heatherbeck

"I didn't do it!"

I'm not one to be star-struck. Back in a previous life, I actually interviewed celebrities pretty constantly, and the hard truth is, they're a bunch of working stiffs, just like the rest of us. Nice group. They're more eccentric than the average person, so that does make them somewhat interesting, even if only in a mildly iconoclastic kinda way. 

But, they collectively help to define a zeitgeist. And there are those faces, names, and lines we gather during our lives that kinda just remind us, for instance, of our favorite chunks of entertainment. 

 So, chalk it up to a cute kick in the butt while I'm on something of a nostalgic kick. 

I've been re-watching Better Call Saul in advance of the last half of season six. Great show, modern gothic American masterpiece. Michael McKean plays Charles McGill. No spoilers: wonderful actor, amazing performance. 

But when *I* was growing up, there was this movie that was released only one year after I was born. Clue. If you've seen it, cool. If you haven't, it's... a slapsticky little tale that's just stuffed with entendre, innuendo, death, violence... all the types of things that a budding mind mightn't need to be exposed to. 

I grew up in a pretty conservative household — we weren't whackos or anything; rather, many conversations were simply considered "inappropriate at the dinner table" — as did a lot of my friends in that part of the world at that time.

Perhaps it's because the movie was based off a family-friendly board game? But shit, Clue was a movie I was somehow permitted to watch! It cleared the familial censors, defied the household Hays Code, and was one of those tapes you were simply permitted to rent, time and time again, from Blockbuster. I guess it just flew under the radar.

Michael McKean played Mr. Green. Funny, funny, funny. "I had to stop her from ScReAmiNg...!" And this, in a movie that also contained Tim Curry, Madeline Kahn, Eileen Brennan, Martin Mull, Christopher Lloyd, good GOD, what a cast. But, Mr. Green always stuck out for me — shy, but always a little calculating, and in the end (well, one of them), he comes out ahead.

Fast forward. Twitter is new to me, so I'm not sure if any of this means shit. But, I'm snarky, and can't sleep just yet. So, I posted this:

It's a good message, I think. Why not establish such a day. 

And then, I got this!

MR GREEN SAID IM A NICE LADY!!!!1!! And only a few minutes later! (Get some sleep, Mike!)

I'm playing it cool, and not responding, of course. Because I don't want to be THAT person. 

But, it's still kinda neat. Aw. Like, isn't it? I got to make him feel a little bit better for a second, and he hit me back. (We're all feeling like shit right now, I'm convinced, so whatever we're able to do? Double Points if it's just something silly, silly, silly.)

So. If we're searching for a holiday, at any point, to replace one of the more antiquated ones... 

Why not dedicate it to... 

the idea of a dude who seems like a perfectly lovely fella, who writes, acts, plays guitar, has had his fair share of ups and downs I guess, just like we've all had, whose career spans six decades, probably has a wife and kids, cracks dumb jokes, has that one recipe he's really good at, and who... 

I dunno. I'm getting carried away here. I don't even know the guy.

Maybe... 

I'm just looking for something — anything, fucking anything! — in this world that I can just casually feel harmless warmth about, without fear that someone is gonna come out of the woodwork, saying, "WeLL DidN't yOu HeAr aBoUt tHe TiMe / YoUrE WrOnG tO sAy ThAt BeCaUsE" such-and-such. You know the type. People are argumentative these days. More than they used to be. And it gets to ya, you know?

Something unifying? A representative of a common experience? A decent person who's experienced a lot of fun shit, and has just kinda been content to be a fella who hits that stride where he can just go to the grocery store without being bothered too bad, and who is just content with the chance he has to make people laugh, or cry, or think, or whatever he likes. It's his job, and good on him. American dream at best, Good On Ya' at the least? I guess we're all looking for something on that spectrum.

We idolize actors in our society, because we aspire for the recognition, and comfort, and adoration, they receive. But, in the purest sense? They're supposed to be folks who just entertain you. That's the whole of it, you know?

In the modern age, we get to watch them again and again, and they get burned into our heads, and sometimes, the stars align, and they become global tropes that we share. Which is cool. But also pretty new. So aside from all that (and because of all that)? They're avatars for the things that are special to us. Ideas, funny lines, waypoints for comparison to our own experiences, context, context, context. 

Congrats, you lovelies! I have solidly gone off the rails, and you have more witness! So I'll wrap this up. Mr. Green said I was nice (I know, it literally took him like, a second, and he tweets constantly, so what's so special, blahblahblah...), which is just a silly bit of fun that my heart really needed this week. So, thanks, Mike. If I can call ya' Mike.  

I'm sure a lot of actors fit this bill, and deservedly so. But for me... why not:

How's about #MichaelMcKeanDay? I don't speak for the man, but it seems to me that he's not-not on board. Plus, he follows me, now! (I mean, I would. I'm witty! Witty as shit! Right? Right. Right!)

It won't stick today, this idea. But we've got a whole year to prepare for McKeanFest 2023. I'll bring This is Spinal Tap, you bring popcorn. 

El Fin.

On a completely unrelated note, if you're reading this, you've endured through some particularly long-winded Heather-ness! Wow! I imagine that you might actually be the only one! So, here's just a dumb picture of me wearing green, because I was talking about Mr. Green, and there's a theme here, (insert sushi/it's not salmon it's 'red herring' joke here), and you deserve it, bucko! 

“All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”

I know, I know, I know.

It was one of those apps I downloaded for a moment. $7.99 a week?! Ew. I said yes, and canceled. But, I still have my 3-day trial!

Which I won’t use. Kicked it off the Subscribe pane. It was a fine diversion while I was lounging in the heat (definitely not pooping), and like most things these days, provided a momentary distraction.

When I dug up this ancient gem of a pic, I made a vow, only to myself as it took the 30 seconds to ‘process’: this is absurd; I’ll post it; who cares. It’ll just be some good, silly fun.

Turns out, my jaw looks like an evil arrow, my lips look like I got Botox in a strip mall, my hair looks painted, I have the eyes of a grouper in the fish market, and my nipples are… C’mon. I was hoping for some contrast here, people.

Now I know how Norma Desmond must’a felt, when Cecil turned out to never have an interest in her car in the first place.

Or…

“I am BIG!

It was the PICTURES that got small.”

Playing Footsie

They say the part of the brain that’s attracted to boobs is located right next door to the part that’s attracted to feet. Something to do with very-early childhood. Small babies spend a lot of time on the floor, next to their moms’ feet, or a lot of time nursing. Safety, security, sustenance, all during a time of life when the brain is figuring out what the whole consciousness thing is all about.

I can understand the boob thing (though maybe I’m biased). I think everyone likes boobs, in one way or another. They’re fun, and they’re squishy. They fill put a dress in a mysterious way. Think Christina Hendricks in Mad Men, the third episode of that awesome The Romanoffs anthology, or whatever other projects she’s done.

I like Christina. There aren’t a lot of actresses who rock big tits with a sense of elegance. (How many can you think of who are out of the C cup range?)

When I was doing freelance press junkets, I interviewed an actress who was friends with her — mentioned that Hendricks’ main goal early on was to get to the point where she’d be able to play parts where her chest wasn’t the central focus.

I think she’s succeeded admirably. I mean, you watch her performance, and sometimes you can’t help but notice some serious curves. But she’s a great actress, plots increasingly don’t revolve around her prodigious cleavage, and… it’s refreshing.

Now, as far as Heather-class melons are concerned, I don’t think we’re going to see a leading lady any time soon who passes the breast version of the Bechtel Test — a harrowing, award-nominated psychological drama that dwells on nuances of our shared human experience, but the main character has unacknowledged R cups? Nah, maybe some off-brand B flick, at best (nothing wrong with that; call me, John Waters) — but it’s nice to see women like Christina paving the way.

Plus, who doesn’t have a thing for redheads?

Feet, though? Never been able to wrap my mind around that idea, personally. Lord knows I despise kink shaming — consenting adults should be able to do what the hell ever they please. To each their own, and this one strikes me as pretty freaking harmless. If feet are your thing? Hell, dude, fucking go for it.

Which is why I’m a little curious, too: there seems to be a pop culture stigma attached to foot fetishes. People chuckling about Quentin Tarantino or Joss Whedon; weren’t there a couple serial killers in the ‘70s who talked about it? Aren’t shoe designers supposed to be inherently pervy? Taboos like that. Doesn’t seem fair, though.

Stereotypes are odd. I’ve really come to believe that more and more… as my boobs grew, so did my own view of casting two-dimensional judgements on peoples’ preferences. Or, at least, I got better at separating the wheat from the chaff — EVERYBODY has their “thing.”

Because, shit, look at me! How hypocritical would I be, otherwise?! Considering myself generally open-minded is a fine start; a LOT of experience has given me a LOT of context. I used to actually be kind of a prude!

So, I get it. If there’s even ONE aspect of one’s self that bucks the norm? You try to keep it as close to the chest (harhar) as you can. I’ve been there.

For example. How many of you reading this, right now, would feel a little embarrassed telling your friend/SO/coworker/fishing buddy/adult son/electrician that you have an attraction, as slight as it may be, for women with gigantic freaking honkers? Be honest with yourself, I won’t tell. If you’d feel embarrassed, I wonder… why, exactly? Nothing wrong with boobs, right? Is it society? Perception? Fear of judgement? You’ll get uninvited to the church potluck? It’s 2022, so why do a lot of folks still wanna live in a ‘50s sitcom?

Lotsa people think I’m some sort of Celtic fertility goddess; some folks, believe it or not, think I’m kinda gross. (I did an audio file on that a few months back, that “Difference Between Men and Women” one.) And… maybe I’m answering my own questions here, but come to think of it? There actually aren’t a lot of folks in the middle of that spectrum — the place I solidly used to reside before Natalia and Olga made their presence so-much-more well-known.

If you were to look at me, you probably wouldn’t think “failed political scientist-turned print journalist-turned content marketer.” By most calculations, I should be employed as one of the most very-niche of adult actors, gracing the pixels of a handful of specialty sites. Russ Meyer would probably send me home from the casting call for being “too over the top.”

You think about these things when you’re a person who would not consider adding “walking fetish” to her businesses card, let alone her CV.

Ah well. I’ve heard it all. BUT! I can’t complain, and hope I’m not coming off all rant-y (too late). One of the nice things is that I simply don’t mind the haters: they’re just behind the times. It hasn’t been so long since subscribing to “Playboy” (my all-time favorite magazine) solidly categorized one as a sexual deviant. Now, what a charming, tame, antiquated diversion. Times change, thank Christ, and I like the (thick) skin I’m in. (I wonder how the world will look when I’m an 80-year-old big boob lady…)

Which leaves me purely curious, about most things. I now find that the people who are the most open about their uncommon erotic preferences are genuinely cooler than the ones who hide that shit in a shoebox under the bed. They get it all out in the open; they don’t really care who knows; they’re less… anxious about it. I like that. That candor leaves them with quite an enhanced sense of chill, which is one of the better qualities.

So, I’ll certainly be more than happy to acknowledge: I do see cute feet from time to time. My feet are shite, so maybe I’m just more-open to appreciation.

And then… if you’re the type of introvert who only comes out of her shell when she wants to become particularly annoying (especially if your undiagnosed ADHD causes you to become attracted, mockingbird-style, to the shiny things of the world), your arm just kinda reaches out and grabs what it sees.

Gotta be spontaneous, sometimes.

(Otherwise… I STILL think I would be PERFECT in a sequel to Faster, Pussycat, Kill, Kill!)

Transatlantic

It was… Shit, which month was it. It was still cold. There was a fire going, one that had been roaring since the morning.

It wasn’t the first time Astrid and I had met. (That little backstory takes place back here.) But at this point, we had gotten to know each other well enough. It was solidly Covid times, and our visits were usually constructed around whether or not towns or municipalities would be suddenly closed for God knows how long.

Better then, to hunker down in my place. She lived in a “Big Town,” in the most adorable of little apartments; I happened to be located in a place that can only be described as a prehistoric micro-mansion. Cities in Spain, even if “Big” isn’t the right word to use, were still stressful places at that time. Better to hunker down in a locale where the cows far outnumbered the people. (Just add two more cows to the mix). Moo, indeed.

[Beer before liquor, never been sicker.]

Liquor before beer, in the clear. Wine before Scotch? I don’t think they’ve made up a rhyme for that one yet. The next morning is one that I only half-remember (evolutionary defense mechanism, coming in handy at last). There were eggs. But that night was the night when I… What’s the word. Sounds like I’m misappropriating, but the closest I can surmise is “came out.” You don’t often share your second life with people you’ve only just met. Sure, after the strange looks on the street, the high school kid doing a piss-poor job hiding the fact that he’s aiming his camera phone right at you, blahblahblah, when you get through those barriers, and actually make a friend (hard enough to do when you’re in your 30s!), you want to make sure you don’t just bugger the whole thing up.

But, one conversation leads to another, as conversations often do. Sometimes, it starts when two people are bitching about how financially catastrophic the world has become. The small blessings they’ve been afforded, but also, the lead-up circumstances, like a couple of reverse Yorkshiremen.

I do OK. I thank you all for your support, and I know I don’t say that enough. Mine is a pretty unique brand of B.I.G. (Busty Internet Gal, I know I cited that on the Instagram, but I just made it up now, so I’m a wee-bit proud of it), so believe it or not, there aren’t as many of you as you’d might think. I prefer it that way — you all are chill, which means epochs more to me than a lifestyle where I offer “20% off to the next 5 subscribers,” or whatever. So, thank you. Sincerely. And, I have a couple of freelance clients who have been tried-and-true for a while now. One of them even pays me on retainer (!), which is a fucking unicorn as far as copywriting is concerned. The reason I do OK is because I lead a simple life, one I’ve alluded to, before, here and there, stories you’ve stumbled across if you’ve scrolled through the archives.

In Astrid’s case, it had been a series of life changes. And while self-sufficient, things were kinda hand-to-mouth. I’ll let her explain those deets in her own good time (her Patreon is here, in case you don’t already know).

You know those awkward interactions I was talking about a few grafs back, and about how hard it is to make friends sometimes? It’s a factor that is affected quite critically when you’ve got a beyond-substantial amount of adipose tissue restricting arm movement and knocking shit off store shelves. Speaking of which…

[Like, what, 16 inches? C'mon, dude. Eat your vegetables.]

That has nothing to do with anything, but I was thinking of you guys the other night when I was in my local convenience store. Those are 12-inch tiles on the floor; do the math to figure out how scooching sideways works for me whilst on my quest for chips.

Anyway!

There’s a scene in The Game, one of my favorite movies. David Fincher, 1997. There’s a scene toward the end when Michael Douglas (I don’t believe in spoiler alerts when it comes to 25-year-old movies) is in Mexico, sitting in the consulate’s office, no cash, no passport, trying to get back to San Francisco. “They robbed you, and they didn’t take that watch?” the guy behind the desk asks. “Seems to me a guy with a watch like that doesn’t have a passport problem.”

Because, yeah. I’ve been guilty of it, too. People already think I’m a bona-fide adult actress, or that I at least use Natalia and Olga to my advantage. It usually bugs me when people assume… But, there I was, Astrid sitting there, stressing out about the next paycheck, and…

“Seems to me a person with tits like those doesn’t really have a paycheck problem.”

It was awkward for a second. I lose my filter when I’m tipsy. And, I’m my family’s progeny, so the Irish-German doesn’t help.

“No.” Not a conversation killer, but a return to refill an only half-empty glass of wine (though, yeah, it was scotch at that point). “I’m not down for the camgirl thing.”

“No, no, no, neither am I. But…”

I haven’t told a lot of folks that I’m Heather With The Boobs. A couple of friends know, yeah. My aunt does, too. And, I am sure, a great many more have figured it out. But the rest of my family? I’m a black sheep anyway, boobs aside, so yeah. I keep that (pun SO intended) close to my chest.

“Listen.” I grabbed the bottle from her when she finished topping up. “What if I told you… and please, don’t take this in any weird way… You can just kind of… Be yourself. Show… only as much as you want to? See how it works, but… groceries are pretty cool, yeah?

Astrid’s not judgey. Quite the opposite, since you don’t find judgemental people very often who have been on the receiving end for as long as she has.

“I mean, you’re not going to be hitting up Loewe to get outfitted for a trip to Cannes, or anything.” It didn’t sound that fancy — I think I may have said something more similar to “eating caviar out of a sheik’s butthole, or whatevs.”

[We were watching... Citizen Kane. I swear to God, we had the timer set to take a pic every 30 seconds, and just forgot about it for, like, an hour. This is the result. {At ThiS RaTe, I'lL HaVe tO tUrn oFf tHiS pHoNe iN... 60 YeArs!}] But, I can't help but be reminded of my favorite movie, The Shining, and how we may or may not resemble those poor Grady girls.

It’s a funny thing when I gradually reveal my Clark Kent to people (the normal Me Heather is my SuperGirl). I always think they’re going to be more reserved and, well, judgemental. But it’s almost always the opposite. Maybe it’s just the company I keep. Folks are generally just more curious than I would have initially given them credit for.

If the conversation goes on for longer than the initial introduction, avoiding a casual change of topic, ne’er to be heard from again, I usually crack open the Patreon, and share a few essays. Dramatic readings are always nicer when you wash them down with some brown. That leads to the IG. On occasion, someone sees your nipple in passing, scrolling down the page, and there’s this moment of, “Hey, look, it’s a squirrel!”

But, shit. This was Astrid I was talking to. A woman who has lived with big ol’ monster tits for way longer than I have. A few years younger than me, but, if anything, well more accustomed to the ins and outs of “the lifestyle.”

Which is why it was kind of odd to be… instructing her? Her hesitation, initially, was born out of genuine concern. She’d gotten fucked over in the past by a previous interest, and was more than content to trade in any opportunity of that ever happening again for something a bit more pastoral.

But, over weeks and months, conversations continued, and curiosity turned into attention. A few faceless pics for her Instagram? Why not — who in the living daylights is ever going to know it's you? These are yours, to do with as you please.

A couple of audio files, with some barely whispered coos… if anybody recognized your voice, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?

A video here. A fun night, memorialized on digital film. A quick tap of the post button, and it’s there, surreally, for the world to see.

It’s scary, sometimes. Not gonna lie. One time, I actually stumbled across someone who knew me, purely because of Instagram. He was cool. We actually had a good laugh about it. But, you have to think about it… Don’t you? Close your eyes, and imagine that you’re (not bragging here) as recognizable as I am. And that, you know, you can’t really hide your secondary sexual organs, and all the chicanery that comes with that.

[The cover of our Christian rock album... "Juggz for Jesuz?" If you can think of a better one, leave it in the comments below!]

Astrid gets that, too. But, like me, she found something else in the process: liberation. I’m happy to say that a similar sentiment has been shared in my conversations with other B.I.G.s

It’s not an epiphany. You don’t just wake up one morning and head out there, ready and raring to face the whole world, tits-be-damned. But it creeps up on you: for every shitty DM you get from some schmuck who’s raving on about raping you, you get a DM from a perfectly normal fella. Sometimes, you have an occasional chit-chat. Wonders of the modern age suck most-often, but it is kind of a miracle that we can just willy-nilly text with the far-flung. And sometimes? You meet people who become friends. What else would you call them? You check in now and then, for years. As best a friendship as the internet can offer, in most cases. And in the last few years, I can’t help but think that most of us have needed that kind of connection. We’re a social species, after all.

Astrid’s been getting her wings preened, and her toes have evaluated how the water feels. I’m proud of her. I really am. (I also hate to say it, but her writing is probably better than mine!) And, she’s taken the opportunity to explore: not just outside of her own comfort zone, and not just within the company of  a gradually expanding group of acquaintances. But (and oh, what a magnanimous example I certainly must be!), she’s gotten the chance to explore more of herself.

Context kicks ass, most of the time. It ain’t cheap to acquire, but it does kick ass.

I’ve been missing Astrid. But, I’m happy now. Summer is off to a fine-enough start, if only in regard to revisiting the notion of interpersonal relationships. And this place, here, is a pretty fine place to live. In fact! She’s going to be spending some time here — quite a bit of time, in fact.

No spoilers, this time. But you’ll be hearing from me, and from an old friend of mine.

There might even be scotch involved.

[Yeah, she does that sometimes. Don't blame her; she's just one of the only ones who can get away with it]

Oh, Dear Sweet Shitttttt. It Happened Again.

So, I understand. With great power comes great responsibility. I want to insert a disclaimer here, because this seems to be the right time to do so: I do not go out into that good world with the intention of causing any trouble. More often than not, I am only running my errands. These days, that involves hitting up the same half-dozen shops, visiting the ATM to make sure that those shops get the money necessary to maintain enterprise, and to (of course) pay rent.

I remember what that was like back in the States. That was shitty, even then. I subscribe to the class that will never own a home, and I have come to peace with that. Hey, you know what? I haven’t even had a driver’s license that’s been active since… Oh, damn, it just hit me… Under Georgia law, I would have to take the whole practical and written exams all over again. Guess I’m gonna be Uber-ing for a while.

In this economy, with these gas prices? I s’pose I might be better off.

On that note, when I DID have the whole protection under the Like-A-Good-Neighbor (and to be fair, they were an OK company) folks, I was… not the best driver.

I wasn’t. I was the gal who had undiagnosed ADHD, and since the technology was still new, would think it was perfectly fine to sit at a stoplight and text. At best. Or, at worst, jot a quick “K” to folks while speeding at 65 MPH.

We should not trust 16-year-olds to get affordable, inexpensive drivers licenses. These are children who cannot vote, drink, smoke, have consensual sex, or emancipate without extenuating circumstances… and we let them operate 1-ton machines that move at a speed that would have shocked our great grandparents.

It happened again.

I like not driving anymore. I don’t have to, it’s easier.

And yet, I have a responsibility to other drivers.

Imagine. And I’m not bragging here. Please don’t think that I’m bragging. It’s actually gotten to me a little today.

So, here’s what happened.

I was walking down Calle 38. It’s a casual street, homes and a shop or two, but as is common with this town, there’s an awkward Stop Sign structure a las esquinas. Or, as was the case in my shitty driving days, a car just kinda stops sometimes. Nobody’s fault, because you just need to stop when a car stops in front of you. Otherwise… Fender bender.

That was the nice thing about the last couple of hellish years. I was in the middle of Goddamn nowhere. What a treasure, to be so far away from anyone or anything that could do you harm, or… CONVERSELY! …that you could do harm to!

It’s the screech that hits first. Before the bang-boob-crunch. I’m not sure how many milliseconds it takes for a near-miss to turn into an accident, that musical differential between the notes. And for crying out loud, I am not responsible for (to the best of my knowledge!) any injuries, or God Forbid, deaths! Ugh. I’ve stuck around long enough to make sure.

Not that I would have been much help if I would have maintained my place on the sidewalk. I mean, put yourself in my position… Do you just hang there? Do you do your part to help fill out the police report?

“Hello, Officer. So sorry. It’s just that I was walking down the street with my canvas bag filled with fresh tortillas, a couple of onions, a little Zippy-bag of beans, and a fifth of Whiskey. Sorry that the sideward glance lasted just a hair too long, and resulted in this unfortunate altercation.”

Nah. Otherwise, there are more questions. So, you duck away. Catch an Indiana Jones belt of bourbon in some hidden-hole until the fuzz reverts.

It used to happen when I lived in another big city.

You have to imagine. I didn’t have the boobs until I was in my 30s. You know? You don’t think about it, at least until somebody tells you that that’s the reason.

And then, you move to a quiet place.

And then, you revert. You have to. You come back, out into the open. And the world is profoundly different than it was before. But normal is still just a little more normal than you expected it to be. Would have probably been a little better if it was all just a little less normal.

Who knows. Maybe the next great pandemic will make all the ladies get big ol’ giant tiddies, instead of chronic respiratory diseases. Different types of chest infections.

Or maybe encephalitis. Meh. I ain't not docter-persen. 

In the meantime, you walk down the street, and every once in a while, you realize that there’s a car that’s gonna crash into another car, and that you forgot that that was a thing that just kinda happens sometimes.

Great power, and great responsibility, and all that.

Don’t text-and-drive; keep your eyes on the road; and if you see a lady like me going for a stroll on the sidewalk, for God’s sake, buy her a drink first. State Farm will thank you for it.

Ahhhh…. That feeling. When you bump into someone’s rear end. And you realize the cost. Distracting.

Innuendo very much intended.

I’ve been asleep…

…But I’m awake now.

“If you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.”

As the Spaniards say, “Give them your hand, and they’ll take your arm.”

Or, if you offer food to a cow (it was a mule, but pretend it was a cow so the story can continue), “If you give them a carrot, they’ll take your thumb and not know what to do with it, and they won’t let it go, until you dump a glass of brandy on their nose, and they let go.”

That last one was a me-ism.

I like stories that tell how life goes over the course of a day. Ulysses, The Mezzanine, Under The Volcano, that whole vibe. (Though I could never get into James Joyce — I have a sneaking suspicion that nobody actually likes Ulysses, and that we all just say we do to sound smart).

Or: if you wanna get all indie and interpretive about it, the first album from Balkan Beat Box (at least that’s my interpretation); if you wanna get truly high-brow, any one of the 9 seasons of 24 (I’m convinced this was more of a Buddhist nightmare, because seriously, how many times is Jack Bauer gonna save the world, and he only has one day?!)

Speaking of Buddhist parables, I guess Groundhog Day counts as a story that takes place in one day.

Anyway, I like stories like that. I dunno about y’all, but it seems that life lately has been a weird mishmash of expansion and compression, where weeks seem to take years, and where a year seems like a months, and where a couple of years seem like about 4 months, and where…

Ah, shit, as is sometimes the case, Steve Martin:

“I know we've only known each other four weeks and three days, but to me it seems like nine weeks and five days. The first day seemed like a week and the second day seemed like five days. And the third day seemed like a week again and the fourth day seemed like eight days. And the fifth day you went to see your mother and that seemed just like a day, and then you came back and later on the sixth day, in the evening, when we saw each other, that started seeming like two days, so in the evening it seemed like two days spilling over into the next day and that started seeming like four days, so at the end of the sixth day on into the seventh day, it seemed like a total of five days. And the sixth day seemed like a week and a half. I have it written down, but I can show it to you tomorrow if you want to see it.” (The Jerk, 1979)

Wait… Planes, Trains, and Automobiles… Was that one day? [Googles] Nope. 3. Still, good movie. But where was I…

Those days have been rare for me. Probably for lots of us. Those single-day periods when a lot of stuff happens. When night-owl me cons her way into waking up early (even with the sun?!); eating well and balanced throughout; getting some work done that I actually enjoy; maybe some exercise; a chore or two; not drinking toooo much; and finally wrapping it up at a respectable midnight (!), drifting off into a contented slumber, with your last thoughts being the knowledge that, of the 22,000-or-so days you’ve got, you did a pretty banging job with at least this one.

On such early mornings in the not-so-distant past, if I was lucky, I got to peek my ear outside and hear a sound like this one. Nights in that place were quiet in a “too quiet” kind of way, which is a deafening all its own. Having it broken by the clinkle of stirring beasts always brought a bit of a tear to my eye. And, provided I didn’t fool myself into returning to bed until noon, got me off on the right foot.

My overactive imagination would, at times, lead me to fantasize that the cows were coming to kill me, driven by some supernatural force. Maybe the universe would decide, on that day, that it had it out for me. Or maybe some evil witch who controlled the minds of such simple, tasty creatures had cast an insidious spell. You can spend your whole day worrying about such things. But that’s a story for another time. In the mean-whilst, they were just waking up, like me, so the playing field was still level.

Otherwise… Hmm. The month-day is still young, so to speak. Maybe I’ll start one of those stories now, myself.

The Nocturnal Antics of My Ephemeral Roommate.

I don’t believe in ghosts. I never have, even when I was a little girl. But, as far as my imperfect memory can recall, I always wanted to.

I used to work in an old building that, at one point in its history, had been used as a county jail. Legend goes, there was a fella named Hosea, who was the last person to be hanged there before it was decommissioned. It’s a theater now; superstition has it, that whenever Hosea hates a play that is performed there, he locks the doors to the dressing rooms, makes a fresh 300-watt bulb flicker out from one of the fresnels, makes the HVAC click on and off for no reason, or (as has been attested by sources who, despite their eccentricities, are logical, critically minded people) manifests himself as a visible humanoid form, in the periphery, standing in an otherwise-unoccupied stage-left, in the wings, during a performance.

Never saw anything myself, but I was locked in a dressing room for a couple of hours at one point until some friendly fella came along with a power drill to bust out the latch. Ugh. Everyone’s a critic — Guess Hoesa was not a fan of Arthur Miller.

In Atlanta, I rented a house that was built in the years after the Civil War. Some tiny shotgun (look it up) in a mini-town that used to house a multitude of low-wage Appalachian folks. I had passed out on the couch one night, and whether I actually opened my eyes or not, I can’t say. But, come morning, there was a man in overalls, standing over me, looking down. Some vision of a dude from a Steinbeck novel. The snippet of vision turned to black for two seconds (or maybe an hour), and I woke up, for real, in the same place. No man there. Another night, I was actually sleeping in bed, still awake. Heard a loud clattering. Went out to the kitchen to inspect, scared shitless from the possibility of a home invader, to find my chef’s knife on the floor (doors and windows still locked from the inside).

A dream in the first case? In the second case… shit… a rat who had been munching just a little too heavily on a random chunk of food on the countertop, and whose fat little butt kicked the knife onto the ground? I mean, that explains it. Yeah?

Later, I lived, alone, in a particularly old house. Something that was built just a hair before the Thirty Years’ War. It was a small house, at first: started as a single room with a rough fireplace, a hearth separated just enough to not cause everyone to die from CO poisoning. Later, it upgraded. They added another room to keep the livestock in during the cold months. Sr. Fancypants moved in when some shit started going down in Turkey. By the time the Declaration of Independence was signed, it would have been a mini-mansion by the local, rural standards — though nothing very similar to the relative Versailles it had become by the time I found it. (This place didn’t have a toilet until the [19]’90s. La-dee-dah.)

I did experience some stuff there. With as many families who had called that property home — not to mention the idea that the house was located only a few kilometers from what they call a Ley line — I suppose I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a few ghouls trapsing about. Good a place as any.

Through the thin wooden layer that served as a roof to the lower quarters, and the floor to the upper quarters, I heard some solid-ass footsteps *just overhead,* from that bedroom, while tapping on my computer. Or, another time, when I walked out the front door from a dark room; I felt something behind me and turned around, only to see a green glow through the window. A dog who I was sitting, barking at a closet door in the corner, just moments before it slowly shut all on its own (the kind of door that, if left ajar, usually opens outward quite easily). Things like that.

Respectively: Ghosts, ghosts, ghosts. Or… acoustics, perhaps one of those huge birds had landed on the roof to get a lay of the land, shambling around, and it just sounded like it was 5 feet above me; a trick of a nearby fluorescent light, reflecting just-so off the coating on the glass; an old home, with old wood and unreliable humidity, resulting in a doorframe that changed orientation just enough for an errant footstep to loose an aged hinge.

The ancients, it’s rumored, used to cower in fear when they saw a lunar eclipse. Some of them, it’s said, died from the terror of something so unexplainable. That’s too far back for any written record, and whatever oral history remains has likely evolved too much to be reliable. Still, it doesn’t seem too far-fetched. When people experience something they can’t explain, there are usually two options: to become fearful, or to become curious.

1054, that supernova that created the Crab Nebula. For a few weeks, it was visible in the daytime; at night, you could see it for about two years. Records of it exist in China and the Middle East; Europe probably thought of it as some divine way of approving of some new king; present-day New Mexico has a few references preserved in stone by the folks who lived out there. One hears tell, from the locals, that the Chileans were just fascinated by this wacky new star in the sky. The Mayans probably had an (pun intended) astronomical field day. The one unifying thing is that these disconnected facets of society probably reacted differently, though probably on the fear-to-curiosity spectrum.

In the cases of my Mulder-meets-Scully hopeful incredulity, I’ve never really been scared by any of my experiences. And, I will admit that — to this day, in those periods in the middle of the night when I find my leg hanging off the bed after a particularly tumultuous dream — I do have those primal vestiges of nonsensical belief that there is some golem under my bed, waiting to strike. (But never in the closet — that’s where I keep my dirty underwear, and unless he’s a total pervert, I can only imagine that an inanimate beast of folklore would be the only one to tolerate such an atmosphere). But otherwise, I stay more on the side of curiosity.

Curiosity leads to better things. And, the universe is very, very, very huge. For instance, I like this pair of pictures. On the left, M87*, the supermassive black hole we got the photo of a few years ago. On the right, Sagittarius A*, the supermassive black hole we got a few days ago (the one at the center of our own Milky Way Galaxy). Trippy, right? Take a moment to check those size comparisons.

And, if you wanna feel particularly insignificant on this lovely day, pull up a YouTube video of Black Hole TON 618. Like… Just fuck.

Anyway. Suffice it to say. The universe is huge. And there’s just a shit-TON (har-har) we don’t know.

The trap we often fall into is this self-convincing knowledge that we already know everything… Every generation has this mentality. But, that’s what science is all about. In a sheerly rational sense, the more answers we find, the more questions we come up with; in a Clark-ian sense, “any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic;” in a purely curious sense, we’re humans. We take the sum of our knowledge to construct a version that works for us.

When I have a spooky encounter, I do remind myself to be curious. I’m reminded of the Split Electron Experiment, the concept of the multiverse, and of the utterly confusing notion of quantum entanglement. Why is it, that something personality-less, like an electron, can change behavior simply because a human being observes it? How com-zit, that we have enough evidence to figure out that an electron right here can change the behavior of an electron a billion lightyears away, instantly, even though relativity says that nothing — including information — can travel faster than the speed of light?

There are, again, simply things we don’t know. Maybe the most closely believed ghostly apparition is nothing more than some… projection from a closely paralleled multiverse; a cluster of electrons on one side of the universe that haven’t had a reason to have fun, and get all riled up, since the Big Bang, until juuuuust until now. Maybe it’s a simulation after all, and it’s a glitch in the Matrix. Maybe some galaxy-traversing Eternal Tortoise got bored and decided to fuck with us. Maybe, as Dickens would say, “a slight disorder of the stomach… an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato… More gravy than of grave.” Maybe it’s Matthew McConaughey, shoving books off of shelves. (McConaughey, spying on me from the fourth dimension?! A little creepy, but… alright, alright, alriiiight.)

Or, maybe I’m just friendly to ghosts. Maybe Manuel (that’s the cute petname I had for whatever the hell it was or wasn’t in that old-old house) didn’t wanna scare me off because I was an easy-going roommate, he was a little lonely, and which such entity wouldn’t want the company of an easygoing drunken bookworm with huge tits?

I wanted to finish this essay and post it on Friday the 13th, our societal micro-Halloween. But, alas, I got caught up with horror movies, and needed to come back and polish it. In case you’re wondering, I got cliché (for me), and ended up with The Shining. Did a little binging on that Haunting of Hill House series, too. Pretty awesome. 25% horror; 75% August, Osage County.

Well, anyway. Stay curious, friends. As a wise person once said, “Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate; hate leads to suffering.” I think it what Gandhi.

Maybe Yoda.

Curiosity is the opposite. It leads to understanding, then appreciation, and then, peace. I suppose it does. Not a lot of proof of that, these days.

Unless you’re Manuel. Because “I swear to God, I’ve got a deadline to hit you Iberian Specter, and if you don’t cut out that racket for just a few more minutes, I will come up there with a frigging Proton Pack! Mark my words!”

I would say that out loud. And then, the footsteps would stop. Maybe I scared away the giant white stork. Or maybe, Miguel was just being nice.

Why So Serious?

I know, I know, mixing Batman universes. But for what it’s worth, Astrid recently reminded me that I look a bit like Jared Leto’s mom. I mean, hey — not a huge fan of his work, but I’ll take it. Massive props to a woman who (one can only assume) cultivated and encouraged such an eccentric individual.

I mean, he’s okay, in that iconoclastic kinda way. I will admit that he was magnetic in Blade Runner 2049. Paul Allen is one of my favorite on-screen deaths. Gotta have a skosh of respect for a dude who is willing to, as the actors say, take chances.

Her name’s Constance, by the way. I think we should name more people Constance.

Hi Constance, Resting-Bitch-Face-Partner-In-Crime.

Srry.

(You ever wonder what people thought of you before? A while ago? Gritty. Welp! This above pic is just a stupid thing, from waaaaay back in the day, before anybody cared what a Heather was!)

Hey. (Still italics!?! Wait, no? Ah, cool, nevermind.)

3x Octothorpe (That's what they used to be called, before they were hashtags, and heck, before they were poundsigns — don't ever fool yourself into thinking technology doesn't evolve!)

[Shoudl that last one have been brackets?]

{Should that Shoudl been spelled Should?}

[Wait... I'm a classically trained dickshit... How are those curvy stupid brackets even used?!!? It's all a simulation!]

{ ;-) }

Life has always got to be fun.

I do, in fact, love you all. In fact, this is a crazy little shout to the folks who have been subscribers since month No. 1. You know who you are. 

I see you. And it brings me to fucking tears that you've been with me all this time, and I don't know who you are. Moth one! A name, with a list of moths that you've stuck around?! Heck. I love you. Every moth. Moth! You are the fellas who have still stuck around, typos and all, even though I spell it "moth!" I mean, if you can get through that graf...

You've been a boon in a stupid life, and I can''t even start to say how much. So! This one, one of the first I posted, and that was taken down because of the blahblah IG stuff........ One of the first pics, when it was too fanciful. And then......[Ed Note. A Million More Dots]......... I made this little chunk'a text for you.)

###

I just wanted a hug.

Hope you're home safe.

Night. 

Thanks. 

[OK]

Don't you think this is kinda eff'd up? That we just take the chance on figuring out that certain phrases have meanings? 

We've been there. I've been there. 

I just wanted a hug. But, you don't get a free pass, not this time. Panic doesn't mean that you get that.

Sad, in a way. 

Perfect Little Rooms.

Great Classics, Stripped Away. 

Getting All The Things Bcka? No more caps, and no more propper spellinggs.

We can't get back all the things that we lost. And... We can't give that bcka to ourselves. 

Srry.

But! The difference falls to the rest of us. That's where the hate comes in. The discomfort. the Strain, with a capital ess. MiSSplaced, (with two of them), but............always the everywhere.

Be happy with that, won't you? It won't serve you well. But, it might be all you're willing to accept at this time. So... Be happy with it. 

We deserved this. We did. We earned it. And, we made it ours. We turned it into strange matters. Because nobody likes loneliness.

 I was curing mine. No worries that a fly fell into the ointment. 

{I love you. Take all the time you need.}

Means the same thing as...

{Don't Think Twice. It's Alright.}

...or the same thing as what comes after the fancy brackets.

Big Things in Far-Away Places: Part 4(a)

***The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. This post does not constitute, insinuate or recommend an offer to sell, a solicitation of an offer to buy, or a recommendation of exchange, monetary or otherwise, services that are sexual or pornographic in nature.***

###

Part 3 is here.

[Ed. Note: I’m breaking this Itinerary into two parts. As you very-well know, I tend to ramble, and dangle commas for far longer than it might otherwise take to allow perfection to become the enemy of the perfectly fine. Also, just wanted to make sure I didn’t forget anything! Plus, I really wanted to get something into your inboxes before the stroke of midnight Pacific time, when the pumpkins reset themselves. As the great Justin once said, “It’s Gonna Be May!” The rest will be published in quick succession. Be titillated, homies. – H]

###

I skipped ahead to the file marked “identification.” I won’t/can’t go into too much here, but suffice it to say, I have a background as a journalist and researcher, and know how to cross-reference my source material. In short, this included the website for the company he works for, different articles from reputable sources about his accomplishments and accolades, and personally identifiable inclusions like telephone numbers and email addresses that all link back to the guy. In short, he is who he says he is. OK, then.

Double click, on the doc marked “Itinerary.” For me, this was the money file, so to speak, the one that (for reasons you absolutely know by now) piqued my interest the most.

Heather,

I hope you enjoy reviewing this itinerary for your trip to Dubai. Everything I recommend here is only a suggestion. So my apologies in advance if I sound like I am saying “this is what has to happen.” I welcome any alterations, and as I said before, all is within your comfort level, for plans, ideas, wardrobe, strange activities, etc.

Wardrobe, huh. Oh, boy. This fella thinks that I have more than 5 outfits. And don't think that "strange activities" was a phrase that got by without notice. 

Got a little verklempt at this point. Was this all just happening too fast? What the hell am I even considering? Do I… there are so many euphemisms. But do I even want to be an escort? Call girl? High-end hooker? I assume quite high-end, indeed, but still! The road to hell, as they say, is paved with good intentions. And even the most placid of waters can contain a riptide. No offense to any sex worker, but… do I want to be one? OK. Let’s hear the guy out.

Day 1, March 11 — Departure

I believe you are located in Western Europe. I have made that flight many times, and 8 hours going east can be horrendous for the body clock. With that in mind, it is fine if you fly in on the evening of the 11th. I will unfortunately not be able to meet you that evening, but your suite will be available. Plus, more time to freshen up, sleep, more time to “see the sights,” etc. I do not wish to presume your schedule, but for the purposes of this itinerary, I will take the liberty of assuming your arrival time will be later afternoon, UTC +4.

Huh. Truth be told, I had a rough idea of where Dubai is located, but I hadn’t Google-mapped it yet. Sure enough, eek — 8 hours, more or less. Yeah. Anything more than 4, and I think the majority of us will get their body clock a little messed up, and I think going east is supposed to be a little more draining. Plus, plane sleep is not real sleep, even if you are in a first class seat. Heck — I ain’t got nothing to do!

Upon your arrival at your suite, you will discover a selection of sundry items. Your expense card will cover anything you might need outside the hotel. Within the hotel, anything you would like will be credited to the room, a cost that I will absorb. (Though if you decide to fill the bathtub with Louis XIII, we might have to talk about splitting that cost!)

To Google… Oh, OK. It’s a Cognac that runs about four grand a bottle. Oh, how very tacky of him to insert such a caveat — I suppose everyone has their limits. But, I jest. I’m much more of a Cabernet-and-Club-Sandwich kinda gal, rather than a Caviar and Chateau Latour ’75 kinda gal anyhow.

I wondered what “sundries” means. I mean, I know the definition, sure. But I travel with a pretty standard kit of things that can honestly be acquired at most mid-level supermarkets. But, since he brought up booze? At least, I was sure, there’s gonna be a bottle or two of wine waiting for me at check-in.

(**My apologies if you just recoiled from your screen with fear. This is just the face I make when I think about wine. Moving on.**)

Day 2, March 12

As I’ve mentioned before, your time would be your time to spend as you see fit. I’m sure Google is a much better resource than I might be, but I’ve taken the liberty of listing out some points of interest. As far as transportation is concerned, many of the companies that provide security accompaniment also serve as drivers. You’ll find information for companies I can recommend in a separate file. Any transportation you might need during your stay will be something I’ll be happy to provide, and can be on-call 24/7.

Oh, that’s a pleasant perk! Off the top of my head, the Museum of the Future just opened recently, and looks freaking amazing. Also, I think the largest dive-able swimming pool in the world opened recently, too, and it looks crazy. (Not sure how many of you know this, but I am actually an Advanced Open Water Scuba Diver. It’s been ages since I’ve strapped a tank to my back — long enough so I haven’t had much of an opportunity to test how buoyant I am — but it’s something I really enjoy. It’s a dying hobby, just because it takes a bit of time and some money to get certified. Check around: there aren’t as many operations these days that offer the necessary coursework to get your creds. I guess it’s one of those pursuits that has been fading out of vogue since the 90s or so. But! I still got my PADI and my NAUI cards, lying around somewhere.

(A note on buoyancy — when you dive, it’s not uncommon to wear a weight belt. Basically, fat weighs less than water, so if you have a few extra pounds on you, the weights compensate. In my case, if you have a bunch of extra pounds on you, and all in one place, it gets a little tricky. So I stash a few extra pounds strapped under my boobs. Downside of the girls, is that I’m kinda limited to shallow water in warm climates — they do NOT make neoprene wetsuits shaped for me. Still, there are plenty of lovely places where you can be perfectly cozy on a dive in nothing more than bikini bottoms and a T-shirt. Hit me up if you need any recommendations on Heather’s Favorite Dive Spots!)

I have a feeling I’ll talk more about tourist attractions later. And, I’m pretty sure I’m burying the lede here. So, back on track.

As for the evening, I think it might be fun to introduce ourselves to each other in a fun place. I was thinking of Atmosphere. It’s on the 122nd floor, making it the highest-elevation restaurant in the world. I know it’s somewhat a “novelty,” and usually places like this are “all about the view” (I sound like a Zagat book!), but the food is actually quite good, and that view never does get old. So, I would like to meet there at 7:30. And afterwards, if you would like, it might be fun to stop back at my place for a drink. I would love to show you around.

I can see what he’s going for. He mentioned in one of his first communications that nights would never be longer than two hours. But, really, isn’t that just… a little too short an amount of time? If there was any noticeable red flag for me, early on, that time frame just settled a little strangely — the last thing I really want is for someone to basically (no matter how much they’re paying — good God, I already sound like a call girl!) pay by the hour. “Yeah, babe, I’m a busy guy, so all I want is to get my rocks off fiddling around with your tits for a second while I pretend to get to know you.” So, I have no aversion to a night lasting longer than that. I’d prefer it, honestly, especially since I’m gonna be traveling all this way. Again, I really did just appreciate the “ball is in my court” treatment he was using, and I can see why he set some rules earlier on. This (along with meeting like it’s an actual date, and not just a rendezvous at the apotheosis of a roadside hotel) was the first indication that he had been working from a starting point, and that realism was pleasantly settling in.

It is at this point that I would like to propose something. I have a tailor’s shop I work with during my times in Dubai, and they are exceptional at making customized clothing, especially capable for a female clientele with unique proportions. You are obviously a woman of some lovely taste, but I am certain that visiting a new part of the world… It would be very fun to provide a wardrobe for you with some options during your stay. As long as you don’t mind if an extra suitcase were included for the return trip!

Hey! New clothes! Fringe benefits! I’m sure a lot of you have heard my gripes about procuring a good seamstress — it’s a necessity for a person such as myself, who usually relegates her to options that are as “off-the-shelf” as possible. God bless the person who invented T shirts and stretchy fabrics.

If you would not mind, providing me with your measurements will be all that is necessary to ensure that your wardrobe is stocked upon your arrival. I have attached a form.

For this evening, I would appreciate it if you were to choose from the following selection. All three will be made in advance of your arrival and will be waiting for you, so no rush to pick which you would prefer. (The end product will, of course, be an approximation, pending the whims of the tailor, but I can assure their quality).

Huh. I have a piece of paper with my measurements on it, for sure. Most women tend to get by with some pretty standard centimeters and inches. Shoulder width, inseam, arm length, bust, waist, hips, thighs, etc. When I’ve had clothing made, I usually have to include a few extra numbers. I cracked open the form he mentioned.

Lo, and behold. He’s done this before. A few extra fields: Collarbone to start of cleavage; shoulder to widest point of breast; shoulder to bottom of breast; circumference of each breast; circumference of body at widest point; underboob to bottom of breast; diameter of aerola — all with bra, and without bra. You get the idea. Stuff that I never had to consider in the ol’ C cup days.

And then, a collage.

I was detecting a bit of a theme here. I mean, don't get me wrong — I know the quality of my character, but I'm sure that my invitation to Dubai wasn't due alone to my razor-sharp, Dorothy Parker-esque wit. I'm more of a... worldly accompaniment, in this case for sure. I know that, and I'm okay with that — in the earlier days, when I was still figuring out this whole "having huge boobs" thing, I will confess that there were instances when I considered myself as more of a "system of life support for giant tits." "Chaperon," then, is a gentle-yet-substantial upgrade. 

The red was a fine touch. I wondered who the women were. Maaaybe the same one? Someone he had been with before? The hair looked similar enough. Otherwise, I like red. And while each of these three options certainly displays more skin that I'm accustomed to... None of them come off as garish street-side floozy. 

Pros and cons for each: A would be a cinch to fall out of unless I had a roll of that tape you can get; B is Vavoom Station, located on Hubba-Hubba Street in Cleavagetown; C is a little more subtle, but don't think you got away without me noticing that peek-a-boo sideboob hole. One thing was for sure — the bra would likely have stay in my bag for at least two of these little numbers. Hope he likes the trademark below-the-belly-button hang. (But, I got the feeling that he was planning on it.)

Although... I could certainly see each of them hanging in the closet for a while. A gal never knows when she's gonna need a statement piece on-the-ready at some point. Not that having these two statement pieces doesn't already fill in some gaps. 

I polished my glasses off on my shirt, and dived into what sorts of ideas he had in mind for the next three nights.

To be continued, toot-sweet.

All Things Heather - Spring, 2022

[Editor’s note: It’s 3:30 in the A.M., and I'm about to hit the publish button. I would LOVE to give this a proofread, and I will… tomorrow. So I hope you enjoy it, warts and all, before I have a chance to give it the fine-toothed rigamarole. Kisses and Hearts, Peace and Love.]

[Other Note: This is the song I was listening to on loop the whole time I was writing this thing. Up to you, but that was the intention which which it was intended. Salud.]

April, like every other bloody month this year, has sped along at a breakneck pace. I don’t think I’m alone in observing that. If we do all live inside of some grand simulation, perhaps that’s just one of the side effects. I’ll take the pill Morpheus recommends. He seems like a trustworthy-enough fella.

In any case, with this dawning of the 26th day of April upon us, I owe you all a bit of an update. Regarding Patreon-related stuff, keep an eye open in the next few days, prior to the end-of-the-month turnover. Those of you who have been keeping up will be pleased to see Ms. Green, The Itinerary, a ukulele song, and on the fictional end of things, the first couple of chapters of Jacqui’s story, not to mention a Part Two of “Fucking Cat.” After nigh-upon 3-plus weeks of silence, you cheeky bastards deserve it. Insert Winky-Face emoji here.

But, that’ll come. Meanwhile… I seldom take the opportunity to give you an update on my own life, outside of the oblique tales and pithy asides. And So, I find myself with the unique mindset to just give you a good-old-fashioned what’s happenin,’ the kind that you would write to that grandmother you never really kept in touch with growing up, until your mom made you sit down with a pencil and paper and draft her a letter. (Though I’m sure you are all far sexier than my Grandmother; she was a cantankerous woman, and was shaped like one of those Russian nesting dolls [which, come to think of it, was likely a reason for her demeanor]). For those of you under the age of 25 or so, that’s something we used to do (the letter writing, sorry for the wandering parenthetical [which this threatens to become too — meta!]) — barbaric, right? It went into a folded and glued piece of paper to which you would affix another smaller piece of paper that proved the cost of transfer had been rendered.

The future sucks, as I say often. And for sure, take my word for it — the past sucked in its own way, too. But I saw this show on Netflix recently. It was about a dude who restored old videos, and he discovered some old cult in the videos… What was it called… He was a black dude who lived in the present day, and the woman was a student from the ‘90s who was doing this project on this old building in NYC… If you can think of the name of the show and are in the middle, have a great time with it, it was fun, but for the life of me, the name escapes me. Anyway [SPOILER ALERT, I GUESS?] the end of the season is that he ends up in 1995. Which… I dunno, doesn’t sound all that bad? The show presented it as this mind-blow kinda thing, but hell. Just buy Apple stock and short the oil market, and you’ll be OK.

There’s a little muscle in my right elbow that I never know is there until I whip out a pencil for protracted periods. I’m no orthopedist, but it’s that little squishy bit just under the lateral epicondyle. Somewhere where the tendons get all jumbled up with the ulna. Eeenie-old who.

See?! You don’t hear from me for a while, and I ALREADY guarantee you that you’re sick of this missive already. So, Hoo-Wa!.

Taxes were this month. They’re easy-hard for me. I’m officially an expat, so I get a little longer, but I still try to get them done sooner so I don’t have to think about them. Like every year, I spend two months stressing, and about 48 hours with everything short of a green plastic banker’s visor, a gnawed-up Dixon-Ticonderoga in my teeth, and a “Me-yaah, Sheeee, Coppahh?!” Transatlantic accent going on. You know, there are literally two countries in the world where you still need to file your takes, even if you live outside the You-Ess-uv-Ay full time — The U.S., of course, and Eritria. Go figure. Everyone else thinks it’s bonkers. Ah, well. Fuck it. Done for another year. But it drains. I tell ya. Have a feeling I’m speaking to the choir if you’re one of my lovelies from Freedom Land. Have a feeling the “bonkers” statement resonates with you a bit more if you’re from… one of the other 170-or-so sovereign states in the world that also have freedom.

Speaking for Transatlantic (I do love to bury a lede): long-time subscribers will know that, since when first I met ya, I resided in Spain. And I have to tell you, I miss it. The people. The ham. The Wine. The ham. The endless fields of Elysium. The ham. (Did I mention the ham?)

It was a lovely tenure, courtesy of my delightful aunt and her globetrotting ways. For the first half of the time, I had privacy; for the second half, privacy was forced. There was this plague, you see. I have no doubt that every one of you reading this has your own hefty story from that time. Mine was one where, very simply, the quiet just got too quiet. Started to do things to the little gray bits in the headskull. I am glad that you were all there for that — to be honest, it made it all bearable. Still felt like I had friends, other than the cows, Loretta the Uke, and the near-blind old man next door, Jose, who would happily break strict quarantine rules to sit with me on the bench and ramble in a dialect of Castilian I could never quite figure out. I’m pretty sure he was always high on mushrooms. They grew wild there. Lovely place.

Oh, yeah. Transatlantic. (A word that loses its meaning if you say it more than three times.) I’m in Mexico now. Still sticking with my Latinophilia, but in a place that feels just a hair more… vibrant, and, eclectic and ‘my-speed.’ Certainly not setting up shop in the teeming metropolis of the Day Eff-ay, nor have I dared set foot into the Perpetual Coachella that is Tulum. No, instead, I’ve found an old favored town from years ago. The rent is cheap, the people are friendly, the food is amazing, life is simply quiet. My aunt’s place in Spain was a 500-year-old mini castle of sorts; this one is just four walls and a roof in a property owned by a family that is trying desperately to hide their old-money ways. But simplicity… ah, that’s kinda what I’m looking for right now. I got all painty on the walls recently. Bathroom has a toilet (with a squishy foam toilet seat I NEED to replace because Ewwwuugggghgh), and a suicide shower head (look it up). Ran into a wood guy who is making some great extra furniture. I’ve got a hotplate, a tiny fridge, a cooler that is just stuffed with ice, air conditioning in the day and quiet, cool breeze in the evenings, and the company of my twin MacBooks, “Don Quixote” and “Sancho Panza.” It ain’t much, but what more do I need? Now that the tourism is receding a bit, I’m gonna check out some pyramids and cenotes soon, methinks.

And then, not to get bleak about anything. (I’ll keep this part quick, and try to follow it up with a joke.) State of the world has got me down, but I know I’m not alone there. Heart goes out to the fine people of Ukraine. But personally, it’s just that the last few years have been odd enough. But in the last month or so, things have just come to a head, I guess. Death. Merp.

Not to be a naaaame droppper… But a person who I’m pretty sure… 50-90% of you have heard of? Died recently. Interestingly enough, this person was an old friend of the family, and was wonderful, and it was kinda sudden, for me, anyway. I hadn’t talked to them in years. That regret, you know? “Should’a just picked up the phone,” yada-yada. The kinda person who never fails to make you smile. Don’t we get bogged down with our own stuff, don’t wanna make it anyone else’s, but don’t that just get selfish, men aren’t islands, we’re all involved, death diminishes, the bell tolls for thee, and… yada yada again.

I did have a nice thought, though. It sounds like something someone else who is also much wiser than me, would have said (so there’s a non-zero chance of plagiarism here). But in thinking about that person, I came down to this notion of “Silver Linings Today; Shoulders of Giants Tomorrow.” I’d like to think that we pass on our memes, in (oftentimes) a much more impactful way than genetic material is passed on. From the same poem by Donne, “as well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were.”

Cigarette Units / Day: I roll them by hand these days (Astrid FORCED me to learn, but it’s cheaper, and increases the cool factor by 48%. She says hi, by the way, and that she’ll see y’all soon, and :-*) — 419.33

Alcohol Units / Day: 9,294 roentgens (enough to kill a donkey, but I’m Irish AND German.)

M&Ms / Day: One half jar. Jar sized undisclosed.

Hobbies: Should be getting, of all things, a 2007 iMac soon. Which is bonkers. But we all need a project, and that bugger is supposed to have some sexy guts that are fun to poke around with.

Music: Dave Brubeck does Cole Porter; Kronos Quartet does Philip Glass; Chopin Op. 9, No. 2; Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony No 8; Yakedy Sax by Boots Randolph; The Level One soundtrack to the NES game, “Circus Charlie,” (an old march called “American Patrol,” but the MIDI makes it lodge in the brain). Oh! And Herb Alpert and the TJB Greatest Hits, Vol. 2. (You know he’s the “A” in A&M Records? Savvy fella!)

Current Dark Streak: Speaking of Yakedy Sax. Find any travesty that has occurred in history for which there is a video record. It must be old enough for “Tragedy + Time = Comedy” to apply. Speed it up to 2x speed. Play Yakedy Sax. Try not to laugh. I recommend the Hindenburg footage. And you know what? Literally any dramatic scene in any movie ever. 2x speed + Boots Motherfucking Randolph = Hysteria.

Current State of Mental Health: 22,003 roentgens.

Current State of Dental Health: I need a cleaning, bro! Lost a couple’a fillings, too! But I think my dentin is still OK, so one does what one can.

Newest Discovery: Cup Noodles… But, add peanut butter, soy sauce, and some lime juice. Thank me later.

Current state of #NatAndOlga: Not gonna lie, the fit is a little tighter in the old over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders than previously. I have definitely put on a few pounds, and when, like, ~15% of your whole body weight is boobs, it’s just hard to tell if it’s a band thing, or a cup thing, or just the fickle mistress of gravity, or… them getting all riled up again? Or los todos? I’m not getting wound up about it yet. More tests are needed. It’s just hard to tell. Boobs change over time. I’ll pull out the science at some point. But they’re doing good, and they say howdy. Have an artist actually working on a little piece that I hope gets done soon… I think y’all’ll get a kick out of it. More on that later.

Love for my Patrons?: As deep as the sea, and as high as the James Webb, my lovelies! Stay tuend!

(Shucks! You'd at least think I'd've caught that last typo!!!)

Fiction - "A Matter of Life and Breast" - Prologue

[Ed. Note: I hope you really enjoy this new little tale I'm embarking on. I've been working on it for a while, and have been collaborating with a positively amazing artist who is illustrating it. I normally post the tales of pure fiction in the appropriate $12 tier. But for this first chapter, however, I'm putting it up for all the Patrons. I would love for all of you to "see how it feels." Enjoy!]

The sunlight that had shone unimpeded in a clear blue sky just an hour before had become obscured in the faintest haze, as the very first of the winds of Otto rustled the leaves of the old oak tree. Below, a figure emerged from the shadows of an open garage, moving gingerly once she reached the shallow grade of the driveway, certain that one false step could send the wheelchair she was pushing into a gradual careen, and out of her control. She spared only a brief thought about how this was the first time she had ventured out of her home in… weeks? No, longer. More like months.

She had been hoping that this storm would spare Florida. Maybe head out to sea. Maybe smash into North Carolina, like the last Category 6 did. The few who hadn’t permanently left were still picking up the pieces; another punch wouldn’t make too much of a difference. But, no. Sure as shit, like a bullet, the strongest hurricane of 2037, so far, had its sights dead-set on Miami.

Jacqui hated the idea of evacuating. As far as she was concerned, they should just take their chances at home, in Tampa, clear across the Peninsula and halfway up the state. This storm was a monster, but they were far enough away. Maybe they would only get a little bit of rain, and lose power for a little while, at worst.

But her husband was adamant. “One little tick to the north,” he said, “and we’d be screwed. And in your condition, even if the whole fucking house didn’t blow away…”

Condition, Jacqui thought. She hated when he called it that. She grumbled under her breath as she steadily approached the open bed of their pickup truck. The load before her rested precariously on a makeshift wooden seat that was bracketed to the arms of the chair. She was willing this large, unruly encumbrance to stay firmly in place for the last few steps, and that she wouldn’t get yanked to the ground. Maybe if he wanted to evacuate so bad, he should’ve maybe been able to find a fucking van in this city.

Jaw clenched and eyebrows furrowed, Jacqui positioned the chair alongside the open tailgate, taking a moment to arch her back and breathe deeply. She realized that she didn’t quite know how she would pull this off by herself. She wasn’t a particularly tall woman, but this flatbed looked higher than she remembered. Still. It was better than spending one more moment in that house, with Matt running around gathering the essentials and Ellie throwing a hissy fit. They had barely spoken all morning, and she wasn’t going to break that silence by asking him for help.

Probably going to get stuck in traffic, she thought. People are probably gonna wonder why the hell this woman is sitting in the back of this truck when there’s still plenty of room in the cab. Probably get pulled over by some cop who’s gonna wanna see what’s under that stupid tarp you’ve got the bright idea of fastening over everything below my armpits. It was only 4 hours to Valdosta, and the updates were saying that the evacuation roads were still pretty clear. But the moment the first drop of rain hit Jacqui’s head, she was gonna shoot somebody.

She finished positioning the wheelchair. Taking a deep breath and tensing her muscles, she wrapped her fingers around the lowest point of the makeshift sling that she had relied upon, more and more, for support recently.

One… Two…

On the count of three, she pulled upward, hefting her left breast with all her might. Her jaw clenched tighter, and she bared her teeth as she felt the muscles in her shoulders strain. Arching her back, she tried hesitantly to balance on one foot as she used her other knee to give a little extra boost.

“C’mon… c’mon…”

With one last tug, she flopped her enormous breast onto the tailgate and took a moment to gather herself. This reprieve only lasted for an instant, however: before she had the chance to catch her breath, she could feel a small imbalance. It only registered with her for a moment that her other breast was not happy being on the wheelchair anymore, having decided to slowly avalanche off the shelf.

“Shitshitshitshit,” Jacqui yelped, as she scrambled for the strap that fitted over her right breast. She had clumsily managed to grab hold just as the full 103 pounds threatened to pull her to the ground, had it not been for the anchoring force of the boob that had already made it to the truck. The stinging of a treaded ankle that was just on the verge of feeling 100% since the last time she rolled it out. A sharp pain radiated through her fingertip; she was sure the sudden tensing of the fabric had torn a fingernail. As for the fabric itself, it was the strongest canvas she could wear with any comfort, but even so, she heard a few pops of fabric splitting at the seams.

Off balance, bent to her side, and without the luxury of starting from the height of the wheelchair, she strained, nonetheless, to lift this unruly appendage to where it belonged.

Jacqui’s eyes watered, but not from strain. “Come oooonnn, you goddamn fucking bitch,” Jacqui sputtered. Her eyes were closed, but she knew she was nowhere near the lid of the tailgate. “Why can’t you… gmfff… fucking… just…”

Shit, Jacqui thought, taking a wet sniff through her nose. She relaxed her shoulders only a little. For now, the supporting sling was creating a balance that kept her from collapsing entirely. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if it tore in half completely. At best there would be some bruising. At worst… she wasn’t sure whether the last round of treatments had yet strengthened her skin enough to withstand the full force of a 100-pound tit suddenly surrendering to gravity and freefalling, without some issues. She didn’t have a choice.

Shit. He’s just gonna loooove this…

“Matt! Matt!” she shouted into the house as calmly as she could. “Get out here!” She heard another seem give a small pop. “Quick!!!”

Big Things in Far-Away Places — Part 3

***The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. This post does not constitute, insinuate or recommend an offer to sell, a solicitation of an offer to buy, or a recommendation of exchange, monetary or otherwise, services that are sexual or pornographic in nature.***

###

Part 2 is here.

Heather,

Thank you so much for your response. I am glad to hear of your interest, and that you might be willing to entertain me during my time in Dubai.

Hmm. “Entertain.” Well, In For A Penny…

Please find attached a selection of files that might lend themselves to feeling comfortable about my identity, and regarding the intentions that I have described. Please note the file in the enclosed zip marked “OPEN FIRST;” I hope you are comfortable with this initial formality.

Hmm. “Regarding.” At least he didn’t pluralize. “In regard to” would have been acceptable as well. I have never been an English teacher, but I do have my areas of persnickety. [+5 if you can find the grammatical errors in the previous sentence.]. And, hmm. Initial formality… the plot, it thickens.

I hope that you will take your time reviewing these attached materials, and that I can look forward to your response shortly.

Maybe it’s because he’s European. What does, after all, “take your time,” but also “shortly” mean? Is that within the next 24 hours? Or the next 12? Or maybe, within the next three days, or maybe within a week? My grandfather used to work at what toddlers would call ‘a business store,' and while he did a good job adapting to the wonders of the modern age, there was much to be left desired as the tides of change flowed in. I remember him saying how refreshing it was to be able to get a rushed parcel from the opposite side of the country on a Monday; think about it; respond on Wednesday; and be certain that the client wouldn’t see it until Friday. That’s a whole business week. Now, it’s a matter of not being effective if you don’t meet your quota by 3 p.m. The future, as I said in Part 2 of this story, sucks.

Very Sincerely,

Johann.

[His names not Johann. But for the sake of the flow of this story, we shall simply say that it is. A la “Dragnet,” names have been changed, **chung chung.**]

P.S. I tend to talk at length about some concepts. Please know that the stipend for your time and services would gladly increase, should your preferences allow you to participate in such activities. With all this so articulated, please consider these addendums to be optional, but within the realm of the previous articulated terms.

Thank goodness. If he’d have said ‘amendments’ instead of ‘addendums,’ I’d have written him off completely.

But, of course, the “stipend” line caught my attention. It was becoming less and less likely that this was some sort of scheme. I’m not easily pranked in the first place, so if this was a ruse, it was a fucking tight one… One thing at a time, Heather, old gal.

So, time to crack open the zip. I still wasn’t 100% convinced, but this wasn’t my first rodeo, and since I work in this kind of business (copywriting isn’t a profession entirely without its surreptitious nature), I ran it through a virus scanner before double clicking and hitting ‘OK.’ The results came back clean and shiny.

Inside, a variety of files, very organized. At the top of the list, one marked “OPEN FIRST — NDA.” Ahhh, OK.

A PDF, and a brief “read me” text doc.

Heather,

I am sure you can understand that there is a sensitive element to this interaction. Before I share too much about myself, I would very much appreciate some assurance on my end, as I’m sure you can understand. Therefore, I have attached a non-disclosure agreement. Please review, electronically sign, and return to the indicated email address. You will then receive a code that will give you access to the remainder of the files in this document.

—J

Good Lordy-Lord, it was a long one. It still didn’t give me his last name; rather, the name of a company with enough references to “associates, affiliates, and subsidiaries” to make it clear that corporations and people, these days, are interchangeable entities. It took me about a half hour to review this thing, but it seemed to be on-the-level enough — no indications that I was going to be willingly signing over my kidneys — just standard, “don’t you dare talk about this with anyone” defamation preventing legalese, not too dissimilar from a variety of other NDAs I’ve signed in my life. I copied my go-to encrypted signature to the bottom page, dated it, and clicked the handy “send” button.

I got a sinking feeling in my stomach when it flew away. Was I giving this person, who I didn’t know, too much information? I mean, it’s not like I game my SSN, or my phone number, or my bank account info, or anything. A minute passed, and the feeling worsened. Did I miss something? I tried to open one of the files (shouldn’t I have tried that before?!); sure enough, it was encrypted with a passcode.

Another two minutes passed as I refreshed my email and checked my spam. Doesn’t immediately mean… right away? Was it automated? Was it sent to his… I dunno, personal assistant? Some bow-tied 20-something gofer named Franz, or something? Maybe Franz was taking a shit, and would get back to me in a moment. ‘Even Franz has to poop,’ I justified to myself, as I swore to give it the five minutes it would take to reheat some coffee and add a dash of Bailey’s. And Jaegermeister. (I call this particular cocktail a "Heather's Tuesday.")

About halfway through my little upper-downer belt, I kept an ear open for a bell as I distracted myself with some of Seth Meyers’ weekly “Corrections.” (I am a Jackal, if you get the reference, in case anyone is wondering). And just as it was winding down…

Ping!

An unfamiliar address. But thank God. At least, so far, not for naught.

Heather,

Thank you for providing this agreement. Everything checks out. As promised, here is the key to unlock the folders. Please let me know if you have any issues.

[Alphanumeric key here, something like 30fo4Kepp3Nm663FR5]

— J

Long code. But, it worked for the file marked “01. Introduction." Inside that file, a single .mp4 video file. I hovered my finger a moment, an odd thrill running down my back and into my belly. I ignored it, before clicking.

A still image of a man popped onto the screen. A webcam, but elevated to just above eye level, and panned-out enough to show his upper body. Oxford shirt, obviously tailored, one button undone. Sitting in a leather wingback office chair. In the background, dark wood, books, a J.J. Abrams lensflair of light coming in from a window to his left. A dark yellow paint job — no, wait, lightly patterned wallpaper. I pressed ‘Play.’

###

Good afternoon, Heather. Or whatever time it is for you! My name is Johann Andersen. [Again, not his real name.] First, I want to thank you for your response, and for enduring this little pony show so far. I hope, whatever you decide, that I can at least deliver a fine presentation.

I hope that what I have to show you does not overwhelm. My goal is not to present myself as some sort of overzealous figure. In my work, thoroughness is imperative, and this is a habit I tend to apply to many parts of my life.

Oh, the first impression. 

In a past life of my own, I worked in a field that required me to interview individuals who have, as many of us would perceive, extreme monetary wealth. This was back in my C cup days, so I wasn’t treated as quite the oddity I typically am these days. But, I’ve always possessed a mix of shyness that is confused as listening; of directness being construed as curiosity; and as aloofness being misinterpreted as relatability. All the world is a stage, as they say, and through all these qualities, I have an ability, whether I like it or not, to “attract the crazies.” And their cases, rich folks are, always, just a little bit crazy. 

I've learned to spot these characters from a mile away. Not necessarily in a bad way, you understand. It’s just that their station in this world makes it hard to relate to the normal folks. 

And so, these are the six distinct types I've been able to discern.

The Double Lambo

In a LOT of ways, individuals of such status go against what Polonius said about bing “Rich, not Gaudy.” When we think of a standard-issue rich person, this is generally who comes to mind. And in my limited, but educated experience, this does constitute a slight, not-necessarily-malevolent majority. ‘Neuvo Riche?’ “Ah, but it’s the ‘riche’ that counts.” These are the ones who comprehend the inherent logic that states, “Why have one Lamborghini, when you can have two for twice the price?” They have cardboard McMansions that are unnecessarily giant. They treat those lesser than them as inferior by way of flaunting: $50 in a tip jar is just their way of pointing out, “You poor fellow, here you go — clearly, you need this more than I do.”

These folks are good at what they do, and of course, they won capitalism. They’re also quite insecure, have lots of problems of their own that money can’t fix, and above all, are terrified that it could all just dissolve, at any moment. What a torture. To have to present the face of certainty, when you’re the only one who knows that there’s a powder keg in the center of your Very Own Rome, and it could go off at any moment, if Elon Musk tweets the wrong thing.

But, Johann Anderson was clearly not one of these people. So far, I could tell that he fell into one of the other categories of rich folk.

The Deva

See, I’ve also interacted with people who have inherited their wealth over the generations. For these people, money has never been, nor will it ever be, an issue. Perhaps the money is unlimited, Succession style. These folks just get bored. No need to spell it out. But daddy, must we holiday in Cannes? I so wanted to go to Ibiza! Don’t worry about these individuals. Those of you who have studied Saṃsāra have heard of the God Realm: a place of infinite paradise that only leads to attachment, lack of spiritual advancement, and then, ain’t gonna be no Nirvana for you.

Buddhism has plenty of parables that work out pretty well, especially in our consumeristic age. But if you’re not familiar, it’s like that episode of The Twilight Zone, “A Nice Place to Visit” (S01E28), where Rocky, the life-long crook gets shot and dies. He goes to the afterlife, where he’s waited on hand-and-foot. Wins every hand of cards, hits a pool ball, they all go into the pocket. But eventually, he gets sick of the perfection of his existence, and begs to go to “The Other Place,” because he can’t spend eternity here! His caretaker laughs and says, “Bwahaha, but don’t you get it? This IS the other place!” [cue mind: blown].

The Betty

Or, perhaps there’s a finite number in the bank account. The widower may only be 55, but if she plans well, she can make that $10 million last long enough for her last check to bounce.

Reminds me of one of my favorite conversations. One time, I sat down with a woman named Betty at some under-attended function I had to be at. She was ancient, but campy, and completely self-aware. She spoke in the most earnest terms about how she was thinking of going to Italy for the spring to visit her daughter and her grandchildren. Not necessarily because she wanted to — it was just that it would be less expensive. She was a dyed-in-the-wool debutant you see, and after a lifetime of experiencing all the finer things, she faced an old age where she had a dead husband, no marketable skills, and above all, social obligations to maintain.

“I’ll have to go to this function, you see, and that’s $500 a head,” she explained. “But for at least one of them, I’ll have to be the one to buy the table, and that’s $4,000… And of course, I’ll need a dress, and I can’t wear the same dress as I wore last year, or people will talk and say, Oh, Dear, do ya’ think Betty is doing OK? She’s wearing the same dress she wore to the other thing, last year… And, of course, I have to at least bid on something at the auction, which I don’t even want, and I’ll have to win one or two things… And I just don’t want to do another $20,000 springtime. I’d rather spend it abroad.

There’s a lot wrong, and a lot that’s disconnected with what Betty said. But can you blame her? That’s just the way she was raised. Probably only has a few million left in the bank, and with a lifestyle like that, after a whole lifetime of nothing else? Can’t foul a fish for swimming. I actually felt a little sorry for her. She was counting $100 bills in the way most of us count quarters. But she was nice enough, and I’ll always appreciate the context that conversation provided.

The Penguin

This fella, with his Napoleon Complex. He just wants to be BIG. I am a LUVVAH of Danny DeVito’s Penguin in the Tim Burton film [I’m gonna watch that when I’m done writing this!], but when push comes to shove, Burgess Meredith in the old Adam West series? Can. Not. Be. Beat. Waaaaahk waaahk wak! His top hat made him taller. He used his umbrella to extend his personal space. If he could lose weight? He totally wouldn’t. He wants to be BIG.

This person wants to be villain, because a villain is just a type of bully who is able to exact their own brand of control. But this person also wants to be a tycoon, with access to all the resources. Complete, unyielding control.

Jeff Bezos with Starship Penis; Elon Musk, with his hair transplants; I’m guessing Andrew Carnegie had a tiny schlong (but thanks for the libraries); and Rockefeller was not one to shy away from a big, muscle-y Atlas in front of a phallic symbol. And, some people get feisty when people insult the size of their hands, or when porn stars make Mario Borthers references.

Thing is, we all want to be this person. The one NOBODY can deny. I dunno. I think it was Steinbeck who said that “America will never adopt Socialism, because we do not see ourselves as the exploited populace — only as ‘temporarily embarrassed millionaires.”

People like this are a rarity. But sometimes, they make it above the fold.

The Scrooge

Covetous. Strange. Suspicious. Solitary as an oyster. A Christmas Carol is actually my favorite story, because it’s a tale of redemption. The Scrooge doesn’t actually want to be mean. It’s just all they’ve known. They work ceaselessly, and have been screwed over enough to calcify. Also a rarity, at least on the inside. On the outside, most of them are actually quite congenial. But don’t back them into a corner.

The Volvo

And then, there are my favorite rich people. I know a very specific sort-of surgeon who is literally one of the best in the world in his field. He started out a poor medical student, his wife was a florist. He built up his practice. Now, he has a vineyard. He built his own home, a gorgeous little four-bedroom villa that is utterly unpretentious. He keeps his ’99 Volvo alive because “he just loves the shape of it.”

Or this other dude I knew, who just leaves it in the bank if he needs it. Took $3 million, put it into a no-risk savings that’s locked at 2%, and lives off the interest. 60K a year ain’t no joke, and it keeps things… simple. I like that idea.

They laugh, they joke, they’re curious, but dammit, usually in that way where they’re only feigning interest. You can just tell. But at least they go out of their way to make the person they’re talking to feel a little special. That’s how business deals get closed, and that is, after all how relationships are forged. It's habit.

Social psychopaths, sometimes. They’re not bad people. Maybe just a bit more practical.

Or, maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just cynical. Because, most of the time, I genuinely wonder how a person can be so absolutely happy, just so goddamn always. It doesn’t compute. Mirroring much? Maybe. And maybe... maybe they actually figured it out and found the balance? 

Or… in some regards, insomuch as I’ve been able to evaluate him after only 20 seconds of talking… Johann. But only a little. Because even though Johann struck me as a Volvo, I could just tell: he’s a bit of all six.

Whenever you meet a super-rich person, pay particular attention to their eyes.

The eyes of the Lambo crowd are wide and manic.

The eyes of the Deva are bored to death.

The eyes of the Betty are sad.

The eyes of the Penguin are calculating..

The eyes of the Scrooge are suspicious.

The eyes of the Volvo have the kinds of lines that come from either a lifetime of smiling, or a lifetime of squinting into the sun, while on a boat.

###

The video continued, and Johann told me a little more about himself. Where he was from originally, where he was based, where he lives now, how he got there. A pleasant looking fellow. Sort of a Vincent Cassel vibe, but with a little less hair and a few extra pounds (sorry… kilograms) in a Lawrence Olivier carriage. Jovial, and with a slight bit of nervousness, which was endearing. I suppose we all have an awareness of first impressions. He wasn’t afraid of letting a few eccentric mannerisms loose, which I appreciated — a nod of the head, a spin of the hand… subtle nods that he was more of a Golden Retriever, and not-so-much a Patrick Bateman.

Then, picking up his (apparently, phone) and taking me on a small tour of his… positively decent apartment. From the handful of films I’ve seen featuring this building, I could tell this was authentic. Holy hell. That view.

[Editor’s Note: Oh who the fuck am I kidding? It’s the GODDAM freagging Burj… And this dude is all like… OK. Carrying on. Pardon the dust.]

Dubai has always baffled me. For years, I’ve been referring to it as a mausoleum to humanity’s hubris — what a strange thing to build such a building, to craft islands from the sea, to have skiing in the snow, in the desert… A playground built out of farce. But then again, this is coming from a woman who hails from a nation that invented Las Vegas and cruise ships the size of cities. Game recognizing game.

So, I don’t know how familiar you are with the Burj Khalifa. But your hotel is somewhere in the 30s. It’s a great little suite — whenever I have friends come to town, I try to give the hotel a heads-up so they can hold on to it for me. The view of the sea is just amazing. Not here, though, just the desert, which has its own beauty.

The camera panned around his flat. Definitely not on “the 30s.” I will admit that I did a little poking around on Google just to see how the floors are divided, and it looked like his place was somewhere in the 100-floors-up category. A two bedroom place, perhaps? Well-appointed, not insanely remarkable if it were in Tacoma. But here? Well, shit.

[Editor’s note: Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, it’s just an altitude where humans aren’t supposed to live, and you poor little fella, with your view of that stupid desert, I will play the world’s smallest violin, murhurherhur… Ah-hem. Apologies. This wasn’t Heather talking, just her fingers.]

He focused a little on a small collection he harbored in a bookshelf at the edge of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I know you’re a fan of good books. I don’t want to impose, but I’m a bit of a weirdo when it comes to first editions. If you’d like, I would be so happy if you were to choose one as a parting gift to remember your time here.

Oh, already speaking in the present-past tense. Well done, amigo.

You have to understand, I was hitting the pause button every five seconds. I am a very simple person when it comes to creature comforts, so this was kind of a sensory overload for me.

I paused the screen on the books he was referring to. Jesus Fuck, there was a first edition of “The Sun Also Rises.” I would Indiana Jones the shit out of a trip to Dubai and break into his apartment for that summabitch. OK. Things are starting to get real now, and my mind is starting to break.

Oh, I know you like to cook. You certainly do not have to, but if you would like, any ingredients you would need are just a text message away.

He showed me the kitchen: a well-appointed galley style affair with black marble tops and a gas range. **Copper bottom pots, boots with the fur. **with the furrr!****

I am frankly terrible at cooking myself, which is odd, because my father was a chef. But feel free to fiddle about if you would like — the mess can be cleaned up after.

Oh, a Patreon fan, indeed. He already knows that I am an absolutely messy cook.

And then, my recipe for Bolognese popped through my head. It’s been ages. The key is slow-caramelizing the onions, and putting the carrots, celery, and bay leaves into a cheesecloth sack, and letting it simmer for longer than you think it necessary. Wonder if I could get the GOOD Iranian saffron, not the shitty stuff…

And, for the first time (and I SWEAR it wasn’t for the complementary 1926 First Edition of “The Sun Also MotherFuckinnn Rises”), I got that nut in my head. That little mustard seed that, for a variety of reasons, said, “Shit. This is… something I could do.”

Well. I’ve already talked for too long. You said something recently about Hemingway, about that a writer should write what he has to say.

FUCK. YOU. How did you know I was already… Urrrrrghhh. Hmm. OK.

The rest of what I have to say is in the rest of these files. You’ll find information about me, on real websites and company pages and all that. Itinerary, feel free to have fun with that, tell me what works and what doesn’t, and make your own suggestions if you want. There are references, I know you signed the non-disclosure, but please reach out to these people if you would like, because I consider them friends. Phone numbers, website addresses, images of your suite… the whole shebang.

He punched ‘shebang.’ There’s a double meaning in that, but it is an inherently American vibe to it, so it was funny. I chuckled. Then, I caught myself for chuckling.

Oh, by the way, I didn’t mention this in this packet. There’s a cocktail party I was kinda forced into attending, here at a neighbor’s place on… ah, whatever floor he’s on. It’s on 15 March. You don’t have to attend, and I can stop by after. But if you’d like to come, let me know, and we can fit you for a dress. If you wouldn’t mind being just a little revealing. 

Well! That comes later.

Otherwise, I hope you’re having a beautiful life, and a beautiful day. Talk to you soon.

And then, end of video. 

If that last bit was an addendum before signing off? I would need to check out this itinerary of his, next.

[To be continued, my dears, and yes, the itinerary is... something to write home about. [[provided I hadn't signed that damned NDA, jajaja!]] You'll see it here in the next couple of days.]

Ec-Clue'd-in-Black

Well, well. A murder most fowl. Buck-buck-buk-aw. 

What a terrible trist this was. Wherein some dames, with the best of intentions, found themselves in the midst of a post-war board game. 

And so the story goes, as we bat back and forth between our Patreon accounts. You'll find one half of this Study in Scarlett here; the other on the account of the lovely (if you don't know her by now, you should!) Astrid.

Especially if you want to see a very particularly referred-to letter by one Mz. Lucida Black.

###

Credit for the audio file to A. Mister Man, Who Does a Good Job at a Pretty OK Danny DeVito. 

Also, To the Model! The Glorious and always effervescent @3astrid33 on IG; here on Patreon. Tune in to her account, if you want to see the rest of this tale of mayhem, malcontent, and murder, as it unfolds. 

And, don't forget to pick you playing piece before the game begins. 

#conservatory? #candlestick? #whozzitgonnabe?

Big Things in Far-Away Places — Part 2

***The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. This post does not constitute, insinuate or recommend an offer to sell, a solicitation of an offer to buy, or a recommendation of exchange, monetary or otherwise, services that are sexual or pornographic in nature.***

###

Part 1 is here.

When our grandkids ask us what we did during the pandemic (likely while we’re all hunkered down around… three pandemics from now), we’ll probably be tempted to tell them of all the heroic ways we maintained our resilience: how we were there for others with a spirit of generosity and kindness; how we used our precious time to actively improve our minds, bodies, and souls; and how, overall, humankind abandoned its primitive prejudices and came together in harmony to defeat a common foe.

In other words, we’ll totally fuck with their heads. It’ll be hysterical.

But if we wanted to be killjoys — y’know, be honest with them, or some shit — many of us would say something akin to, “I dunno. I was drunk and fat most of the time. I remember when it started, there was free money and this dude who had a bunch of tigers, and that was cool. Wonder Woman got in trouble for singing a John Lennon song, and… Yeah. Then it got weird and depressing and boring from there. Stayed that way for a while. But I caught up on a lot of TV, so there was that.”

“But grandmama, what is this “TV” you speak of?” they will say in a tone that’s oddly polite and for some reason, an accent that’s Late Victorian.

To which we will reply, “Shut up, kid. That’s enough stories for today. I just transferred 20 credits to your digi-wallet. Go get your ol’ granny a six pack of Victory Gin, and watch out for the robot dogs.”

They will happily oblige. They already know to be back before sundown, and to stay clear of Sector 14G, lest they fall victim to the GodSeed Fragments.

The future sucks. Anyway — TV.

We all watched our fair share during the last couple of years. I would even venture to say that some of us reached the long-storied but ne’er proven “end of the internet:” that dark and lonely realm, where all streamable content has been viewed and digested.

What happens then? Oh, scary stuff, bro. At that point, you have to — gasp! — Go Back and Rewatch Stuff You’ve Already Seen Before, But Not So Recently That it’s Repetitive, But a Little While Back, Because It Was Good the First Time Around, and You’ve Kinda Been Wanting to See It Again, Because You Already Know What’s Gonna Happen, So Now You Can Focus on All The LIttle Minutia of the World the Showrunners Were Trying to Convey!!!1!!

So, when I was putzing around, cooking, that show, for me, was The West Wing. Classic stuff, right? If you haven’t seen it, the show ran for about seven seasons, and focused on the inner workings of the fictional administration of President Josiah Bartlett. It was an Aaron Sorkin thing, great cast, awesome writing, some heartwarming stuff, good drama, funny moments, yadayadayada.

If you have seen it, and you got a kick out of it, you’ll know what I mean when I say that (I think) I’m a C.J. Cregg. Damn, I love that woman. Allison Janney has great timing, and her character development was just on-point. Worked in Hollywood PR, hated it, got fired, decided to get into politics with the underdog presidential candidate, he won, and she’s allofasudden the White House Press Secretary. Then, later in the series, she’s promoted to White House Chief of Staff, a position that many would argue is the second-most-powerful in the Executive Branch of the U.S. government. SO!

There’s this one episode, in season 6 (ep.4, if you’re curious), where she’s officially gotten the job. She’s ready for it, but has NO idea about what’s entailed once she’s in the seat. Her little apartment is now under Secret Service protection; she is briefed on emergency plans, and what to do if some serious shit goes down; catching up on some paperwork about situations in the Baltic, a virus outbreak; keeping her cool. It’s her job to get all the info, digest it, and shoot it along to the President. She’s a calm, collected chick who focuses on her duty, while still letting her heart peek out of her sleeve, which I think is pretty cool. But… she’s still in Press Secretary mode.

Then. There’s this one scene, when she’s just barely hanging in there mentally — we all have long days, right? — where she sits down for a meeting with some random dude in the Roosevelt Room. He’s from Georgia (the country in the former Soviet Block, not the ‘Go Dawgs’ one) (but for real, Go Dawgs, [Sick ‘Em]). Damned parentheticals… He’s from Georgia. Cartoonishly polite. Has a Halliburton case cuffed to his arm. Former economic advisor to the Georgian president, brings a bottle of wine to say hello. It’s all a little too much, and she starts to get the whiff that it’s a prank. This dude very kindly informs CJ that Georgia’s got just a shitload of enriched uranium lying around, that they don’t know what to do with it, and that they want the United States to just have it. CJ politely excuses herself, and approaches her coworkers to get to the bottom of what’s obviously a tasteless joke.

Then, she stops herself, and a look of confused shock crosses her face. The reality hits her. This isn’t something that’s been instructed to her in the form of a memo — she’s the person who actually has to handle this madness: in this case, 300kg of weapons-grade uranium that’s also being offered to Iran. “This is really happening, isn’t it.” She’s a smart chick, sets up meetings, starts to get to the bottom of things, and the plot continues from there.

I thought that was a pretty cool twist in the plot. Character-building. It’s relatable: how easy it is to lose yourself because you’re just so freaking immersed in what you’re doing and who you are, and how life has a way of just bumping you on the freaking head to remind you that absurdity is, in all actuality, very much a thing that happens IRL.

I think the analogy half-works. It’s not that people are White House Chiefs of Staff for their entire careers or anything; it’s just that a lot of folks who end up with that position have slowly worked their way up to it over a long period of time. They know the ins-and-outs that are required, and how best to respond. Sometimes, however, it all just kinda… happens.

I’m sure CJ wasn’t jealous of Leo McGarry for his years of experience. Just in the same way I’m not jealous of my friend for having near-Heather-class boobs since high school. It’s just that she’s had more practice at the “big breast lifestyle” than I have, and is more aware of all that’s entailed. (If you’re new here, I talk about how I was a C cup until my 30s in one of my very first Patreon posts, published way back in 2018.) I imagine, when you spend your late teens and all of your 20s lugging around a pair of soccer balls on your chest, you build a pretty thick skin. You’ve heard it all. Everything from a lifetime of catcalls, to mitigating the effects of summertime boob sweat, to fielding earnest solicitations for the pleasure of your most divine company, to… well, sometimes taking people up on those solicitations?

He got an ‘A’ for effort, and at this point, my curiosity was piqued.

What the hell.

I was still on the fence. Not entirely convinced this wasn't still some joke, I figured it couldn’t hurt to just send this guy a quick reply and see what this “expanded proposed itinerary” of his was all about. I chewed on a pencil while I paced, and then, went back to the Compose box. Sixteen minutes after I'd first opened it, I finally started typing.

[European Finance Dude Name]

Greetings. Thank you for your inquiry, and for the kind words.

I mean, he was polite, and very formal, so why the hell not match it.

I’ll start by saying that your inquiry is unexpected and a bit unusual. I’ve not participated in anything like this before, so I can’t say that I know where to start with this email.

At that point, I went back to pacing with the pencil in my teeth. Keep it short and sweet…?

And then, I wrote something a little out of character. If it was all a lark, and it was just somebody having some fun at my expense, I might as well return the favor and have a little fun of my own. 

Not going to say it doesn’t sound like it could be fun, though.

(Don’t you love that? How a grammatically correct sentence can contain the words “not,” “doesn’t,” and “could?” Along with something as ambiguous as “sound like?” Viva English. It is a silly language.)

I can certainly imagine that jumblies such as mine are a bit unique. Ah, for those small-titted glory days, before I was bitten by that radioactive cow. But giant boobs is what I got, and I'm pleased that you'd care to take a peek and cop a feel. Would I just keep them on display on a table the entire time, or something a bit more free-swingin'? I appreciate, also, your offer of spacious transport — as I am sure you can imagine, I am not much of a fan of middle seats. Unless there are peanuts on board, which there aren't, I s'pose, because of all those little brats and their allergies. 

There we go. Just a touch of that snarky deadpan. I think I hit the sweet spot between jokey and a little sarcastic, and that the deciphering would depend on this fellow and his intent. 

Anyway. I hear your requests, and I’m sure I’ll have lots of questions. You mentioned a packet with information. Please send it along, and I will be glad to review.

Good Evening,

Heather.

I don’t think I came off as some ice-queen. That’s wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to keep my hand close to my chest. (Euphemism semi-intended.) I clicked “send,” and went back to my business (having a drink, watching some Werner Herzog documentary — always a good combo.)

The next morning, a reply.

The “packet” was… thorough.

(To be continuuueeedddd…)

Track 12 - Samantha

In short, my first (semi) kinky(ish) experience that actually meant a great deal to me. And, as it turns out, it was with a (gasp!) lady...?! I know, sinful, right? I'm not gonna dwell the shit out of it here, or anything. One of those tracks that didn't get goofy enough for me to be goofy in the body text. Besides. Let the work speak for itself. 

As for me, I'm gonna go and cool off with another glass. Or 5. 

Big Things in Far-Away Places — Part 1

***The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. This post does not constitute, insinuate or recommend an offer to sell, a solicitation of an offer to buy, or a recommendation of exchange, monetary or otherwise, services that are sexual or pornographic in nature.***

###

Dear Ms. Beck,

Good day. My name is [first name only, omitted]. I am originally from [W. European country], but currently residing in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, where I work in [finance, executive position].

I have thoroughly enjoyed your content during the last several months. You are obviously a person of wit and intelligence. I am also convinced that the appeal of your physical appearance does not escape you.

I am respectfully writing with an inquiry. In brief: I would enjoy the presence of your company in Dubai from the dates of March 12 until March 16 of 2022. Our interaction would involve no acts of sexual intercourse or genital observance, and would only occur for periods of no more than two hours each night during the evenings of your stay. During these periods of time, I would rely on you to establish, in advance, your level of comfort with our interactions. I would appreciate, however, that your breasts are fully exposed and accessible to touch. Specific limitations can be established in advance.

All costs would be paid, including:

• Top-tier transportation departing from and returning to location/s convenient to you (limo service to/from airports, Emirates cabin/First Class seating depending on carrier availability).
• A private hotel suite in the Burj Khalifa.
• Third-party independent security of your choosing, available at your 24/7 discretion during the entirety of your stay.
• A prepaid Visa card upon arrival, with a balance thoroughly suitable to shop, eat, and explore the city during your stay.
• Various perks, additions, and pleasant surprises (available at your discretion) to ensure as enjoyable a stay as possible (full bar, pre-selected garments, room service, private transportation in and around the city, etc).
• For the pleasure of your visit, additional compensation of €10,000.

I understand that the nature of this request might be unappealing to you, and if that is true, I hope that no offense has been created. I would, in this circumstance, wish you well, and would be pleased to interpret a non-response as confirmation that you would like to decline.

If such an arrangement is interesting to you, I will provide a packet for your review that includes identifying and contact information, references, an expanded proposed itinerary, and additional materials that will collectively serve to clarify the nature of my intentions and inform any understandable reservations you may have about this solicitation. I will also be available to answer any questions at this email address, or via phone.

I anticipate your reply.

[Salutation]

Hunh. Well. Hmm. Needless to say, not an email one expects to receive upon waking up, bleary-eyed and a bit hungover, before she’s even had her coffee.

My personal email account is the one I give out to folks who wanna do collaborations and the like. It doesn’t ping very often, but every now and then, among the brief requests for custom content (thanks for asking, but no thanks — that’s what this Patreon is for, and it’s a happy balance for me), there are smatterings that catch my eye. Illustrators who want to team up on stories; I helped doctor a screenplay a little while back; actually just helped out a musician with song lyrics, which was pretty cool! Stuff like that… But THIS one was… a doozy.

Make no mistake, I have received a fair share of messages in the past asking for meetups. “Hey, babe, you really should come to Chicago,” “If you ever find yourself in Seattle, hit me up!” or even “I’ll give you X-amount-of-dollars if you spend a night with me.” Vague stuff that’s pretty much a non-starter. I have no ill will toward escorts or their profession — I believe many countries should adopt a system not dissimilar from The Netherlands, where Ladies of the Night pay taxes, have access to healthcare and police protection, and are free to conduct themselves as they see fit with consenting adults — but as far as all that is concerned, for me, it’s just not my speed.

The first two paragraphs were fairly standard — well written, which I always appreciate.

Graf three was where the eyebrows perked. Dubai, huh? Woah. Neven been down to the UAE before. Specific dates? OK, this fella plans ahead. I got a chuckle out of the phrase “genital observance,” but as I was deciphering what that meant, I got the impression that he wouldn’t pull a Louis C.K. and just sit there, masturbating at me. Which is, y’know, not horrible, but get to know a gal first. So, I’m glad he put that out there. And, he seemed interested in making sure that I would maintain my comfort level. Which, ya’ know, is something that can rationally be Filed Under: Actions Speak Louder. But overall? Seems like he was simply interested in hanging out and copping a feel from time to time. Which, I mean, c’mon. Natalia and Olga are kinda unique, and it’s not the first time such an interest has been expressed.

This note was, off the bat, interesting, at least. It succeeded in catching me off guard, I’ll give it that much! But… could I have drafted a letter that was more… respectful? Thorough? Probably not, no red flags at the moment, and, I mean, bonus points for laying it out on the table, dude. Further reading was merited.

I started to get a little skeptical around the next graf. I mean, have you seen those private cabins on Emirates flights? It’s your own freaking room, on an airplane. Which, don’t get me wrong, sounds like the only way to travel. (I’ve had a few awkward experiences with fellow passengers in coach, especially when I’m overflowing a middle seat. ‘Sorry ‘bout that — hope you don’t mind if Natasha is just mashing into your elbow for the next three hours.’) But that ticket ain’t freaking cheap, muchacho. Same for first-class seats on whichever freaking plane, but especially the ones going in and out of the UAE. (I used to be a luxury travel hack — one of those writers who wrote about a lifestyle she could never afford. So while I know the lingo, I ain’t had the pleasure, myself.)

And the Burj Khalifa?! Tallest building in the world. And, my own suite? Can’t help but think that that runs a pretty penny. But wait… are there like, hotel rooms in that place? My mind went back to where I’m sure a lot of minds go when we’re forced to think about the Burj Khalifa… that Mission: Impossible flick. Was it the fourth one? Can’t remember. But there was that sequence in the Burj Khalifa. Nice rooms, and one hell of a view, so… Plus, I was always a weird kid, growing up, and always had a fascination with skyscrapers, so I was already a little aware of what that building was all about. Anyway.

Then… expense account? OK! My tastes are pretty simple when it comes to travel. Call me more… experiential. I’ll be glad to take a $0.25 taco stand over a $200 lunch check any day. And, personal hesitancy toward fashion aside, I’ve never been able to figure out why some people go to some fantastic locale abroad, just to… blow all their cash at some fucking Hermes or Ferragamo location. I dunno. Bless their hearts, but it… lacks imagination. Never been skydiving, though, and as much as I try to craft my bucket list upon a path less-trodden by the influencer crowd, I gotta say — jumping out of a plane over that big man-made island chain that’s shaped like a palm tree would be… pretty cool. So, nice to know that I wouldn’t be digging out of my own pocket to poke around in a city that I am positive. Is. Not. Cheap.

My own choice of private security?(!) Nice touch. Some huge dude sitting outside the door and available at a moment’s notice shows consideration. I was in New York City once, and I saw some actress just walking around on the street. Can’t remember her name for the life of me, one of those old Norma Desmond-esque screen queens of old who lived a life of semi-reclusion. Decked out to the nines, mink, sunglasses, the whole shebang, and about 5 steps behind her, what I can only describe as two of the largest men I have ever seen, earpieces and all. I don’t have any mistrust of Dubai or any reason to question its safety — I understand it to be extremely safe, especially for Westerners, so to speak — but a gal like me has had to tactfully excuse herself of awkward interactions at fucking suburban Starbuckses (is that the plural?), so having my own “Little Tony” to diffuse any awkward interactions would be… kinda fancy. (Not sure why I’m going with ‘ironically named mid-century American mobster stereotype’ for my vision of ‘private security,’ but what can I say. I’m an ingenue. “Joey Two Fingers” can help him out.

And 10,000 fucking Euro?!!?!?! What, would I pick it up in some underground, concierged bank in Geneva on the way back home? Would the well-quaffed Swiss guy at the front desk cut me off halfway through my introduction and say something like, “Yes, of course, Madame, we’ve been expecting your visit — this way please.” Would the safe deposit box be locked with a retinal scan? Would this benevolent benefactor throw in a few Krugerrand as a tip?

And for me… this is where it all started to fall apart. Something just didn’t click. It was too perfect. Too “put-together.” Those of you who know me already understand that I can be somewhat of a prankster myself, so it was becoming more-and-more clear that this was not a legitimate offer at all. Rather, just some dear acquaintances, sitting around, saying “Oh, hey! Add this line!” Then, having a laugh. This ‘packet,’ that [omitted] wanted to send? It was going to be Rick Ross, crooning about how he was never gonna let me cry, never gonna saaaay goodbye.’

Yep. I get it… I’m being played. Well played, indeed, whomever it might be.

I chuckled as I re-read the email a few times. I got a nut in my head… this… sounded like her. (An internet big-boob lady some of you might know, but maybe not, who has been an internet big-boob lady for much longer than I have.) In my mind? Silly, small elements of the letter did obliquely relate to passing, funny conversations we had had recently. The pieces were fitting together. I texted my friend. The first words out of my thumbs we’re “Ha-ha-ha, very cute. And you almost got away with it, too!”

She was confused, of course. You would act that way, if you’re trying to maintain the ruse.

“Though I have to admit,” I continued, “If you ever want to spend a week in Dubai, I’m down. But you’re paying for it, and you’re *still* coughing up the 10K.”

“What… are you talking about.”

Wait. First rule of pranking — when someone unravels the ruse and calls you out, you give it up, you surrender. Otherwise, that’s cheating. For the prankster, the joke is no longer funny; for the prank-ee, it devolves into dumbness and makes future pranks deceitful and less meaningful. There’s an art to this sort of thing. I started rambling.

“The letter. That email. With the genitals, and the [finance] dude, and the whole vacation in April that would cost, like, I dunno, a hundred-thousand bucks? C’mon. You know better, but I will tip my glass to you, chica.” (I was drinking at the time, as is my nature).

“I really. Have not the smallest idea. Of what you’re talking about, Heather.”

Oh, shit. I know that punctuation-heavy tone. She’s… serious.

I forwarded her the email, and she took a peak. Fine. Wasn’t her. Maybe someone else, but maybe not.

I expected her to give it a scan, and get back to me with a “Bwahahah! God, he took a shot, didn’t he!” Because, hell! It all just sounded like… a little much.

While I waited for her to give it a read, an earlier supposition started to coalesce. I’m really not trying to toot my own horn here… If you’ve gotten to know me at all, you’ll know that I’m not a person who is dominated by some misplaced sense of pride and vanity. That being said? I’m also not unaccoustomed to folks using all sorts of unorthodox methods to get their foot in the door when it comes to approaching me. A mountainous, un-deliverable promise that quickly devolves into “just some dude who wants to lure you into a video chat so he can show you his junk and get his rocks off” is, I think, one of the more common tricks ‘Women of the Internet’ have to put up with these days. This, I was fairly sure, was one of those moments. But whomever it was was going overboard with it. Pfft. Whatever.

“Sounds legit.”

I think my response was something akin to, “.........?”

“Never told you this, I don’t think,” she said. “I did something like that once. Not the best idea in hindsight. I was stupid. The guy was cool, tho. I needed the money, and it was like, why not. It was fine. But this guy’s next level.”

“.......?” (I didn’t text that, again — but that’s what was going through my normally word-filled head)

“Sounds like some fucking good $$$, and he seems to be covering all the I’m Not A Serial Killer or Sex Trafficker bases. Thinking of doing it?”

“………....?”

We said our goodbyes, after I promised her that I would keep her up to date on what was what. Then, I put a dash of brandy into my coffee, and opened up a fresh email. Probably spent about 15 minutes looking at the blinking cursor before I started typing a reply.

[To certainly be continued, y'all. Once I hit the 2,000-word mark on this story, I kinda realized that it's a *rabbit hole.* (And you know I'm serious, because I just put asterisks around a metaphor that is already contained inside of brackets, and followed it up with an expository self-contained parenthetical, so hoooo-nilly!) Anyway, more to come, very shortly.) And in case you're wondering the $64,000 question — is Heather going through with this?! Well... stay tuned, folks. (Or, to use yet another antiquated gameshow slogan, "Two and Two, Right Back At Ya." And if you've actually read this whole freaking thing, and can name the show THAT little lines comes from, I will read it and chuckle, and know that I'm not the only one who was bored as shit during sick days home from school in the '80s.)]

Track 11: The Lightning Round!

[Update — Technical difficulties on the first attempt to upload? I think? Anyway, the audio wasn't working for some of you, so here's try No. 2. Apologies for the blargh! :-) As my grandmother used to say, "Oy, Gevultah!"]

There was a volunteer campaign that the New Zealand government did a little while back, where they asked Kiwis to re-design the flag of the great and glorious nation of New Zealand. A lot of people submitted. One of them was called "Fire The Lazar!" (Seen above as the cover for this post).

Following, is one of the greatest pieces of English-language sentence making I have ever seen, as submitted by the artist along with this masterpiece:

"The laser beam projects a powerful image of New Zealand. I believe my design is so powerful it does not need to be discussed," author James Gray said.

This has literally nothing to do with anything. But! That last sentence gets me. I think it applies to my overall description of this-here lightning round of silly questions that I have answered. Indeed. Verily. Sully forth.

I hope you all have had a good January. For me, it's been weird. But this was fun. I can't wait for you to see what I've got in store for the shortest month of the year. Idd gonnz be goodz. (See IG caption.)

And you know what? I'm opening this post up to everyone. I know some of y'all are hurting right now money-wise, and I can't tell you what your support means, so I want you to hear this, too. It's silly, stupid madness, which is what we all need right now. So, Belated Christmas gift.

Peach and lurb.

Monopoly with a Seven-Year-Old

When I was younger, some friends of the family would hold this annual shit show they affectionately referred to as “The Buddy Bash.” This motley group of friends-since-highschool — otherwise respectable, tax-paying, God-fearing Americans — would generally start on a Thursday, and wrap up around Sunday. The goal? To drink, chat, drink, hang out, drink, and operate open barbecues with ever-decreasing acumen. I am fairly certain the Fire Marshall should have been informed in advance of this annual fete, but as memory serves, he was Lucas’s dad, and when last we heard, he had passed out after a particularly ill-advised keg stand.

During the interim when sleep did occur for this Bacchanalian hoard, it was not unusual, on one's way to the bathroom or the fridge, to see grown-ass-adults passed out on couches, floors, in hallways, and in bathtubs. Motionless bodies, just everywhere. I had only recently seen “Saving Private Ryan,” and couldn’t help but be reminded of that scene at Normandy. At the time, I didn’t have the context to appreciate just how complicated a hangover after one night of reverie could be post-25, but these folks? Three nights? Massive props to ‘em. They’re made of different stuff than I. (Well, the same — usually German-Irish Americans, which tracks. Youth is truly wasted on the young.)

Most of them were parents to children who were unable to participate in the festivities, so us kids would be relegated to the oversized basement-slash-game room. During one of these years, I was the precarious age of 15: too old to be able to identify with the pre-adolescent kiddos; not old enough to have much autonomy, my driver’s license still a Gatsby-esque glimmering beacon of hope, just over the horizon. Thankfully, there were always a few other members of my age group hanging around as well; we knew enough to use the situation to our advantage, and over the course of the weekend, were able to sneak more-than our fair shares of Jell-O shots and a few brewskies.

1999 was a good year. We didn’t even have Nokias yet. The internet was still too slow to be of much use. The Nintendo 64 was solidly a thing (Temple, Slaps Only, One-Hit Kills, No Oddjob). But since members of my otherwise-analog generation hadn’t yet been sullied by digital proclivity, we retreated to board games. And at this house, there were lots and lots of board games.

My jam, and the game I had always been inclined toward, was Monopoly. It’s a game that needs no introduction — I would be shocked if any of you reading this had never played it at least once in your lives. The rules are pretty simple. Acquire wealth through real estate, and strive to be the one with all the resources (a standard that is very important to instill into budding Millennial minds: I will pay rent until I fucking die, and I’ll be damned proud of it!).

So, us older kids would pull out the board, start allocating the cash, and invariably observe the scuffle over who got to be the car. I was a thimble gal, so I never had much competition.

And then, invariably, one of the younger kids — this friggin' kid, especially — would come up to us. “Whaddya doing, I wanna play, toooo!”

OK, fine. “But I wanna be the car!”

We all knew what we were getting into. This particular brat (let’s say his name was… Billy, because I, for the life of me, honestly can't remember) was the sort of feckless mino-schmuck who would end up running to his parents (as he had on several similar occasions that weekend), who were probably balls deep in Yuengling No. 43, if we didn’t let him into the game. “Moooommy, Daaaaaddy, they won’t let me plaaaay!” And then the parents, who just wanted to forget, for one blissful weekend, that they were stuck with this little shit for another 11 years, would just say something along the lines of “Just let him play, would ya?” and our hands would be tied.

Fine, Billy can play. Just give him the fucking car. You get the dog. You get the battleship. 

The rest of us knew the rules. They’re not hard. Roll the dice, buy properties, auctions sometimes, pay rent, go directly to jail, free parking cash allowed, collect your $200 when you 'round 'Go,' yada yada. In my case, I was a bit more of a connoisseur, and while I wasn’t a grandmaster or anything, years of practice had instilled a few strategies.

• In a game with two dice, the most likely number to turn up is 7, with 6 and 8 just behind, and the other numbers, ever-less likely to turn up as they deviate from the middle. 

•The Oranges are the best: return on investment is generous, and you’re only 6, 8, or 9 rolls from the folks getting out of jail. 

• Stay away from the glitz and glamor of Boardwalk and Park Place, at least until you have suitable capital to back you up. 

• Hotels are for fools; as there are only 32 houses available in a standard set, hoarding them creates a shortage, which you can use to your advantage. 

• If a property goes up for auction and nobody wants it, make sure you procure it for as small a price as possible, as it might be valuable later. 

• Don’t save your cash early on, and later in the game, stay in jail for as long as you can. 

• Utilities are useless, and railroads are golden geese. 

• Be shrewd. 

• Be merciless. 

• Make Atlantic City, New Jersey your bitch.

When playing with my contemporaries, I would exercise every approach I could use to my advantage. But, I’m not a complete monster: when playing with the youths, a normal kid of say, 7-years-old, I would go a little easier on ‘em. A lot of little kids just want to have fun, and want to feel like one of the big kids, which I get — we’ve all been there, right?

But Billy? Billy could go straight to hell. I hated that kid. We all did. He was just one of those kids who was just easy to hate.

We knew it was coming.

First roll, older kid, lands on Oriental Avenue. Cool.

Second kid, lands on Chance, advances to St. Charles Place. Alright.

Third kid, Income Tax. Ouch… first move, and you pay $200. Bummer.

Me, Reading Railroad. Sweet, I’ll take it.

Billy. Rolls a 3, lands on Baltic Avenue, $60. He starts to count out an incorrect amount of money — $160 — because public education is terribly underfunded in the United States, and Billy is a blithering, combative moron.

“Billy,” one of us says, “It’s only $60, so you don’t need to pay that much.” Billy thinks for a second, and counts out $30.

“No, Billy, it’s $60. So you need to pay a $50, and a $10. Or three $20s”

“But I don’t want to pay more.”

“Well,” says the older kid, “That’s the price. All of us have paid what we owe, so you have to, too.”

Billy is not thrilled about this, but obliges. As memory serves, Older Kid had babysitting experience, which I imagine instills one with patience when it comes to meretricious budding thugs, as well as a certain level of reasoning ability.

Play continues. Properties are snatched up, and the next couple of rounds move along without incidence. Until Billy lands on Baltic Avenue, which he already owns. He’s ecstatic.

“You all have’ta pay me rent!” He extends his grimy little mitt.

One of the older kids, a note of irritation under his voice. “No, Billy, you already own that property, and you landed on it, so we don’t have to pay you.”

He looks at his card. “It says $4!” Our muscles collectively tense.

Then, in a pre-tantrum timbre that we’d heard a few times during that weekend, “Give me my $4!”

Swear to God, guys. Remember that “Twilight Zone” episode where Bill Mumy wouldn’t get his way, and would send people to the Cornfields? This untenable whippersnapper makes that dude look like one of the kids from “The Sandlot.”

A beat of silence. Jaws clenched. 

And then, it happens. 

The sanctity of the game is compromised as we each start counting out four white bank notes.

We know what this means. Right now? It’s just $4. But it’ll happen again, and while Billy is a moron, he’s no idiot. Precedent has been set. 

Play continues. Eventually, a trio of properties is obtained by one of us. The Yellows. This trio was obtained via bartering between players. But Billy wants in. Billy only has $400 left, but he offers $500, and is unwilling to trade any of his properties. Billy is told that he doesn’t have enough money, and even if he did, this is not his deal to be a part of. Business resumes, but only momentarily, as Billy screams, tears streaming, face red, and runs off to the back yard to consult with Mommy and Daddy.

As the first houses are erected, we hear a  guttural, belch-y shout from the back yard. “Just give him Marvin Gardens, Goddammit!!!”

Billy comes back inside, composed. Almost a little cocky. There's almost... almost a grin on his abominable little mug. He sees the houses on the yellows. As far as he’s concerned, belong to him now.

The game begins to erode. It’s a lost cause. It’s not fun anymore. Billy: 1; The Rest of Us: 0.

Slowly, through something akin to telepathy, we all take the same course: e match Billy’s strategy. If we all just called it a day, and began to pack away the board, Billy would just fucking explode again. So instead, with every move, we create some reason to intentionally lose to Billy. Billy buys a utility, we say that we need to pay him for the heating on the properties we own! When we run low on money and land on one of Billy’s squares, we ask him, very nicely, if he would please accept a property as a form of rent. When Billy passes Go, we all, with feigned reluctance, come up with some reason as to why we all owe him $200. One of us gets up to “use the bathroom.” We know he’s not coming back. So all of his assets go to... You guessed it. Billy.

Before too long, Billy wins. He owns all the things. Game over. Content, smirking, with this most punchable look of superiority, he hops off his chair, and goes to the TV, where he plays Super Mario 64. Alone. The rest of us need a Jell-O shot.

I’ve been thinking about this game of Monopoly a lot lately. When you play a game — any game — it’s important to play by the rules. Within rules, there are expectations, because everyone’s on the same level. Strategies are shaped within the confines. Things might not look too great for me at the moment, but if I power through, and use my guile and grit, and get just a little bit of luck, I can turn things around. That’s where the fun comes from.

But, if you play against an adversary who changes these rules, dashes the expectations, restructures the confines, often in some truly unexpected ways, it’s simply not sustainable. 

Some of the players remain patient. 

Some become angry. 

Some just check out altogether. 

And some of us are just too apathetic to feel anything. 

But all of us simply want it to be over.

I hope you’ve all been well, and that your holidays went as decently as can be expected. I’m sure some of you had to wrangle with cancelled flights, high gas prices, odd family members, and yet another period of time where your plans got turned on their heads. If so, I’m sorry about that.

I don’t really have much care for politics, and I tend to stay away from the news these days. 

We all subscribe to different beliefs, don’t we? Some of us are extremely passionate about those beliefs. But, I’d like to think that most of us fall… somewhere in the middle. Despite our reactions to dashed expectations and restructures confines, I think we all have two things we can agree upon:

The first is this lingering, adaptable, deeply human appreciation for community — this inherited instinct, locked deep within the most ancient lobes of our brains, that what is good for everybody is best for us. In the current context, I would like to believe (and this likely means something different for each individual) that we all share some degree of the fundamental idea that — and I know everyone’s sick of hearing it — we’re all in this together.

The second thing? Billy fucking sucks.

Fucking Cat.

[Editor’s Note: Hola, fans of fiction. So, during Covid, one of my things was to commission artists from around the world to illustrate these “one-offs.” I have a small idea of a story; share it with them; let them have their way with the idea; and then, they illustrate. I finish the story, and post it here.

It’s a bit of a hobby, and it’s ready to be shared {unleashed sounds better?}. So, this is the very first. Many more to come, and very much enjoy. 

If you're a big fan of this, and you really want to see more fiction pieces that go outside the normal BE zeitgeist, leave a comment, please.  In the meanwhilst, Love and peace, and a Happy New Hear. 

Charootizmant,

— H]

###

Fucking Cat.

I swear to God, if you try to nest on me again…

Ah, who cares. It’s just another night. A long day. Taxes filed. It’s a tricky thing to file taxes when you make your money from… a grey space?

But… Fucking cat. This was your fault in the first place. I was just trying to facilitate a little fun.

Egh. Was it, though? Your fault? Fuck me. Probably not. He got that statue. The one we didn’t tell ANYBODY about. It was our little thing. That fat little fucking cursed Venus Goddess Thing that he could hold in his hand and go crazy with.

It was fun for a second there. And who knows. It was my fault. What kind of weird person is it who lets a cat into the room, to stare at you all creepily while you’re just trying to have a good time.

I suppose I should be thankful. When the cat knocked it over, and it crashed to the floor, shattering into 1,000 pieces, it could have been worse. He had some pretty messed up preferences.

He might have closed his eyes, and thought… “I want this chick to be two feet tall.” And then, there we go.

Or, like, something where I can’t fit through a door, or something.

I didn’t really appreciate how far he wanted to go with it. But we were having fun, right? I mean, who cares. Magic isn’t real. But… there it is! All of a sudden, he’s standing there, holding that stupid little piece of clay in his hand, eyes closed, and there I am on the bed, with my boobs just fucking inflating like balloons.

Fucking hated it when he did that. It’s like… You know… they’re kind of attached to me, and this is just… Kind of not the most comfortable thing in the world, because I’ll probably need to take a piss soon, and… Like, let me know, first?

But, whatever. He loves huge boobs. Like, huge. That’s… his thing. And other things. And other things.

So. That night. I was laying in bed. It was his birthday. And, fine. Let him do what he wants. He’s not some shithead or anything. But I remember when these fuckers got so freaking huge… I was thinking, “OK… this is… a bit much.” I always felt that way when things got a little too extreme. It wasn’t some dream. It was… real.

Before, when we were done, he would hold that little statue, close his eyes, and… In a couple of minutes? Back to normal. No harm done, mischief managed. He always held himself back; knew I was alright with it… but… always at the very edge of just not giving a shit.

Fucking cat.

Happy birthday, asshole. There you are, buried in these fucking funsacks, pounding away, when… crash.

The door wasn’t closed. Was it. We were both shitfaced. No telling who left it open. Fucking cat knocked it off the nightstand. Fucking cat.

I didn’t know what the sound was. I couldn’t really see too easily, because, ya’ know, giant-ass tits just kind of sitting there.

Moment of realization. Never really thought about it before. It was always just a thing you kept in a box, wrapped up, all safe and sound.

It took you a second, in your reverie, to process everything. You just acted so cool. No, no, no, it’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok…

I’m not sure what it was in the coming weeks. The fact that you were frustrated that I wasn’t your plaything anymore? The loss of power because that stupid thing you found at an antique shop was just a pile of chunks? Supergluing it back together, and closing your eyes, opening them, and finding that your reality was… just the same as it was a moment ago?

Thank GOD I didn’t let you make me as big as a room. Walking, you know? It’s not a bad thing to be able to do.

You didn’t really think about me too much during that time. I didn’t really leave the house. Just kinda casually quit my job at the bistro. You can’t wait tables this way.

Took all of my savings. And a little bit of begging, borrowing, stealing, and — as much as you disapproved, cam-girling — to afford that reduction. But I pulled it off. There were questions to answer. Not just to you — “Nah, no, please don’t, you’re beautiful, why would you want to ruin your body like that, babe!!!??” — but to, you know… doctors? Still, I found one. He was good. Not cheap. I hauled myself to a fucking taxi. And when I woke up after the surgery? Nice to see the farewell text when my phone got recharged. Would have been nicer if you were… I dunno, in the waiting room?

Didn’t matter. When I got discharged, I could already feel the pressure building under the bandages. It was good for a day or so, but that one night, when you were very-much not around, I had to rip them off.

That was unexpected. For a moment, there they were — my old-school, perky little C-cups. No sign of incision. No bruising, no blood, no sign that things weren’t normal since the early part of that night when the fucking cat did its thing. And, when you did your thing.

I was freaking out. I forgot how you did me wrong for a moment there, and panic-texted you back. You didn’t respond. You moved along.

I heard from you a couple of days later. “Hey, babe, you OK?” Cool.

You even came to the door. At that point, I was… they weren’t hanging down to my thighs yet. It was wintertime, and the sweater hid them enough while the chain on the doorframe prevented you from coming inside. You didn’t really care about me. You just wanted to see what was what.

It’s been alright since then. You moved along, and haven’t called in at least the last week, which is a victory. Not that I’d‘ve answered. So many empty conversations, with my Cheap-Ass Aladdin.

I wonder if you tune in, these days. If you do, I hope you’re happy, and that you’re one of the thousands who are paying $25 a month to see the Barnumesque “Largest Natural Tits In The World!” I still get around, hauling and hefting, and I’ve been able to afford something nicer than you would have preferred for me, when you were cool with me in that bed, close-by and content…

Taxes filed. I didn't forget you, entirely. When I filed with the guy who handles these things, he was willing to establish an Employee Identification Number. The gig economy has its own rules; rules that were different than they were at the bistro. I needed a name for this thing I was doing, in the realm between prostitution and Free Speech.

It took me a second. “Fucking Cat 69, LLC.” I might get audited at some point, simply because of the name. But I think I can afford the legal costs: making bank is a fair consolation prize, I would say, when the trade is being eternally stuck with mammaries both curse’d and enormous.

But tonight, after a few videos, a photo set or two, some Custom Work involving a not-inconsiderable amount of oil, and for God’s sake, finishing off the labor of April 15, I get to take a break, plop these two blobs onto the couch, arrange them properly, and zone out. 

Popcorn isn’t a bad thing; take off the ruby necklace generously contributed by a fan in Luxembourg (who says he’s technically a member of the Royal Class…?), figure out when that soda stain is gonna get cleaned but who cares for now. I haven’t seen Squid Game yet, and I’ve heard it’s pretty OK.

And then, this little animal, who shares my home, jumps up onto the head of the sofa, unaware of the trouble he caused. He looks cocky.

But, that’s the thing about cats. They’re assholes. That’s their nature: they’re unaware; they go about their business; their intent is not to cause problems; they only observe. A catastrophic flick of a tail, and an open door… Hell. If they worshipped them in a place like Egypt, there must have been a reason. Maybe it was because cats are the only creatures in this world who have the sense to inherently reject Small Dick Energy.

I guess I got put in my place by an animal who picked up something that I just didn’t.

As long as he doesn’t do that nesting thing on my left tit, spill my popcorn, and spoil Squid Game for me.

Fucking Cat.

We Could’ve Had Pi.

I like to imagine, sometimes, the smaller moments in history. These instances we all know about, but we just don’t know the details. Like the Defenestration of Prague: did you know there were three of those? The second one didn’t count, apparently.

But who cares about the act itself. I want to know what the conversation was all about. What series of interactions did these folks have beforehand that led them to come to the conclusion that, “Hey, you know what? Let’s chuck this asshole out of the window!” And everyone just kinda went with it. Three separate times. That just tickles me.

For every important event in history, there’s a series of chats that we’ll never be able to fully appreciate. There are just too many walls, and only so many flies. So, we make them up for ourselves, because it just dun be more funner that way.

For example… Consider a day in the not-too-distant past, when a bunch of stressed out folks were sitting around some enormous Dr. Strangelove table in Geneva.

Dr. Meuller takes off her glasses and massages the bridge of her nose. “So… Ok. What are we going to call this thing?”

Dr. Hernandez turns to page 144 of the binder in front of him. “It looks like… the next one is ‘Nu.’

A few groans around the room. Dr. Smith chimes in. “Nope. It’ll just be a whole ‘Who’s On First?’ thing, and everyone’ll be confused.

Dr. Anagunye turns his head. “What is ‘Who’s On First’”

“It’s this old comedy thing in The States,” Dr. Smith replies. “Who’s on first, What’s on second… It’s baseball, but also, that’s their names, and the other guy is really crazy and is getting really mean about it. I’ll send you the YouTube”

Dr. Anagunye nods slightly, and in a tone not particularly judgemental says, “Americans are very strange people.” Nobody disagrees.

“I mean, can you imagine the memes???” from Chuck, the new intern. He’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and everyone is just kind of sick of him at this point. “Like, it’ll be Nu, which sounds like New! And then everyone is gonna say, ‘it’s the New one, and then, when there’s another one, it’ll be the old one, but everyone will still say that the new one is the new nu, and…” He trails off. Everyone gets the picture, Chuck.

“What’s the next one?” Dr. Mueller again, desperately looking forward to getting a drink.

“Oh, shit, you’re not gonna like this,” Dr. Mueller says, tracing his finger to the next line of the page. “Xi.”

“Nooooo!” Not uttered by one single voice, but more of a din. Even Chuck gets this one. He doesn’t want China to get pissed, just as much as the next guy.

“What’s the next one?”

“Looks like… Omicron.”

“Hmm… Welp! OK.” Followed by a series of “Yeah, why nots” from around the table.

“Alright,” says Dr. Mueller. “Let’s get started on the press releases.”

Everyone mutters in agreement, and begins to gather their belongings.

“Ummm… Guys?” Chuck again, raising a timid finger. Everyone turns to see what’s what with this intern, the one nobody even wanted around, if he wasn’t some senator’s kid.

“Yes. Chuck. What is it.”

“It just sounds… a little Transformers-y, you know? I mean, like… ‘Omicron.’ Like, that’s the name of the bad guy’s spaceship in that horror movie from the ‘60s? Or like… well, it just sounds like the name for, um… well… a deadly plague. But like, one that a bad writer would have just… I dunno… come up with? And then everybody would be like, they wouldn’t buy it…? Like, you know those movies! Right? The low-budget ones they make that ripoff the big blockbusters so they can trick you into accidentally watching that one instead? Like, what’s that old book? The Andromeda Strain? The ‘Omicron Variant’ is like a knockoff? ‘Cause it just sounds… I dunno… bad? But like… Stupid-bad? I just think that everybody’s had such a weird time lately, it might be nice if we didn’t name it something that’s so…” The staring from around the room is beginning to burn a hole into poor Chuck. “Terrifying.”

Everyone is tired. They hate Chuck. They all want him to ‘Go Chuck Himself.’ That’s literally what they say around the office, behind his back. They return to shoving laptops into sleeves.

Poor Chuck. Chuck actually had a good point there. Sadly, they all sort of agree with Chuck. But they didn’t want to give him that point, because, again, they hate Chuck. But maybe if he would have listened for a moment and ditched his pride, Dr. Hernandez would have looked to the next line on the page to discover, “pi.”

Pi. Like the stuff you eat. And at the holidays! And, a number that everyone loves to hate (just like Chuck). And, yeah, a letter in the Greek alphabet. And also… just more of a friendly word? And also, why the hell not, because you just skipped the other two anyway, and what, is anyone concerned about running out of letters, or something? Screw it, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.

And chuck would have been super-right — imagine the memes!

We could have called it Pi, is all I’m saying.

I’m on Team Chuck.

Silly moons.

And big trees.

And empty plates.

And the patience of geckos, who are waiting for a snack.

Yeah, I acknowledge the entendre.

Found a thing.

Written on the back of a street-side stumble-upon. I wonder about Fausto. Seems like a nice fella.

Damned what you know.

Remember that episode of “The Twilight Zone?” where the dad from “My Three Sons” flipped a quarter into the newsie’s coin box, and it stood on its side, and for that whole day, he could read peoples’ minds?

I laid down a beer can, randomly, and it stood on its corner. It’s been that way for about an hour. It’s freaking me out just a bit. But that’s ok. Better insight. Careful what you wish for.

Track 10: The Pros. Plus, a Little Sentimental Ditty.

I think, in a bunch of these previous audio files, I've sort of addressed the cons of having big boobs. Which is a bummer, because there are actually some good parts, too. It's a mixed bag, and I'll be the first to admit that some of it's gonna sound a bit strange. But, hey. I'm a bit of an oddball, #NatAndOlga, or no. 

Plus, I took the liberty of sticking a wee little ukulele number in there. As always, I know I am not Ella Fitzgerald, but I hope you enjoy anyway.

Oh, opening music: Minor Swing, but Django Reinhardt. I've been on a bit of a Django kick lately. 

Anyway, much love, and go in peace. :-)

Post Mortem: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Take a Forbidden Stroll Down Memory Lane

When you’re a big boob lady on internet, you tend to gravitate toward other big boob ladies on internet. There aren’t a huge number of us, but we’re a decent, motley crew. I’m not gonna name names or anything, but suffice it to say, some of us don’t know each other at all; some of us are just passing acquaintances; some of us are actually really good friends. I suppose that makes sense: just because you’ve got shockingly rockin’ curves, doesn’t mean you’re just gonna find a new bestie. But as a conversation starter? It doesn’t hurt.

[Editor’s Note: Though, aside from these folks, every once in a while, you meet someone astonishing, and they become a huge part of your life. You know who you are, and I think a lot of you reading this might have a pretty good idea, too. Such Big Kissies. But we’ll get to YOU later. :-*]

Shop talk, you know? This might or might not come as a surprise, but aside from the ways we choose to present ourselves online, we’re all actually pretty normal. Some of us are bookish geeks who enjoy old movies; some of us have spouses and kids; some of us raise goats; work in shops; go to school; get really farty sometimes, after eating too many chicken nuggets.

And when I say “we,” I’m not even necessarily talking about internet big boob ladies. I’m talkin’ about all of us. It’s no secret that social media allows each of us to present an idealized version of ourselves to the world. And, so it goes. Worship the Almighty Algorithm. Welcome the Benevolent Overlords. Embrace Big Brother. At least, for now, we all get to choose the content we put out there, even if it does present a somewhat distorted version of our realities. Oh, well. For what it’s worth, I’m glad none of you has to ever see just how drool-y I am when I wake up in the morning. (Though I’m sure Rule 34 contains a provision for that).

For whatever it’s worth, these conversations aren’t really as sexy as most might fantasize them to be. It’s not some apotheosis of what ‘80s sorority flicks would have you believe. Nothing akin to pillow fights in panties, or slow-motion water hose battles. The only wet T-shirts come from finishing up the dishes. Truth be told, there’s not even a lot of the moderately sultry minutia, like, “Hey, where do you get your bras?” (we all have our go-tos) or “You send me yours, I’ll send you mine.” For the most part, it’s at best, silly conversation with a like-minded soul who has had some unique, similar experiences. At the most mundane, it’s helping a lady out by giving her a shout or swapping notes about some new platform.

New platforms, indeed. I think something most of us big boob ladies on internet have in common is Instagram, that grand reluctant go-to, and its slow decline into puritanism. It's the biggest platform, so it's kind of automatic. But, when it comes to presenting a somewhat unique body that's, for better or worse, defined by secondary sex organs, it gets problematic, no matter which way you cut it. 

Their nudity and sexual “behavior standards” are fairly vague, and I think intentionally so: No naked buts, but a thin line of a thong is OK(?); no bare breasts, except in paintings or when it relates to breastfeeding or surgery (no guarantee there either); no solicitation for sex and none of the heavier stuff, which sure, I get, there are other places online for that, God knows.

But as far as any other specifics? Instagram keeps that info under wraps, because I think they treat it “on a case-by-case” basis. Which sounds nice on the surface… but also gives them a tremendous amount of leeway for arbitrary ambiguity. There’s something a little cringy/dystopian about it. There was a landmark Supreme Court case on censorship and free speech in 1964, Jacobellis v. Ohio, in which Justice Stewart said, regarding obscenity, “I’ll know it when I see it.” I dunno: seems inconsistent, to me.

As I’m sure you can imagine, the boob aspect has caused me to run afoul from time to time. Common consensus among internet big boob ladies is that if we were to post an identical image with C cups, we’d be just fine — it’s the simple fact that our boobs are just freaking huge that makes us inherently obscene. Which is… not a great thing when you’re just trying to function in a society, let alone on some fucking social media platform. 

Who can blame 'em, though, right? I mean, "You know us when you see us."

Suffice it to say, I’ve had my fair share of images taken down. Only a few! And not for at least a year now — I’ve been a good girl! I think one was because… my nipple was poking just a little TOO much through a T-shirt? Another was a little video where they were fully-clothed, braless, and — GASP! — moving slightly in accordance with gravity and inertia?! The other was… I can’t remember, but it was like, half of a hand-bra. Oh tHe HuManiTy!!!1! tHiNk aBouT tHe iNdEcenCy!!

Those of you who have followed me for a while know that “steamy sexpot temptress” is not really my speed. I like sharing, and having some fun every now and then, and using this madness as a framework for rambling essays punctuated by some (more often than not) casual, demure, easy-going pics of me and Nat and Olga. If I dare say, a high-minded alternative to the OnlyFans route. You’re here because you want to be, because you like what I do, and that’s simply delightful. I really can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. (You clever bloke, you.)

Which is why it was so strange that, back in September, I logged in to find that my account was no more. Just a weird husk with a notice that I violated the terms of service. Au revior, 140,000 followers.

[Editor's Note: Yeah, I'm in full ramble mode. But I promise, there are some pics here, and I'm getting around to some vague point]

It’s not that the loss of the followers bugged me so much. Some of them are lovely folks; some of them really enjoy the content; I’m sure a huge number were just bots, so who the hell cares. I had a backup account (plan ahead, people) so I got to work on repopulating that. Sully forth, and carry on, and my bestest buddies, like those of you reading this, were able to ride the wipeout along with me.

But! I had some great stuff in there! Pics I definitely don’t have just lying around anymore; captions I really took some time crafting; observations and life lessons… in a way, it was a sort-of mini-diary, and it all represented a really transitional time in my whole life. I could scroll through that old feed and see the instances where I changed, evolved.

That’s a huge tragedy, especially for a writer. The reason it didn’t devastate me is because… I got lucky. Only a few weeks before the downfall, I got a wild hair up my ass to request a complete download of all the content I’d ever posted on Instagram. I’d never done it before, but I stumbled across the option, decided ‘why the hell not,’ and a few days later, they sent me a link. Phew. 3.6 roentgen. Not great, not terrible — at least 96% of the content itself is safe and sound.

When I regained my footing, I reached out to a few of my old buddies, who were more than happy to broadcast that 'my old account was dead, and here’s where you can find your old buddy, Heather.' We all do that for each other — it’s our big boob lady on internet code.

One of my oldest friends hit me back. I didn’t know this, but her account has been shut down, like, a jillion times in the last several years. She’s always been able to petition to get it up-and-running again, and had some great advice on that. “You have a month, and there’s always a new person reading it, and you can send off one reactivation request a day, so do that!” (Fine advice, but it didn’t work for me — won’t go into details, but I got stonewalled by Facebook frogginess, and for reasons I’ve already touched upon, was pretty quick to say, “fuck it, move on.”)

She had other advice, too. Stuff she was able to discern through her own experience. Stuff that I find helpful, and have parrotted from time to time lately to other friends who have gone through the same thing. Many of these rules, again, don’t apply to the normally boobed of the world, but hey. Modern problems require modern solutions. So:

• Zero nudity, even in DMs. They scan those, too, including links.

• No "hand bras."

• No clever edits, and that includes strategically placed emojis.

• If it even LOOKS like you’re not wearing clothes, or not even wearing a shirt — even if you can’t even see the boobs — it’s still nudity, and you’re risking it.

• Don’t take a chance by wearing anything sheer, even if the nipples are covered.

• If it’s NOT nudity, like wearing a shirt, no videos where there’s clear, undulating, jiggly motion of the bewbs. 

• No posts where the focus of the images is clearly on a nipple that is clearly represented through the fabric of a top.

• Show all the cleavage at your own risk. Side boob is riskier. Underboob is verboten.

• Not the best idea in the world to do any hefting, smushing, or other similar interactions. In other words, keep your damn hands off your own tiddies, or society will crumble.

• This one pisses me off the most: Just really, "Don’t show too much boob, in general." (Just makes me want to throw up my hands and say, “So what the fuck am I supposed to do?!” And then do a Khaby Lame “SEE?” double hands at the girls.

Ah, well. The one thing I've been wondering, and that I’ve touched on this before… is, was it one post that really killed the old account? Or was it sort of a collection of straws that broke the camel’s back?

Since I can never show these on Instagram again, obviously, and since Twitter is great and all, but I just really fucking hate it, truth be told, AND, since I have the whole IG archive… I thought it would be kinda fun to post all the images here that could’a killed my old account. Examine the suspects, like in some Agatha Christie novel.

Some of you may have seen some of these images before; it’s possible you haven’t, either. So if this is your first time, enjoy. If not, enjoy a little stroll down mammary lane (Seriously, I just couldn’t resist, Lord, I’m an idiot.) while we conduct a post mortem on Heather's IG, v.1.0.

1. Where Light Cannot Escape

Caption: So, I opened up this article (hed is in slide 2️⃣, so Google if you're so inclined) anticipating a pleasant little piece of satire. It set itself up as something the Onion would normally produce, so I was expecting a chuckle or two. Instead, I discovered that the venerable (?) Slate had given over the science desk to a person who (presumably) would rather argue about Japanese soufflé pancake pictures she found an Instagram. Seriously, person whose name is also Heather (no relation): do you have any idea of the effort, collaboration, time, technology, and wherewithal it took to gather this image (fiiiiine, composite) of a picture of a BLACK HOLE (fiiiine, its silhouette)? Are you actually complaining that an image that occupies 1/60 millionth of an arc second of the sky doesn't have the same 4K high-def quality that you would find at a Lily Pulitzer runway show? Surrender your desk to someone who knows the difference between an M and a B, and who knows that light years are not a measure of time, but of distance (seriously, those corrections [slide 3️⃣] were hilarious). Go back to determining through BuzzFeed-style polls which cat would end up in which Hogwarts house. Or convince the 18-hour-a-day editor who cynically green-lit this un-researched piece of poop that if you're going to call yourself a journalist, that your first responsibility is to INFORM THE ELECTORATE; not to cast whiny judgment on a topic you don't even care to understand (like the awesome slide 4️⃣). And please, most of all — don't force a woman who flashes her boobs on Instagram (see slide 1️⃣) to explain why you're not the greatest benefit to scientific journalism. Oops. Too late.

Ohhh, yeah, this would definitely be one of those that violates the emoji rule. In this case, screenshots. Don't worry about the other slides: it was just some snarky article about how the black hole photograph sucked. Derp, OK. YOU take a fuckin' photo of a black hole, then. The corrections slide was great, though. The source had to issue like, three of them, because the writer was all over the place, confusing age with lightyears, and mass with size, and all that kinda derpy jizz. 

2. A Little Nap

Caption: Observation No. 5627 of life with big boobs: you always have a pair of pillows in front of you. Observation No. 5628: surprisingly, it's not as comfy as you'd think. Get the full (evolving) story on my Patreon page, link in bio. #boobsfallasleep #pinsandneedles #macromastia

I thiiink this one should have gotten removed just because of weird points. I'm sure there's some guidebook, somewhere at IG headquarters, that has some specifics about what's allowed, and what'll scar people for life. Also, pretty sure there, not an entry about semi-exposed boob pillows. 

3. Beware The Cleavage Monster (Which is Apparently a Pineapple)

Caption: A lot of you have recently asked if I post topless pics on my Patreon. The short answer is: yeah, sometimes, but not lately, though I will again in all likelihood. There's only a handful of them up there right now, along with clothed pics, videos, memes, amusing stuff I've stumbled across, and mostly, writings about my unique life with a condition called macromastia (also some original fiction!). Topless is a part of my Patreon like my nipples are a part of me: they're there, no doubt about it, but they're not the defining characteristic of who I am. There's more to this chick than her nickname would imply. In short, if you're interested in a "here are my bare breasts, now give me money" page, your $$$ will be better spent elsewhere. However... if you want to know about the absurd stuff and odd observations that come with life as an average though (very and newly) large-breasted woman, then stop on by. 💁🏻🙌🏻💃🏻

Oh, another early violator of the emoji rule. This pic was early, too. Fun to see how some of my philosophies have changed, and how some have stayed the same... 

4. Skirts as Tops are Actually Really Fun. 

Caption: So that video got cut by the powers that be. I guess nipples, even through cloth, are verboten. Which I'm mainly bummed about because it messed up my flow of selfie/meme/selfie/meme/etc. Anyway, here's a still with some strategic stickers, guaranteed to not offend. Sorry my anatomy was an affront. 🙄 At least the video is still on the Patreon.

I remember this one! Yeah, the video that went with this screenshot was originally on IG for like, 2 hours, and it got pulled. I THINK it's still here in the Patreon — I don't have a lot of videos on this platform, but there's a little button you can hit on my main page that'll sort all the videos for you, so it shouldn't be too hard to find. I remember that made me super-paranoid when it got taken down, so I reposted a picture, clothed, but with some nipple action taking place, and did a couple of emojis... that was a weird one. Haven't thought about that in ages. 

5. The Underboob Cometh

Caption: The holidays are a little weird. I've seen a lot of memes going around illustrating this idea that time doesn't exist between Christmas and New Year's. Most of us have off, the majority of us are so fucking anxious that we have no idea what to do with ourselves, should we have a drink at 10 o'clock in the morning? Why the hell not. Should we be doing something productive? Like taking the free time to catch up on work, check in with our families, work on that novel? Or just binge watch Black Mirror on Netflix while we count down the minutes until life gets back to "normal?" Well, the holidays aren't over yet. Here's a belated Christmas something. So, what are you all doing for New Years?

Here's a two-fer. Wanna know the thing about this post? This was like, a year before Covid. Ennui for the win, ammiright? But yeah... Severe underboob, AND hefting? I'm surprised they didn't brand a but letter "A" to my head. 

6. Yeah, Actually, This One's Definitely... Um... I was Hungover, OK?

Caption: If you can dream—and not make dreams your master; If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; [...] Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it. — R. Kipling, “If—“

I know, I know. Favorite poem. I think someone will agree with me on this one. (And funny enough, posted in September, 2020, before I even knew you! Huh!) Anyway, woooah! Totally shocked this was not torn down immediately! Still I like this one. I look hungover (as is my nature), and Olga is just being a little bitch. 

7. Meh.

Caption: So, running is out of the question. There’s not really a swimming pool nearby. And as much as I would really fancy a good fencing match, it’s hard to engarde while maintaining proper social distancing. So, I found an old mat, and have been *trying* my hand at yoga again. Damn, I suck at being flexible. But, perfect a cream sauce during quarantine I have, and I’ve been gathering the pudge to show for it! I will say that I’ve had to adapt some of the steps of a sun salutation, but who knows? If I get really good at it, maybe they’ll give me a Masterclass on Exercising While Busty.

Not one that I think they would ever take down, BUT... Something that earns me some interesting stares/nasty looks in public, which I think is kinda mean. 

8. OK, I'll Give 'Em This One. 

Caption: Just posted a wordy little piece of feel-goodery on the Patreon. (Link in bio.) Got to feel all wise and mentory, which is never a bad feeling, especially when it comes to trading off the fact that I’m pushin’ 38. With age comes wisdom? That and an increased tolerance for alcohol if you play your cards right. The companion pic to this one was probably just a *skosh* too nipply for the ol’ Gram, but I dug it, so that’s up there, too. #InspirationAnd38Rs ☮️&❤️, y’all.

Oh, yeah, you know what? As I said in a previous post here, I think this is probably a big contributor to what done it. I could almost kinda feel this one was gonna get me in trouble. But like a petulant toddler, I wanted to test my limits. I like this pic. But it violate some of the commandments. Setting myself up for disaster? Table for one, please!

9. Shirts are Hard, OK?

Caption: If we didn’t have bigger problems in the world, I’m sure I would be all about campaigning for nipple freedom. That being said, this little blue planet sticker has come in handy on a bunch of occasions. (Luckily, my Patreon [link in bio] lets me get away without such silliness.) If it wasn’t (probably) trademarked by somebody else already, I would likely put it on a teeshirt. That little guy has helped me through a lot. Segue! Why not use this as a chance to tell y’all that I’ve got some merch? Teeshirt junkie me, but I’ve already ordered a form-fitting sample of each one: celebration of the warmer months, soon to come, and a way to share some fabulous designs I’ve collaborated on, in wearable form. Care for a closer look? Head to HeatherWithTheShirts, followed by the usual punctuation mark and suffix. (I’m still an amateur in the teeshirt arts; if there’s anyone fluent, I always welcome tips!) Special shouts to these lovely artists for the incredible art: 4️⃣ @iurypadilha.art 6️⃣ @suppressed_imagination 7️⃣ @franchesxka And 3️⃣... yeah, yeah, I fixed the typo. 🤣🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️

Yeah, what can I say. I was feeling a little froggy about the whole notion of censorship, and I was on my T-shirt kick. I had baked ENOUGH for one lifetime, thank you very much, and was trying to change things up a little. 

10. I'll Die on This Hill.

Caption: Well, that was interesting. Over the last several years, Christmas has always stressed me out. Not the holiday itself, but because some sort of life altering drama seems to take place during the season. Usually family stuff. I have this old saying, “I wonder what’s going to mess up Christmas this year.” That makes me sound cynical, doesn’t it? I don’t mean to. And I don’t wanna kill anybody’s buzz. I really do, and I mean this from the bottom of my heart, wish you and everyone you care about the happiest and most splendid of holiday seasons. But, with the big day just over the horizon, I think I’ve gotten over this year’s iteration of whatever bullshit is going to be thrown around, and for what it’s worth, I’m relatively uncovered in poop. Knock on wood! Now, all that’s left is to plot out how I’m going to spend the day. I think I’m going to binge watch a bunch of old movies, and I’m going to make an entire tray of stuffing. Just literally bread that’s been soaked in chicken stock, and baked. And I’m going to eat the entire damn thing. Also mulled wine. And chocolate. And, oh... Steak au Poivre. Yeeeeeah. That’s a good side dish.

Man, I don't know what it is. I just get weird around Christmastime. Maybe not weird... anxious? Restless? Those underboob ones a few pics back, same deal. Almost exactly two years earlier. What the heck is it? Huh. Anyway, I posted this with a willing abandonment of the nipple-pokage clause. Nat's nip is all just like, Hey, Bitches, What The Hell You Gonna Do About It. Good Nat.

11. More of an Abstract, Really. 

Caption: Not exactly an out-in-public piece of attire. But on a sweltering day like today? Yeah... fine, Patreon buddies. Maybe you're right. It's a little worn out, but I might keep this top after all, as an around-the-house kinda thing... at least for one more season, anyway.

I think this gets a pass. I mean, you could be looking at anything, right? I mean it could be... Like, a sort of... You know... One of those... OK. It's boobs. 

You know them when you see them. 

Hole.

One of my favorite artists is Ralph Steadman. By all accounts, he is a perfectly delightful man. Kind, friendly, outgoing, rightfully eccentric, and just generally good.

If you don’t know him, Google will remind you. He’s that guy. His work is dark, and gritty, and fierce, and just very scary, in a lot of ways.

An interviewer asked him, “Why are you such a congenial person, yet, why does your work exude this demonic essence?”

Ralph, to his credit, replied, “I just get the darkness out onto the paper, my dear.”

Fabulous man.

I certainly don’t profess to be Ralph Steadman. But I’ve always adored that philosophy for as long as I’ve known about it: letting it all dump out onto the page, and see what order-from-chaos happens.

I’ve envied visual artists, partially because, I suppose, they can make the happy accidents seem just a little more intentional. In my case, when you’re dealing with 26 letters, 10 numbers, 13 punctuation marks, and a Wi-Fi connection… Well, that’s all you’ve got.

Oh, who knows. Creativity rests in the limitations.

And, for fucks sake! I’m not even a poet. Lord knows real poets and I have a lot in common… There’s nothing more satisfying, and yet torturous, then dangling a comma for an entire afternoon. But still!

I don’t do poetry very often, and this one, by the time it’s it’s done, will be very different than it is now. I just thought you might like to see… a first draft? Is that what poets call this kind of thing?

As always, and in any case… For what it’s worth. Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society.

(Or… Worshiper of the external Buddha? 🤷🏻‍♀️ That’s for you, A.)

(Also, not a good “reading poem”. Definitely more of a speak out loud type a deal. Anyway.

Fuck.

It’s just that… A dear friend of mine once told me to never apologize for my cooking, and I’ve tried to take that to heart. Same ‘ish here.)

Provecho.

###

I sat by a hole in the not distant past, when the big of the stuff had run through.

I looked in the void; the void didn’t look back. But what’s a big void gonna do?

That’s why they’re called voids: they don’t laugh, or cry. They don’t eat, they don’t sleep — they don’t even poo!

They’re empty and spaceless and vast, endless things.

Not barren… but peaceful. And tranquil. Not black;

If I had to describe it, more… blue.

When the big of the stuff was at last calming down, and I no-longer wanted to die, I still was quite mad (and I still don’t know why), that the void was so quiet. Like f’real — “fuck you.”

I spent more time with the void than preferred. It didn’t say nothing! Not even a word! A “Hey, how’s it going?” would certainly do, for a void that’s so howlingly quiet as you.

But quiet it stayed, so when the sun got too high, I packed up my things, to go wandering away. I traveled a step, perhaps, maybe two. When a tone from the ground made me stumble and sway.

I had no idea why this din caught my ear. Curiosity, kinda (or a little bit fear?). If I just tilt my head, will it get somewhat clear? (I tried that before, and got kicked in the rear.)

I turned back around for that one step or two, and gave one last look at the deep, stale blue. When you feel that sound? What else can you do! But, be lured right back to the deep, stale blue?

Then finally, strangely, the rumbling stopped. Clouds covered the sun, and the temperature dropped. Then as clear as a bell! As loud as its ring! The void muttered one magnificent thing:

“Sorry to say so, but sadly, it’s true. I hope you don’t mind… I don’t think about you.”

The blue hole grew quiet, and the sun came back out. I tried hard to figure what the void talked about…

It all should have hurt much worse than it did, to hear such a callous remark. Apathetic at best; just mean at the worst — uncaring, and hollow, and stark.

“Just lie, you big shit!” I wanted to say. But… I didn’t say nothing, and went on my way: there was nothing more that the void could convey! Why listen for more? Should I sit there all day?

Its point was quite clear; at least it was honest; I can’t really foul it for this. A void is a void, and that’s what voids do. But the sun was too hot, and I needed to piss.

At sunset that day, I was far from the void; it seemed like a lifetime before. I was drinking a beer, and propping my feet… when I felt a dull humm from the floor.

Podiatric Health

Fear not, ladies and germs. While it is not entirely uncommon for days to pass without me ever actually laying eyes on them, I have been informed that my feet are, in fact, in excellent condition, and that there’s no cause for concern.

Well, I mean, at least my left one is, if this picture is to be believed. Haven’t the foggiest where my right one might be…

Best case scenario, it’s being eclipsed by Olga. Worst case scenario, it’s just… run off again.

(Please give me only one bonus point for that extremely, extremely loose pun.)

ChirpChirpChirp.

That’s the thing about quiet moments. They can be so damned quiet.

I’m a night owl. There is something refreshing about the idea that between roughly 1 a.m. and 5 a.m., the world is asleep and doesn’t really demand anything from you. I can putz around (putzing being one of my most cherished pastimes), and just kinda do my own thing. Writing, reading a book, swearing that this is the last episode I’m gonna watch before turning in for the night. I think I get it from my grandmother. Back in her heyday, she could usually be found in the kitchen, 2 a.m., whipping up a pair of apples pies, just for the fuck of it. She was a workaholic who enjoyed this leisure time, and since she was one of those people who was so genetically blessed, demanded only four hours of sleep a night, if that. (Not this girl, however — if I don’t get my 8 hours, I’mm'a be a mess. But ditto on the apple pies at 2 a.m. part: that’s the shit, right there. Plus, you have pie in the morning!)

But, when you’re so terribly alone in this nocturnal realm of your own construction, it’s easy to feel like a ghost. There’s a saying I heard once, and while it applies more generally to drinking heavily and having to suffer the hangover the next day, you’re “borrowing happiness from tomorrow.” Sleep works in a similar way. I’m self-employed, and my clients are usually many time zones behind me anyhow, so ideally, my workday doesn’t even begin sometimes until early afternoon, which has its upsides and downsides.

I think the magic number is 4 a.m. There’s another old saying, that “nothing good can happen after 4 o’clock in the morning,” and I think there’s some truth to it. It’s actually substantiated by popular culture on a pretty consistent, if subliminal basis — something wonderfully observed by the poet Rives, who gave this lovely TED talk, if you’re interested.

Anyway. When you’re a ghost, it’s easy to wander around, blindly, and get more than you asked for. Call it a second wave if you’d like, but there’s a punch of regret that can sometimes come when you’re feeling perfectly tired, but decide to catch one more episode of The Good Place, and before you know it, you’re wide awake in bed 3 hours later, eyes closed but brain still spinning, cursing yourself because you know minutes are ticking by, and you can’t sleep, which makes it even harder to sleep, because shit, the sun is gonna be up in a few minutes, and my circadian rhythms will figure out my clever ruse and say, “Wait a minute, you silly bitch — the sun is coming out? What the hell are you doing?!”

Seriously, that’s a thing with me. Let’s say the first glimmer of indigo opposite-twilight begins to become faintly visible at… 5:30 a.m. If I get to sleep at 5:25? I’m golden. I might be awake at noon, and ready to face the day. 5:35? I’m positively buggered, and will be groggy as hell when I lug myself out of bed at 4.

I won’t say it’s insomnia. That’s a real thing that a lot of people have and suffer from, so I don’t wanna say, “Yeah, that’s me too, so slap it here, brother!” But it feels like it sometimes. Hardest thing in the world to get it right again, especially when you come to the point where you realize that humans are kinda meant to be up with the sun, and down with the stars.

On nights like these, where sleep doesn’t come, there’s some tossing and turning. Which, if you think about it? Is not the easiest thing in the world to casually do if you’ve got two undulating (is that the right word? Kinda. How’s “unruly and jiggly” sound?) bowling balls just kinda hanging out on your chest. There’s a lot of hefting if you’re hunkered down and decide that, tonight, sleeping on your right side is the way to go instead.

It’s funny, but that’s actually a question I get a lot. If you haven’t thought about it beforehand, it sounds a little absurd, but it’s actually a pretty good question, question-wise. How do you sleep?

The short answer is, of course, “On a pile of hundred-dollar bills left over from my days as a gentlewoman rumrunner.” But that’s a whole different story altogether, and I guess that’s not what they’re really asking, anyways.

I’m a star-fishy side-sleeper. I used to be a stomach sleeper, but now? There’s just too much of me in the way to smoosh.

Sleeping on my back… kind of a no-go, I mean, I can, but it’s just about comfort and physics. If I’m lying flat on my back, ol’ Nat and Olga are big enough to solidly rest on the bed to either side of me, just under my armpits. But then, I’m just kind of stuck there unless I perform the two-handed reach-over and heft one up.

There’s not a lot of leeway skin elasticity wise. A 10 pound boob ain’t light, so that’s a lot of unnecessary tugging on my rib cage, anyway. And the middleground of resting one on top of me isn’t really an option either. First of all, it would just kind of roll off, like The Great Jell-O Cascade. But? If I was battening it down with a tight shirt or something, again, 10 pounds is just a lot to have sitting there all night. I enjoy breathing, thankyouverymuch.

And then, with a pile of boob on each side of me? It limits where I can put my arms. Folded on top? Out to the sides, crucifix style? Weirdly bent atop N&O, giving them little scratchies? Eh. For me, it’s just not a very comfortable way to sleep.

So, I sleep on my sides. Not ideal, but it's the only option left, really. Let’s say I’m sleeping on my left-hand side… I’ll get under the covers, lay back, and Heft Olga (she’s the right one) over to my left side.

I take a moment to arrange them into place: In that case, my Natalia is sort of resting up against my belly; Olga is sort of more straight in front of me, under my chin, and then, they sleep, side to side. (God forbid I get that faint tingling that reminds me that I'm gonna have to piss before too long. Staying hydrated is a bitch.)

But, if all goes well, my left arm is either curled up underneath the pillow, or is just sort of pinned underneath the girls. And my right arm is just kinda draped across them. It's actually kinda comfy, once I'm all in place. They should start selling such pillow arrangement, I think. Maybe I can have my own line at Target. Suck it, Martha Stewart.

Don’t get me wrong. If I’m just having a super lazy day, and I just want to lay in bed and binge on Netflix, or something, I’ll put a bunch of pillows underneath me, and sort of recline on my back. Natalia and Olga get their own pillows too. Sort of elevates them a little so I can move around a bit more freely without tugging too much. Sometimes I just end up resting my phone on Nat, and keep a plate of snacks on her sister, laptop on, well, my lap… Probably fairly absurd to see from the outside, but you can’t say it’s not handy...

Geez, Louise, look at me. I’m rambling. I get like that if the hours go on for too long…

Maybe I should get some sleep.

Track No. 9 — "So, if you could choose..."

This one is kinda an answer that leads to another question. I do get asked a lot, "If you could pick an ideal breast size, how big do you think you would want to be?" The answer is... complicated. I think I did a pretty good job of laying it all out here, and since I'm just about to post a pretty decent chunk of breast expansion fiction in the coming weeks and months... this does a fine job of answering that unasked question, too. 

I'm probably just sounding confusing at this point. So just go ahead and lend an ear. :-*