for a game ever? Air Fortress. The title track? Epic. The level transition music? Spooky. The theme that played during the gameplay? Dynamic and action-y. Look it up. It’s a masterpiece, an auditory chunk of early-game reverie, the kind of music that makes you want to pilot a spaceship and make questionable life choices. Hal definitely had a wife and kid who died, thanks to these fuckers, and he was out to get revenge. Or maybe just a dog, John Wick, you get it.

If anyone out there dabbles in 8-bit majesty, hit me up... Let’s make something rad together. I do believe in paying artists a fair wage, so consider this... a sort-of "interview slots are open" thing, if you've read this far.

And in the meantime? I’ll be here, in my blue Metroid suit, making up for lost time. And if I see another bottomless pit, I’m walking the other way.

(Probably to a bathroom, because the biggest downside to this freaking outfit is that it is hard for me to get into and there's not a damn hole from which the pee might reasonable come. Blessings be to the cosplayers!)

(Ed. Note: 10 minutes after I took the last picture, I had to PISS LIKE MAD, and the zipper was all stuck in a place I couldn't reach, and it was objectively something that would have been hysterical to witness, and I'm bloody-well glad that it was just me, rolling around on a bed, trying to get the fucker off, squirming and cursing and grunting, and squeezing my legs together, because of the feeling I can only describe as "Super-Gotta-Pee, Road Trip, 1995, Next Rest Area: 44 miles."

January 7, 2024 -- Happy January 7, y'all.

(Ed. Note: In the spirit of a free republic, this is a freebie to all of y'all. But be well-warned! The big of the upcoming content is going into their own happy, awesome lil' virtual salons.)

I really don't give a shit about politics... I used to! In the way that only a person who had the foresight and due deference to be a poli-sci major for three years, and then, drop out. There were really a couple of options in that regard, but: I didn't want to be a lawyer, it turned out, after all; engaging with any of the policy-oriented legislative bastards didn't thrill me; and... what's left? Opening a political science store?

After deliberate observation, guided by the brightest lights I was able to obtain (obkaine? Yeah, my cold is subsiding...)

I will only observe... That people used to write a lot more good than they can write good now.

It really is true... don't ever find out how the sausage is made. You can't unthink some stuff.

I suppose I'm just a moderate. I've heard hear-tell that that's a bad thing to be, too? Because it's reserved for people who just wanna hook up on tinder, and leave politics aside? I'm not changing anything, and I don't want to.

I will say, however, that I co-hosted a little get-together all the way back in the ancient days of 2008. I made the Jell-O shots. Half were blue. Half were red. (We threw a few green ones in there, too, for the lunatics. ;-) ) Among the attendees, were mainly early 20s liberal leaning folks, of which I was one (though I voted for W in my first election). Then, some of my best friends, to this day, popped on by -- a few ex-Marines who had just closed up shop at the local McCain HQ.

We watched the results tally in on the cathode ray tube TV. Wolf Blitzer is a Timelord. We all screamed, with a similar din echoing from other houses, "The Star Spangled Banner." (Terrible choice for an anthem -- how many people can possibly hit 2.5 octaves? "God Bless America," Irving Berlin, much better choice.)

We all celebrated the peaceful transition of power, which is a pretty hard-fought kinda thing. None of us hated each other based on who we voted for, we were friends, and there was peace. Then? The Jell-O shots were an absolute hit, I have to say.

No nostalgia feels intended here. No "those were the good ol' days" kinda stuff. But shit, it was nice. I really liked that night. And I remember that night fondly, for all of the reasons that do not include, in any way, that "my guy won." Uggh.

I liked that night because of good friends, who had different ideas, sometimes, but not always, and don't we all? We danced. Drank, and danced, and laughed, and lied, and loved the reeling midnight through. The system has always been flawed -- we knew it back then too, God knows! -- but we had the pleasure of the company. It was nice. It felt good.

Or, as Geo. would conclude, "After deliberate examination, with the aid of the best lights I could obtain."

I wish he was a Perfect Silence.

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

W. Whitman

——

This little bugger. I call him Dodger. He yowls (!) when he finds it necessary to visit (Day or night, the little fucker.). He’s picky about cat kibble; he prefers the chicken that I’ve left in the fridge for a *little* too long. (He snacks on garbage in the street, so I envy his gastrointestinal prowess.)

He’s the once and future king of this particular block, leaping and skirting from house to house. I’ve checked around. There’s a 12-year-old human who knows him, at the corner. And who knows his clan — Dodger comes with his shy brother Oliver; his mom, Fagan; and his dad, Jaggers.

(These names are not official, as they are not my cats. They belong to the world. Apologies, also, to fans of Dickens. I know it mixed Oliver Twist with Great Expectations. But it felt right.)

I used to have pets. And I loved them deeply, and I miss them. But one thing that Mexico has taught me, and there are a lot of things that Mexico has taught me, is that I don’t actually know if I fancy the idea of ever owning a pet again.

Call this block some sort of mini-Istanbul, but one of its defining characteristics is this little band of feline rebels, who strut around from house to house, living as they please, on the kindness of strangers.

I was convinced that they were the property of the woman who lives in the red house, three doors down. I saw them in her little alleyway. I bumped into her at the corner store, and she informed me that they are not her cats, either.

Nobody knows where these cats came from, and to the best of my knowledge, nobody owns them. They live, they thrive, they survive. They sing for their supper (especially Dodger, who I think is the frontman of the group).

Absolutely zero shade to pet owners. I will only say that I find there to be a profound sense of romance surrounding the notion that one day, maybe, I will live in a house with a little dog-door, and there will be some street-mutt named “Lucky,” who pops on-through whenever he deemes it appropriate. Maybe he hangs around for a couple of days. Maybe he lounges around on the couch. Maybe he smells like shit, and I need to go ahead and give him a bath, a flea-and-tick treatment, a few square meals, and then we cuddle on the couch watching Russ Meyer flicks, and then one day, he gives me a look that says “Welp! I’m gonna head out again. Maybe I’ll see you later.“

And maybe I will, and maybe I will welcome his return. And? Maybe I won’t. That’s his choice, and it’s his life.

Street dogs are usually careful here. Darwin would have something to say about that. Still, I’ve been there when a couple of these little guys have taken their last breath. There’s nothing quite like the shrillness that goes up the spine, quite as much as that high-pitched yelp when a fender hits at 60 kilometers an hour. Cuts deep.

But maybe, if Lucky doesn’t come back, he just found himself a better setup. Whether it’s just a new neighborhood, or he’s living on that farm, upstate, where you get to eat hot dogs, every day.

For now, there’s Dodger and his crew. Stupid little reminders that consistency can be a tincture to being a curmudgeon. In exchange, they get some food and keep the mice at bay. A shining lil’ star. A perfect lil’ silence.

Stir Crazy

Covid, 4th Time.

Even the first time wasn’t horrible. But the symptoms always seem to be the same.

My left shoulder becoming the type of stiff that limits arm movement, threatening with the thought that I should pull out the pliers and yank out my molars, and making me WebMD if collar-bone cancer is a thing.

Did I deep-throat a baseball bat covered in some coarse-grit sandpaper? Seems so.

What can only be described as The GlobGloGabGalab, living in the back of my sinus cavity.

Respiratory distress that is never life-threatening, but keep the albuterol close, me hearties!

And the fatigue! When you sleep too much, and the dreams become vivid. Did I really join forces with the cat who hangs around my house as we ventured to a distant land to seek benevolent council from Craig, King of The Geckos (whose realm is apparently the driveway of the house I grew up in)? Nah. Just another dream. Now here, choke down some water with another 400mg of ibuprofin, and get back to bed, you trollop.

(But go easy on the foot, which you sprained, again.)

[You have permission, dear reader, to close your eyes and envision braless me hobbling along to the kitchen, only to quickly retreat to the bed and flop myself down again. I didn’t invent Rule 34; it’s gotta work for some of you out there.]

Feeling better now, and no-longer communicable. So, I ventured down to my local tienda. Bought lots of Arizona ice tea. Too much chocolate. Reviving my quesadilla kick. It’s a pretty well stocked place. Veggies are pretty limited. But if you ever need taterz (dos tipos!), some garlic, 2 red onions, a tomato, and exactly one green habanero… I know just the place.

Pardon me, now… I’m just sitting at the desk for the first time in days, and Microsoft is being a dick about some update. At least there’s coffee.

More at ya soon, lovelies. 😘

Just a wee hiccup…

…Before I get myself back to the sexy stuff.

Me: Hey, what can you do?

Human Body: Shit, dude, I can create a whole new human, hair, teeth, cardiovascular system, you name it.

Me: That’s so cool! How about sprained ankles?

Human body: Fuck, no. You banged that up last year? I am just WAITING for you to tweak that sucker the wront way, ever-so-slightly. It’ll never feel the same again, BwAhAHaHAhA!

Only because it’s amazing.

And I’m on a bit of a roll here. But a delightful fan/collaborator/friend who I really need to catch up with created it. I would love to make it s banner for some social media account, but the algorithms abound. But the world needs to see it.

A harkening back to my previous IG handle, before that was struck into oblivion, thanks to — gasp! — my apparent exposure of too much cleavage or nipple pokeage.

Examples of which I am sure will be quite present here, in this safe and hedonic space, shortly.

#newlogo #gonnabeinnegotiations #fivepercenoffdomesticandtenpercentofinternationalmarketing #amihugeinjapan?

c. Spring, 2015

Since it’s been a while, I thought it might be kinda fun to have a reboot. And what better way to do so than to blaaaassst to the paaaast…

Just stumbled across this pic. (I took the liberty of fading out the surrounding company out of respect.)

So as some of the old-school fans will know, I had literal, at best, C cups, until I was 30. And then, the hormonal cascade, the fire nation attacked. Been that way ever since. And bigger, and bigger, and big boobs are just kind of part of my life now.

This was a little while after that fateful Halloween night. I think it was one of those years where Halloween actually fell on a Friday.

So, five months later? Maybe six? I remember it was still a little chilly some nights, and I couldn’t figure out a date for this picture.

I had put on a bit of weight to it that time. Some people said it was an attractive quality.

So, Yep! No grand commentary on this one. Literally just a glimpse of me almost 10 years ago.

Dear God. Youth truly is wasted on the young. #40.

Fireside. Nov.25.2024. Howdy/DogAttacks/SweetAndLow

Yeah, go ahead and slues about the mystery of the image attached to this li'l broadcast of mine. You guys at this elevated and most-venerated tier get that privilege. :-)

Nah, but that's a fun pic. But this isn't about that brief moment when I had the luxury of being a G cup (give or take?)

I will look forward to at least developing a habit, of dropping a little something odd and silly and prophetic and cool, every night. I GUARANTEE you it will be mostly dumb. But in the way that nuggets of gold are dumb, in a "Treasure of Sierra Madre" dumb, where it's just flakes of sand, and Bogart meets his end, and the old guy gets to be fed pineapple, in a hammock, for the rest of his days.

Bienvenidos!

Calm Before The Storm

Just a quick note to connect, here on the eve of Hurricane Milton. I'm in Mexico, right there where the big of the stuff is gonna roll through. But I'll be fine. It ain't my first rodeo. Hope you're all doing well, my lovelies.

The Great Bra Bonanza

So, if you want the complete, ramble-y details, with a splash of personality, please refer to the latter part of the audio update I posted just a moment ago.

But! Here's the short of it! I have been somewhat unexpectedly called to the Great and Glorious United States of America on call of duty, and was hit with a bit of a notion. I have this massive collection of bras. Many of them in use recently; many of them during my whole spurting growth period; and even a few that I managed to still be in possession of, from before I started on this macromastia journey.

Since shipping with any reliability from Mexico is extortionate to say the least, I decided to take advantage of my upcoming proximity to a USPS office. So, here's the tl:dr.

I'll be in the States on Saturday, September 14, so for our purposes, I'm probably going to close inquiries on these bras on Friday (just so I can figure out which ones I'm taking!). I'm probably going to put out a call on social media, too, to see if there are any takers. But, I wouldn't feel proper in doing that without giving you patient and wonderful lovelies first dibs. So, you'll be seeing all of this 24 hours before anyone else.

Plus, you paid Patreon folks will be getting 10% off! Just enter promo code... "Brananza" in your email. I'm not opening this discount to the free subscribers -- you guys have stuck with my through this period of minimal content, so it's kinda the least I can do. A small way to say thanks. :-)

Solicitations and inquiries should be sent to my email: heatherwiththebiz@gmail.com Put "Brananza" in the subject line. No reason, it's just fun.

Shipping to the USA is included in these prices.

I'm actually really excited that these bras are going to be finding good homes. They've supported (literally) me a lot in the past, and I think it'll just be lovely for them to not have to languish in a drawer.

Plus, proceeds will go to NEW bras! (Not to mention, in some small part, covering some unexpected, sudden, different-country-wedding travels. More on that in the audio file.)

But look at it this way... I get to eat a freaking po' boy in less than a week! Kiiiinda flipping my shit.

Hope all is well, and for those of you not interested, no worries, talk at you crazy-soon.

Without further adieu... The catalogue! (Alphabetical, so it's all over the place.) If these pics are hard to see, there are high-res attachments down below.

Update and the Great Bra Bonanza

I think it'll be better to post the low-down on the "Bra Bonanza" in the next post. I won't go on tooooo terribly long here, since lord knows I rambled enough above! Have a fine ol' listen (it's been a while!), and I'll spit out some of the deets in the next post in just a sec!

For All You Lovelies Who Have Stuck Around; an Update.

It’s not lost on me in the slightest. Happens to the b(r)e(a)st of us.

It’s been a long time since I’ve updated this thing. And I’ll have information to come about that.

I was always reared, for better, or for worse, to not make excuses. Though perhaps, for worse — It has become abundantly apparent that some of the faults I exhibit derive themselves precisely from such indoctrination. It is after all, only a Sith who thinks in absolutes, yeah?

I will fill you in on the big of the stuff that rolled through. For now, I will only inform you that I am better and stronger for it. I can promise you that it will not be a boring story. If you have been sticking around all this time, there might be some luck that you have some ancestral knowledge of knowing what that means. The rest will just be up to good, kind faith, and seeing if I actually carry through on this promise. And so it goes.

But at this exact moment, at 5:20 my time on this-here 31st, I felt it necessary to go ahead and at least give a small glimmer of communication. Before the end of the month rolls through, and for those of you who are sticking around and who can still get this in their email box before el media noche… I just wanted to say that you can very much look forward to an extremely active August. Again, I will only say that that is the intent. But it’s one I present with enthusiasm. Hopefully you'll find out in any case.

Before we speak again, I would like you to know that the first half of this year has been tricky for yours truly. (I hope it’s been OK for you guys.) Travel schedules, bereft and disconnected moms, dead relatives, old endings in new beginnings, and new beginnings in old endings. Harry Truman, Doris Day, Red China, Johnny Ray. And also, adapting to the fact that Nat and Olga are... well, bigger. It's a thing, that happened.

So! Before the month gets off to what I hope is a very enthusiastic start, I did want to go ahead and say a very substantial thank you, to all of you, who have stuck around. (And also, to those of you who are new here! You’re going to love it. There are ethereal cookies, abundantly.)

There are also some of you, who know who you are, and I still am graciously indebted to your kindness. Give me this first week of August to make it right. (otherwise, always feel free to reach out to me at the usual email: heatherwiththebiz@gmail.com).

It’s only a small thing, but only for right now, and at this moment… But the picture here is one of the very few selfies I have taken in all of 2024. Though, I am finding great joy in it once again. For now, a new Heather Classic.

Re-capturing yourself is a thing that takes on many forms. Revitalizing yourself is something that takes more than just a long weekend. Reinventing yourself is way more than just a skin care routine. Rediscovering yourself is a luxury, because that implies that you’ve done it once before! Reimagining yourself is something I think we kind of have to do every day. Recovering yourself, at least for me so far, is where all of the above stuff starts, in the first place.

I really want to go ahead and say how much I appreciate you all being on this journey with me. And I look forward to lots more to come.

With love and typos,

H

House of Gold

So, please stick with me. It has been ages and ages since I have played in earnest. My voice is a whole number on out-of-practice in-and-of itself, and the calluses on my fingertips? All but vanished, only to re-present themselves as soft little nubs. Ah, to revisit my hard-rock (herp, right, haha) ukulele days for but a minute...

But, anyway, a fun song to play, and a song that I certainly have jammed out to in the past. I do hope you enjoy (as the picture suggests) this particular... Tiny Desk Concert?

Har har har. Couldn't help it.

Misplaced Nostalgia (The Nostalgia Chronicles)

Before diving into… What did Don Draper call it? The “pain from an old wound?” (Though I’m sure the Greek Classicists among you will disagree with the etymology.), I wanted to address one of the more sparse but peculiar forms of nostalgia: The longing for a place you’ve never been; for an item you’ve never owned; for an experience you’ve never had.

I guess we’ve all felt something like that. It’s not the best example I can conjure, but it makes sense, for me. I’m from the US, spent most of my time in the eastern part of it. But the older I get, the more I find myself pinning, very oddly, for Chicago.

Why. Maybe it’s the birthplace of all the presently improper comedy from the ‘90s (for which I’ve always had an affinity). Maybe it’s the cold, that chaps the cheeks, and gives a certain ruggedness to the earned smiles. The audacity to dye your River green on St. Pat’s, the shitty (but well supported) sports teams (fair-weather fans, be damned), the buildings, the pass-thru nature, the Second City nature.

Though I will always take a dump on the pizza. Before sitting down to eat a whole deep dish… it’s a convenient thing, to have a pizza you can literally drown yourself in.

Still, I’ve never been there. I feel like I have, but not yet.

So, that’s where this misplaced nostalgia stops.

Though maybe not nostalgia, at all. Maybe when you feel slightly regretful about an experience you haven’t had, yet, maybe that’s just another word for… getting good and ready to sit down and make plans.

Seems like a hell of a town.

Boob Hack No. 2365

Filled with comfort in knowing that one of my grander posts is right there on the horizon, I thought it might be a nice thing to pull a Mini Oprah, and broadcast one of My Favorite Things.

Apologies in advance for the general lack of decorum. Though, I can’t help but think that there might be a couple of you out there who are interested in seeing 3 a.m. me, no makeup and even less pretense.

In that spirit, one of these Favorite Things: maternity underwear. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I expect you all to be signed up to a newsletter or anything, so I won’t foul you if you don’t know what, exactly, that subcategory of a subcategory of specialty garb that entails. I kinds didn’t either, until recently… But basically, it’s panties for pregnant chicks, because if you think about it, when you’re pregnant, there’s not really anywhere from normal underwear to just kind of “sit.”

Maternity underwear, however, is a different thing. It just goes up all over the entire belly. Or in this case, considering I definitively hang at the waist these days, Over the Girls.

This stuff.

(Ed. Note: I am not pregnant. Nope! Just… making that clear. But! A couple of upcoming posts will make it seem… as if… you’ll see.)

Preggo clothes, in general, are unexpectedly handy, and as a genre of clothing, it’s something I’m beating myself up a little for not fully embracing earlier. At this point, I’m overflowing even my largest of (current) bras, and even if I weren’t… it’s not too bad. My center of gravity has proven to be agreeable (more than before, oddly) for just walking around the house sans support.

That’s where this underwear comes in. It kicks down the obscene jiggle factor by about… 15% (?), which isn’t nothing for a thin piece of whatever fabric. It’s moisture wicking, which is kind of cool. Especially since this has been the SUMMER of UNDERBOOB RASH. 😭 And, I dunno. It just makes me feel a little more… contained.

But another unexpected benefit is that it keeps my nipples all safe and sound. I’m a little surprised you can’t see them in this picture, but I guess that’s kind of the point? I’ve known a couple of marathon runners, the kinds of people whose nipples bleed long before they get to 26.2. Doesn’t really happen with me, but it’s not like I need any extra help in the sensitivity department. This just keeps those fragile bits away from whatever shirt I’m wearing.

Still certainly not 100% kosher for greeting even the most chill of Amazon delivery guys, (or the kindly LDS folks [!] — that’s a story!), but? It balances things out in life.

Love you. I hope it’s a good Tuesday. 😘

Last Minute, Indeed

Just in case it didn't show up. :-*

A Somewhat Sexy Olive Branch Preview

It's been a while, folks. I love you. Thank you for the patience.

In case the new month has started, and you are no longer subscribed, you deserve to hear it. So, I have made this recording available at the following link, just in case you have it in your email.

Editor's note: vimeo is being wonky. But if you'd like to hear, shoot me an email, heatherwiththebiz@gmail.com, and I'll stick it in an e-envelope.

Hugs, and of course, kisses.

H

Way After Midnight

Oddly enough, a lot of questions about Ernesto. All 30GB of ideology.

I don’t know why I established this superstition for myself. I’m not even a superstitious person! (Though maybe I just proved myself wrong?)

Maybe it has something to do with the old trope about how it’s not lucky to have a boat without a name.

So, I’m still not a witch. Just a casual worshiper of suerte loca.

I, meanwhile, do not find myself a Mariner. Instead, my method of travel [for the luck and sake of it!] tend to be (for better or worse) binary.

Bad luck to have an unnamed electronic device, then. They allow us, these chunks of metal and silicon, and plastic, to experience life in a way the Captains of Old could have scarcely dreamed of. Quixote is my main laptop; inert, but deft. Sancho, my other laptop; he’s on a most reckless mission at the moment, but we will meet again. Rocinante, a skinny nag, used for racing. Bob is a flash stick that stores 128GB; I use it for movies. Buckaroo is my phone; I will rock this 7 until it dies (which is probably gonna be soon).

As for Ernie… I got Ernesto in 2005, back when Barack Obama was just some dude from Chicago who nobody’d heard of. That was a while ago.

Phoebus Cartel, be damned, the battery on this guy is immortal.

It has all my favorite music.

One time, I dropped it. On a floor. Stone. Thirnchk!!! There was a row of dead pixels, three down from the top. It wasn’t so bad. I could still use it. A week or so later… it just kinda healed. Back to normal.

Lots of scratches. Front and back.

The clickkkketty sound when you revolve your thumb around the wheel.

The assurance when you’re told that there is an elite set of hipsters who would pay top dollar for such a thing.

But Ernesto is not for sale. Never will be. I just bought a new 30-pin adapter for her (yep! Ernesto does She/Her, gatt-dammit!)!

[Shirt might be, though. We’ll see… We’ll see.]

It’s been too long, since we got separated, Ernie. Never thought I’d see the likes of you again. You and I… we had a lot of lonely nights together. And you did your best to make me better, which was a lot, and you did, and you made life just a little bit better when it was kinda shitty… and… thanks for that.

No other point, and no greater metaphor.

I just got reunited with an old friend, and she’s just as I left her, and she’s pretty, and she plugs into that speaker with an aux cord, and my music is finally not a part of my phone anymore, and ads will never invade this air-gapped, time-locked little box, and after all of that, that clickketty clikkety clik, and the whiiiirrrrrrrrrr as the hard drive purrs in you hand, and she’s warm, and she connects you to parts of yourself.

Lift her to your ear, like a conch. And hear whatever you’d like.

Self-limiting for the win, right?

Didn’t realize what I wrote until I wrote it, and hit send. Hmm. Man. That kinda gets ya. Never been so cavalier with my self-imposed limitations. Gotta go ahead and think about that for a sec.

[“Jeopardy” Theme]

But for now (What’s a buttfore?), here’s how bras are treating me these days!

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(It’s for pooping, silly.)

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So, here’s the thing. It’s not a great pic. THIS is just a pic of a human whose name is Camilla, and she’s the Queen of a country, which is a thing. Anyway…

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I took a poll for this on Twitter, you know… And the response was overwhelming:

So, I’m pretty sure, at this point, I have carte blanche to post anything I’d like. You’ve been forewarned. For formality! Trigger warning! It’s summer, and I wear bras!!!

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Are you sure? I mean…

Jeez, dude. I’m neither living, laughing, nor am I loving…

So. Last call. Buy me a pint. No more fake-outs. I call this little number… “Underwires Suck Ass.”

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Sorry. Can’t say I didn’t warn you. And, I’ll be OK. I’ve got tough skin. Like bull.

For now, some mental sorbet.

Or… not. Sorry, again. It’s late for yours truly. Would have found something better, but… Jesus Christ, would you look at the time.

Darling.

I am not the greatest kitty in this kaboodle. But in this new world, you can be whatever the Fuck you Want.

And by the way, on a somewhat related topic….

This is Olivia. She’s my girl.

Oh, you anachronistic beauty. But… what else is this you have to say…?

I should assume she certainly didn’t mean anything duplicitious by that statement, which, as a purely mechanical decice made of nothing but plastic and metal, she could not possibly have conveyed.

Damn-well can’t say that I simpluh do nahwt considduh mah’self at thuh least little bit… slahghtly intrigued, howevah.

Least ’ah much to see where this little pantomime mahht be lead’in itself.