heatherbeck

45.6 Billion

[Editor's Note: I promise, the freaky-deeky mask will make sense by the end of this essay. If it's simply silly, which is my intent, I hope it gives you a chuckle. If, however, it's giving you... mixed feelings... my apologies. Consider it... my contribution to any Halloween spookiness you might be in for this weekend. Still kinda funny, though. Hope the fact that I'm wearing my "Dayum, Boiii! Let's hoist-em-high and make 'em proud!!" underwire makes up for it. So..... Without further ado.]

A little late to the game, so to speak. But I finally did what many of us have done, and I binge watched Squid Game.

Even when I was a little kid, my favorite part of blockbuster was the horror section. And my favorite flicks were those early-'80s gore fests that hit their peak in that era just when bloodbath exploitation flicks had settled into the mainstream. I have no clue why my family let me watch them, but it's not like I ever lost any sleep, or thought there were monsters in my closet, so I guess it was cool. I was a weird kid. 

So when I first saw the trailer for the show, I knew it was right up my alley. And, I enjoyed it. I might even watch it again. There are some elements that are kinda hackneyed, but the character development did it for me, there were enough twists to keep it interesting, and it was visually arresting. I'm looking forward to season 2, and might even watch the first season again at some point, in the background, while making dinner.

When the show got going, I did what many of us have likely done, and began wondering how *I* would do in the Squid Game if I were a participant.

(Well, the FIRST thing I did was pull up a currency converter to see just how much 45.6 billion won is. Not as much as you’d think, but still, not chump change.)

Anyway. How I THINK I would do:

(Needless to say, spoilers ahead, just in case you're on of the 456 people who haven't seen this show yet.)

Game One: Red Light, Green Light. I don’t know what the big fuss was about, and I honestly don’t know why so many of the players were eliminated in the first round. I used to rock that game on the playground. Seriously, as a participant, I was brutally efficient, and could stop on a dime. Not sure if that can be said anymore… Inertia is a bitch, and there’s a bit more cause for forward momentum now than there was when I was, like, seven. But still. The essentials don’t change. You just gotta make sure that your feet are solidly planted on the ground in front of you at all times, big steps, always anchor with your front leg, so you don’t get caught off guard. Child’s play.

(Side note: as the caller, I was RUTHLESS. The key was to lure the strongest players into a false sense of security, and go easy on them early, ignoring their early stumbles. Then, when they’re thiiiiis close, DeStRoY ThEm.)

Didn't know they played this game in South Korea, by the way. So, that's kinda fun. 

Player 420 advances to the next round.

Game Two: The Sugar Thing. So, this is obvs a Korean snack food that a lot of us have never heard of. You melt some sugar, flatten it, and stick a little shape in it. Looks yummy! So removing that center piece… I’ve got to be honest with you, I would’ve been one of those turds who was just trying to scrape away at it with a needle. I definitely would’ve picked the triangle, just because my gut would’ve said to keep it simple. So I probably would’ve been OK. I would not of thought of the licking part, which was pretty brilliant for those umbrella folks.

Player 420 advances to the next round.

Game Three: Tug-of-War. Women have stronger legs than dudes, overall, and Lord knows I’ve built up some pretty hefty back muscles. Plus, I figure I would’ve been chosen by the team of super macho guys who, even in the face of death, we’re still looking for the opportunity to jam an elbow into Olga. Plus, I’ve got strong baker/gardener/Lana Kane hands.

Player 420 advances to the next round.

Game Four: Marbles. I am an Xennial, which means that I had an analog youth, and a digital adulthood. So unlike those dastardly young'uns of today, I remember passing otherwise boring afternoons with old-school games. And, I used to be pretty good with marbles. 

Draw a circle in the ground, toss your marble, if you knock it out, you get to keep it, and keep your marble, too. The charm of marbles is that there are infinite variations on how you can use 10 of the things, which I think the show explored pretty well. I liked that throw-them-in-the-hole game. My Hail Mary play, in that case, would have been to team up with one of my tug-of-war cronies, and try to distract his concentration with a mile or so of cleavage. I’m fairly certain that playing topless wouldn’t have been against the rules, either.

Player 420 advances to the next round.

Game Five: That Glass Bridge Thing. I didn’t know what was coming up, but again, my gut said to go with number 14 or 15. Not 16, because something about being on the very end of that number spectrum just kind of shouted elimination to me. So when it came around to the game, I probably would’ve just sat back and let everybody do the hard part so I didn’t have to.

Buuuut... here's the thing. I’m not terribly sure about how the giant leaps from plate to plate would’ve worked out. See the aforementioned note about inertia and momentum, and I’m not sure those green tracksuits came with a supportive sports bra in my size. I would’ve been that asshat who contributed nothing to the game, and just hopped along, only to stumble on panel number… Nine, or something, before just floppin’ all over the place, losing my balance, and falling to my death. A big ol' splat for yours truly.

Plus, as has been attested about me, I HATE heights, and I’ve been known to get some pretty heavy-duty vertigo. (Astrid, you bitch: I KNOW you’re thinking about that wall… she makes fun of me. I dunno, ask her.)

This was my favorite game, though. I thought it was super clever, and it was fun to look at.

Player 420 is eliminated.

Game Six: Hey, That's the Name of the Show! Which is probably for the best, because as outrageously fun as the literal squid game looks (seriously, it’s like hopscotch had a lovechild with A Clockwork Orange), I don’t think I would’ve figured out the rules in time. Definitely wouldn’t’ve have been able to maintain that one-foot thing, and there’s a lot of me to grab onto before I make it to the squid’s head.

But, that’s the point of squid game. You dive in, not knowing the rules. I’m proud of myself for probably making it to the last 16 of 456. I know, this ain’t horseshoes (maybe season 2?), but hey. That’s not nothin’.

Where do you think you would have been eliminated? I’m curious. Leave it in the comments.

Soooo….. Shifting gears. What’s with these fuckin’ mask pics, you might be asking?

It might be immediately familiar to some of you. For those of you who have no idea, it’s supposed to represent Salvador Dali, the Spanish absurdist artist. See, back before Squid Game became the most popular show ever on Netflix, there was another show called La Casa de Papel, or as it was known to international audiences, Money Heist. I think it was the most popular non-English language TV series ever on Netflix, for a while there. And it’s SOLID, good, trashy FUN. Long story short, there’s this enigmatic brainiac who goes by “The Professor,“ (so hot) and he recruits a band of thieves, Ocean’s Eleven style (I LOVE me a good heist story). Part of it is so they can all get rich, another part of it is a commentary on class, all that jazz. Nobody knows anybody's real name, so they all refer to themselves by chosen city names (Tokyo, Oslo, Nairobi, etc), so it's kinda stylized. There are hostages, police negotiations, and just when the chips are down and you think this gang of antiheroes is finished, ah-ha! Backup plan! It's cool.

Anyway, while they’re robbing the bank, they all wear these red hooded jumpsuits, and these cheap plastic Dali masks (which are now all the rage in Spain. They sell them in souvenir shops… shit, they even put them on socks.)

Wait a second… All right. If any of my faithful subscribers are producers looking for that next big TV show idea… remember that line from back to the future? “Well, listen to this!”

Jumpsuits with red hoods, and everybody dressed in mysterious, slightly off-putting masks. Check.

An overarcing commentary on the subtle decline of capitalism and wealth disparity, as well as how anti-capitalism has been transformed into a means through which we no longer reevaluate the purpose of such a socioeconomic structure, but only use it to undermine the most catastrophic elements of such a system, thereby enabling it to last longer. Check.

A cast of literally nameless antihero characters (I already mentioned I would be No. 420 in SG, easy, or a squareface because of my coooold calculation); In La Casa de Papel… it would be a tossup between “Havana” or “Caracas.” Both are sexy.) Check.

Production in a foreign country. I'm thinking, and hear me out here: Maldives. No reason in particular, but it's really pretty, and I hear the people are super-friendly, and it's been ages since I've had good seafood, and I want to go. They speak... Dhivehi there (thanks, Wikipedia), so I guess we're gonna have to work on wrangling up some Indo-Aryan translators for post production. There are... oh, shit, about a half-a-million people living there, so we can get way more than enough to hold a solid audition. Check.

An enormous sum of money involved. The exchange rate between the U.S. dollar and the Maldivian Rufiya is... about 15-to-1. Sorry, South Korea, but that's a lot easier for international audiences to figure out than 1,744-to-1. Check.

I'm sure there are others, but you see what I'm getting at, right? There's a formula here, and we can all get rich!!! Rich, I tells ya!!!

I can even toss in some blue meth, a few zombies, a dragon or three, and set some scenes in 1960s New York if that’d sweeten the deal. Maybe we can even get Evan Rachel Wood-love-to on board.

Anyway. If you wanna talk green-lighting, I can get you a pilot by the time sweeps rolls around, and all I ask is 5% off the backend, 10% of international distribution, and 10 points on merchandising. Call me.

But, the TL;DR (too late?) It’s Halloween-time, and I like gritty shit, so it’s been a good year for binging. What better occasion to play a little stupid drunken dress-up with a ridiculous mask that Astrid insisted I buy for €2 at a souvenir shop?

Bella Ciao, y’all. A lot of us didn't have Halloween last year, so I know a bunch of you are probably looking forward to this weekend. If you have some plans, have a great time, don' t drink and drive, and stay spooky.

Hey, guys. Meet Jackie

Well, Jacqueline. But her friends call her Jackie. She’s 24 years old, and lives just outside of Tampa, Florida. The year is 2031, by the way. 

A pretty normal gal, actually, our Jackie. Went to school at USF (Go Bulls!), and now, works at a small, boutique marketing firm. She definitely works more hours than she’s paid for, but on the weekends, she gives herself a bit of leeway. Going out with friends, getting drunk at the club, blissfully oblivious to the way hangovers hit once you bump into your mid 20s. 

Thing is, Jacqueline is in for a bit of a wild ride. And, it’s not gonna be very pretty, sometimes. Sacrifices are going to be involved. Right now, in this image? She’s about as happy as any of us are. But soon, she’s going to get some news. What’s going to happen next? Time will tell. 

She’s plucky. She’ll make it work. It's not always gonna be easy, though.

---

I suppose this is what the Twitter arterati would call “an OC.” I ain't never had one of them before, so that's kinda cool.

What’s going to spring from this image is a longform story, done in a personal journal narrative style, detailing the life of a normal woman... in extraordinary circumstances. 

From the writing perspective, that’s what I love… Telling a simply tale where one BIG thing is different. (Or in this case, two big things.) 

There will be a long, slow period of BE, for sure, where her life is chronicled: ups and downs; highs and lows; the good, the bad, and the ugly. This isn't going to be a standard-issue tale of happy-go-lucky giant tiddy good times — there's gonna be some gritty rawness to it. 

One vein I enjoy exploring in my stories is this: how does the character REALLY deal with what's happening in her life? What are her emotions? Her hopes and dreams, fears, difficulties... Monkey's Paws, the strain of gravity, the yearning to live a normal life, where such a life is possible... with the exception of one very punctuating circumstance. 

In short? It's a BIG breast expansion tale (interpret that how you'd like, it'll be accurate). Illustrated, personal, intimate, internal. 

And, I’m teaming up with a positively exquisite artist (this image, and the ones to come, are his works). We’ve already both agreed to keep each other on schedule — helpful for me, because if you’ve been around here for a while, you know that I have some pretty hard-core struggles with ADHD and shiny things [faceplam]. Anyway, this artist goes by Cygnet. If you'd like to see more of his work, click here for his DeviantArt 

This story doesn’t have a title, yet. It will get an official one at some point. But for now, a "working title..." How's "Jackie and the Hard Rain" sound? Subject to change, but it feels good.

Like the best of stories sometimes, it will be a work in progress, but only precisely because it’s a work in progress. Like rock climbing, or building a plane while it's in the air, or the script of Casablanca... Sometimes, the best things come from being loosey-goosey. 

That’s what I love about this. I really hope you enjoy. 

Drink and Dance and Laugh and Lie.

There's your chips, play them as you like; smoke 'em if you got 'em; roll dem bones, do what you can with what you got; in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound, all that lovely stuff.

I know, I know. You’ve probably seen this one before.

But this is one of the very few images from IG - a remnant of The Great Deletion - that I really liked. So, I wanted to preserve it.

Are any of us iconic? (Is any of us?) If we are, than (then?!) maybe I have a chance to be, and if that’s the case, this is one of those (comedy comes in threes!!!).

But, nah. I just love this pic. It’s the first one where I felt (feel) like myself. Like, literally, ever. In that Tina Fey to Annie Leibovitz kinda “are you capturing my soul?!” vibes.

Love the reeling midnight through.

For tomorrow, we shall die!

But, alas, we never do.

Much more to come, folks. Got a deluge on the brink.

I Guess I Dun Pulled an Icarus.

This is the picture I was planning on posting. It had just been taken, the sun was bright in my eyes, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us. It was a heavenly day in a wonderful place, with an exquisite person. Nothing can take that away; the rest of this saga is pretty incidental in comparison.

Anyhoo. I opened the Instagram, and poof, it was gone.

I’m not a fame whore, or anything. I really don’t think of myself as one. If you would’ve asked me a few years ago if I ever thought I would have 140,000 effing followers on Instagram, I would’ve laughed in your face.

I know why they follow, don’t get me wrong. I’m no dummy. Natalia and Olga are the stars here, and I have become more content about the idea of playing second fiddle. But heck, man. Behind the tits, there is a sentient human being is kind of coming to terms with the idea that she’s technically an influencer.

Until, of course, you fly to close the sun.

I’m not sure of the picture that did it. I think it’s this one. The straw that broke the camel’s back:

Oldie, but a goodie, Not so bad, right? Though I’ve been informed that hand bra is a big no-no. I understand that there’s a line between dressing like a prostitute, and dressing like you’re some ankle-fearing puritan, but come on. It’s a couple-uh boobs.

In addition to some support, mainly from a lot of you saying that my stuff was actually not very lascivious, I’ve received some good advice… Appeal the living daylights out of it, send a letter to Instagram every day until they kick it back into place. And while I do, because it takes about a second, I’m really not too concerned.

In a rare fit of cleverness, I decided to start a beck-up account a couple of years ago. If you’re reading this, you’re probably already following it? @that_heather_beck, just in case.

Kind of came to the conclusion that this account harbored a whole bunch of my nearest-and-dearest, which is really all I care about in the first place. Bonus points to Twitter, too, for letting you be just a but more free as as that whole self-expression thing goes.

And of course, you guys. You throw some money into the hat, which I sincerely appreciate. Keeps it fun, keeps it loose, keeps it organic. I always say, if this whole “me-journaling“ thing ever starts to feel like a “job“, that’ll be when it starts to become double-plus un-fun, and it starts to crumble.

But still. You know? 140,000 followers on Instagram. If anything, I’m not gonna lie – it was a funky little notch in my belt. Right? Conversation starter, 37-year-old gal with internet boobies.

And, I actually made some pretty good friends with that type of venue. I’m not talking about advertisers, or bullshit. I hate that crap. But cool, honest people, and some of them women who aren’t too dissimilar. It was nice to cultivate a place where people could feel comfy and welcome in that little slice of life.

Although, that perceived 21st century street cred really goes to the girls. I guess THEY’RE the ones who had that gravity. Probably the reason the person attached to them got taken down, too. Ah, well.

I’m not gonna use this as a forum to launch into some tirade about how “Instagram is being negative of certain body types.” I mean, they are, but we all know that. I guess the free market will ultimately decide? Late-stage capitalism?

I’ll tell you what. I don’t really know where ya’ fall on the political spectrum, but I think we can all agree that there’s all sorts of ish that’s way more worth spending our emotional energy considering, rather than a couple of random nipples attached to giant fun bags. But, that’s just me.

And still! I do actually contest that this is… Kind of refreshing. If I have it up to me, I’d much prefer to have a small little club than a giant arena. Keeps it personal. As an old theater geek buddy once said, perform for five people the same way you would for 50,000. I like that.

Anyway, stay tuned. I’ve actually been branching out a little bit, and have been experimenting with things like makeup, exercise, lighting, and — gasp! — somebody else actually taking the pictures. Beats the hell out of reclusive ol’ me and my little tripod. So, plenty of that to come.

And hey, in the meantime… Take care. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been going out a bit lately, and I’ve noticed everybody’s just kind of… Tight. I think we’ve all got some PTSD that we’re not even going to consider for the next long while. Maybe it’s the shape of things to come? I hope not. But for real, if you’re reading this, do good, try to be as kind as you can, and remember that we’ve all been through a lot in our own ways. Don’t really know why I felt the need to say that, but there it is if you want it.

Be well, talk at ya’ soon. 😘

Peacock’s Fart.

At that blippy point in life

when you’re tipsy enough in the day

that the big, big sky

is still as blue as a peacock’s fart,

and the eyeball floaters,

that you swear were caused by all the hangover headaches from a while, while back,

start dancing around,

and there are still hours, and hours, and hours

before the sunset starts

to slowly take it all away.

Letters From Heather - 2020 - Heat Wave

(Good God, what a lovely piece from @AldoInHeaven. I think the conversation included: “The lines are just gorgeous, the sweeping shapes, there’s an almost frenetic energy to it but it’s so demure at the same time.” and “It’s like, it’s filled with punctuation marks. The large brimmed, sweeping hat, the hint of lips… and the bewbs!!! 🤪 And especially, as the viewer (for me), they can serve as an erotic touch, but only if you want them to be. Otherwise, they are just kind of resting there.” Needless to say, thrilled — for real, give him a follow on the usual platforms.

And with that… here’s the story to pair. 😘)

###

The unusually strict lockdown, Thank God, finally lifted. I can certainly understand why this country came down so hard — it’s lost a lot. But literally not being able to leave the house under any circumstances (except food, pharmacies, blah-blah) gets me a little more stir-crazy than I usually am. Little walks, you know? Helps you keep your sanity.

But, with everything easing up a little, I’m sure the whole country is happy. It’s one thing to have a heat wave; it’s another thing to be stuck inside dealing with it.

Out here in the country, among the low, ancient stone walls, rolling green fields, and occasional oak tree, you can walk for miles without seeing another soul, so if I keep my mask on my arm, I should be good to go. Plus, minimal interaction might not be the worst thing in the world

Not that it’s the dress’s fault. On the contrary, I have massive respect for this breezy little number. It’s been with me on the warmer days of the last few summers now, and somehow always manages to keep up with the girls. The flowing, cream-colored, flower-printed muslin hits just above my sandaled feet; above the elastic-banded waist, a square-collared bust with frilly shoulders has turned out to be waaay more billowy than I first gave it credit for. Still takes me a liiiitle off guard that even this dress used to manage to be kinda loose on me. Certainly not anymore… at the rate I’m going… I have this feeling that I might have to respectfully and tearfully retire it by next year.

But that’s for later. This is now. I’m overflowing my most comfortable walkaround bra a little bit, something that is emphasized particularly by the fact that the edges of the dark blue cups hit just above the strained collar of the dress. Rising Breadloaf Effect aside, at least I’m covered. For the most part. But, hey. It’s a pandemic, and I’m out in the middle of nowhere. It’s not like there are even that many people to shock. And, it’s hot outside, so I’m gonna wear as little up top as I can, thank you very much.

I already know where I’m going to go. There’s this old fence closeby that overlooks the entire valley. Rustic as hell, with miles and miles of emerald Elysium. I think I’m just going to stand there, take the weight off leaning on the top wooden beam, relax my shoulders, and just… stare. Breathe, and stare, and feel a little warm.

Or maybe I’ll find that big crook in the old oak tree where I would sit and read books during those trips when I was a kid. Wonder if I can still fit in that little bend anymore...

Before I step out the front door for the first recreational time in what feels like ages though, I am fully committed to not having a repeat of the burned-boobs-beach-trip from last year. Mental note for plenty of SPF, and that oversized straw hat I tracked down in my aunt’s wardrobe. The sun is high, and I’m not taking any chances. Just fresh air, and gasp — a little exercise.

“You look so sexy, Lisa.”

Oh, Haiii.

My two favorite movies, unironically, are “Casablanca,” and “The Room.” (The latter is on in the background, right now, as I’m writing this.)

I think it was the film critic of the Los Angeles Times? He remarked once that his job is to watch movies. So he watches every movie once. If he needs to, he’ll watch a movie a second time. And if he really likes it, he’ll watch it three times. “The Room?” He said he’s watched it about 100 times. He has no idea why. Is it because it’s an impossible movie to figure out? Is it just amusing, like cotton candy for the brain? Or is it, truly, and as often as the concept is employed, so absolutely bad that it is actually a masterpiece? (or, a disasterpiece?) like a non-connecting circle where the extreme ends can see each other across the canyon.

I’m not sure how many times I’ve seen either of my two favorites. The number is probably around 100. Maybe more? Maybe less? There is something so refreshing about absentmindedly typing on your phone, and chuckling a little as you recite some line with perfect timing. it’s tearing me apart, dude.

Honorable mention for “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” And for some reason? “Minority Report.” It’s just a good, solid, perfectly paced action flick, even as lukewarm on Tom Cruise as I am.

I don’t know. Thoughts? I’ve always thought the idea of “what is your favorite movie?” as a little rudimentary. So much of it seems mood-based. But I can’t help but imagine that there are a few that float to the top. What are yours? Just curious.

Ham. Part 286

Hey, long-time Patreon people! Remember, how like, a couple of years ago, I was on this huge ham kick? That’s the thing about Spain, man. These guys know their fucking ham.

It’s one of the most charming fixtures of every grocery store that I walk into. These are places not tremendously different from the middle sized supermarkets I would go to growing up in the States. But one thing I never saw growing up was a selection of fully cured hams, just hanging there like tide pods.

Of course, people here don’t typically buy the whole ham. Maybe for the holidays when there are a whole lot of people coming over during that two weeks. But, it’s available like thin-sliced rain water in little-vacuum sealed packs of about 200 g each if you want a snack.

Agh! If you’ve never had it, Iberian ham tastes like honey. They don’t add salt, or seasoning, or anything. It’s just really slowly dried, deliberately, until all the flavors of the meat come out — in this case, almost exclusively pigs who have only ever had one bad day in their whole lives. Chewy, texturally smooth, and with a flavor that evolves in your mouth. Nothing better to gonwith a cold beer.

Anthony Bourdain, at one point, pontificated on the stuff. Something along the lines of, “if you can visit this country, and not partake of this most cherished part of its culture and identity, it is tantamount to meeting the great love of one’s life, only to let her slip through your fingers, and then spiral ever downward into despair, depression, and ultimately, death.” Something like that. But I like it. And, it’s true.

And so, dear reader, whenever I happen to find myself in a market and see a little selection of slow-cured heaven, I get a little giddy. You can forgive a girl for only momentarily pulling down her mask (in an otherwise empty supermarket) for a quick photo-op, right?

192

That’s how many steps they say there are, but once you break about 150, you tend to lose count. And the last thing you want to do is start over, so you just take their word for it.

I actually am kinda weirded out by heights. I’m not going to freeze in place and be inconsolable; I just get that weird tickling shooting up through my body that makes me wanna step back from the edge. Less a phobia, more of a propensity for self preservation.

I see those memes of people who just casually sit on the edge of 1,000-foot-tall cliffs with a grin on their faces, not a care in the world. I’m convinced they are liars, awaiting their Darwin Awards, and that people like this did not exist before Insta. Tenzing himself would have said, “Woah, dude, that’s a little much.” Sir Edmund would have had his back.

But, heights are worth it from time to time. That view, though.

Minor Swing

After a not-inconsiderable amount of cajoling, something rarer than a Sasquatch in a G-string: a smiley pic.

If you’ve been around for a while, you’ll know that my tastes tend to veer toward what I call “the demure:” essentially, my way of justifying a default facial expression that (I feel) falls in the same box as ‘sultry’ or ‘approachably aloof.’ Or, as has been asserted by some in the past with what I can only assume were the best of intentions, ‘resting bitch face.’

Honestly, I don’t mind — it works for me, I enjoy sharing those kind of pics, it’s all just a wonderful creative process in the first place, and mostly? I’m just not the biggest fan of my smile.

It’s not that I’ve spent a life being an unhappy person (though I was frequently accused of being ‘so mature for my age,’ or an ‘old soul’ — I’m beginning to realize that those were just folksy euphemisms for ‘small human who will grow up to have anxiety and depression.’) But when I do smile, it’s because there has to be a reason.

I spent a long time growing up in the South, especially, where a forced cordiality was just kind of the norm. Nothing wrong with treating the guy stocking the shelves with that Warm Southern Hospitality, but for better or worse, it does force you to practice smiling a whole lot more than you normally would elsewhere.

I still have that smile. The one where you just contort your mouth, and look friendly enough. Then, cropping the picture so that only the nose-on-up to see a blank stare. We smile with our eyes.

I don’t use that smile too much anymore. It can come in handy. And that’s not to say I’m cold to people — I’ve mastered the friendly smirk. But on those occasions where I do genually smile? Hey, we all have our weird body images, right? I just think my smile is a little goofy.

Though... maybe I just need practice. I’ve actually been doing a decent job staving off some anxiety lately, and I’m proud of that. So I have been smiling at things I haven’t found myself wanting to smile to in a long time. I’m not getting happier, but the dampeners are finally being lifted on my original sense of happiness, which I think is already pretty good to start with (to the best of my recollections).

Uh-oh... but wait a sec... maybe it is just a matter of practice, and if I practiced more, my smile would improve, which means, by the transitive property, I would actually “be prettier if I smiled more.”

Good God, please don’t tell anyone I said that.

This Week’s Rain Storm.

The streets are pretty quiet here anyway, in this cute old city. Yeah, the tourists flood during the daytime. Can’t go to the grocery without someone on a loudspeaker talking through about how Carlos I did this or that. Big history of scandal here, which I like.

But at 4:00 a.m.? Pfft. You can hear a pin drop. It’s a nice, alley-lined place to wander with your thoughts. I think I’ll be adding here in the coming days... some cool shots from this “set” (can you call it a set?), along with the thoughts that were behind them.

Oh, and a video that may or may not have a Taylor Swift impression... we’ll see if the music lines up with what was in my head while I was dancing wildly in the rain...

Will I See You In Septemberrrr...

Or loooose yoooou... to a summer love...

###

Hope not. I’ve been on what the Enlightened call a Sabbatical (notice the cult-like use of capitalization!). Wheeee!!!

Those of you who keep close tabs can see the white space between the lines. Those of you who are new to the “Heather Crew” (A demonym I just made up, but that I’m sticking with) get an idea.

Tonight, I just am ACHING to hit the Publish button. I have precious, lovely things to get to. I’m sure you’ll hear about them, at some point. What a rarity, to be excited about what silliness lies in store before Sleep comes... (And Fuck... it’s already almost time for the the DayStar...)

If you’re up, and can’t sleep, or couldn’t, or wouldn’t, because you’re bewitched, bothered, and/or bewildered...

Here’s Heather’s list of stuff you might not know about! Pull out your Spotify, Boys!

Pink Martini — Anything they’ve done, but “Sympatique” is great.

San Antonio Rose, by Patsy MotherFuckin’ Cline.

Ella. The above quip. The Astrid cut (on her Patreon) is just so damned Hot. But that’s just me.

There’s a part of me that want’s to RickRoll you with another link.

Like, it’s taking everything I have not to.

Shit.

We’re in a place.

Tell you what. There are Two links here. One is among my favorite songs. The other is you, getting RickRolled. Choose wisely.

No.1

No.2

But neither as good as Ella. Tune a piano to her voice, fuckin’ hell.

I love you guys. Can you believe that August is gone? It’s messing me up a little. Probably you too. But outside the walls, we’re all feeling it.

Strange dear, but true, dear. The people who got permission to just be a little meaner during the last coupla years, we notice them more. We’re humans, though, so we don’t notice the folks who have chosen kindness instead. Humans are weirdos, so when we get 100 great affirmations, we only remember the 1 shitty instance.

Times have changed.

These foolish things.

Also, this. If you need something on in the background, that you don’t need to think about, when next you have a lady visitor.

Adios, mi pelo.

Rest In Peace, haircut that I’ve had since literally my Late 20s.

After all the years I’ve spent living in Europe, one must remember that I was, in fact, in the middle of nowhere. And a big chunk of that was spent in quarantine when… Who the fuck of us was actually thinking about our hair in the first place?

I dread the impending conversation with the stylist who I, willfully, am spending just a bit too much money on. “My God, your ends are really split!” (insert Spanish hairdressing idiom here to relay the idea of extremely split ends.)

I’ve loved my little side swoop. But in honor of the continent in which I’ve been residing, I think I might (And God knows if my face will work for it) go for what they refer to here as a “fringe.“

When I was growing up, we called them bangs. They were those things that you, in a fit of rebelliousness, administered unto yourself when you were feeling particularly rebellious. Circa… Age 12, or so. Not a personal story. Just asking for a friend.

Anyway, it’s also really hot. Removing a few hundred grams of dead epidermidis will probably make the cold Galician beer go down a bit more smooth.

I’ll keep ya updated. I like my hair, and I have a lot of it, and I like the long-ish hair thing, so I’m not gonna go rebellious and start posting images where I look like Sinead O’Connor yelling about the Pope on SNL (she had some points, but forget I said that reference entirely if you’re under 30).

Just a bit of an overdue trim for what the mirror confirms is a mop.

The Difference Between Men and Women

Mars and Venus (a little in-joke for Astrid there — she'll probably correct me on my subpar knowledge of astrology). Anyway, the difference between gents and dames, guys and dolls. Yeah, in short, I would say that pretty-much everyone treats you a little differently when a part of you enters the room a few seconds before the rest of you does. Certainly differently than I remember being treated in my 30 years on this earth before Nat and Olga took over. More anecdotes, stares, and surreptitiously pulled camera phones than I can count (I wonder how many videos of me have ended up as clickbait — "This woman has boobs — and dentists are FURIOUS at her for it!"), which has been an adjustment over the years to be sure. I've adapted, and enough to know that there is a difference between the sexes: one I've tried to cover a little in this little audio duo. 

If you DO happen to bump into me in line at the grocery store? Tricky thing is I haven't got any solid advice for you. I guess just keep in mind that I'm actually a normal lady and act accordingly — that's pretty much all I can think of. And, try to ignore how many bottles of wine are on the conveyor belt. I keep all the extra boozes in my boobies, sometimes semi-literally, as this recording will allude to. 

Yeah, I know...

Life keeps getting in the way. And I’ve got a bit to catch y’all up on, believe me, I know...

Suffice it to say, this has been a good night. The right mix of substances. A little rebelliousness. The kind of battery-recharging evening that clarifies.

It occurs to me that a few of you have been straggling along because a part of you is just a bit curious about me and Astrid. That’s her in this pic. She’s bee’s knees, gents.

This is an outtake. The rest of tonight’s content belongs to her, and you’ll see it on hers, I’m sure. In exchange for my Leibovitz-level photo skills, she’s promised that she’ll return the favor and do a shoot for me.

Dream a little dream, y’all. 🎼🎼 You’ll be the first to know. 😘

@3astrid33

Real quick,

I’ve been working with Aldo. @aldoinheaven on IG. Here, to check him out on the Patreon. Nicest guy. Bright palette, a yearning to tackle demure subjects... We’ve been collaborating on a series of vignettes — posted one earlier today, matter a’ fact.

I write the story, and he nails a visual of that story. Ideas exchanged, color schemes discussed, something better than the sum of its parts. I LOVE collaborations like that. We’re 9 in; how long this series goes is up to the Gods!

I love these far-fetched glimpses. And, it is a thrill to see a final work in the inbox, and be like, “Ohhhh, shit, scan my fingers down the screen so I don’t see it all at once!” And then, fun. Maybe it’ll be a coffee table art book one day. That’d be fancy. Conversation piece, at the least.

So, check out Aldo if you can. His work deserves a perusal if you appreciate a novel approach to particularly curvaceous women.

This is my favorite so far. They all resonate, but in my humble opinion, this is the cover shot. Partially because I love Champagne. Partially because, well, you’re here, right?

By the way, thought this was fun.

Idealized? Yeah. But I love it. Makes me look more graceful. Thanks to @mt.kaonashi (you can visit him on IG)— he’a responsible for this lovely work, and to him I say, Thank You.

Pencil Sketch

To follow up on the Instagram post… This sketch from @deuterusdeus on IG. Uncropped, because it’s friendlier here for nipples and the like. Good to keep it around for posterity, right? Anyway, I like it. ☺️

Letters From Heather - 2027 - Wild Dream

(Yeah, I'm a bit of a space geek. I know the billionaires are shitty with their dick rockets, but I'm actually super thrilled about the day in the not-too-distant future when humans set foot on the surface of Mars. We are a nomadic species, and it's a destiny fulfillment kinda thing. Hunters and foragers, the open road still softly calls, and all that good stuff. Illustration for this little vignette by the incredible AldoInHeaven. You can find him on IG, Twitter, and even here on Patreon. I love the direction he took with this one — etherial and whimsical as always, and pretty effing sexy for fans of biiiig boobs presented unexpectedly! :-P)

###

Not sure what caused it. Hitting the refresh button every 30 seconds for the last several days, waiting for updates along with the rest of the world? That really spicy chicken tikka masala? Usually, when I dream, it gets pretty vivid and intense in a way where my first thought on waking up is something like, “Woah… that would make an awesome sci-fi/action movie.” More often than not, however, the dream fizzles from memory pretty quickly, with only a few non-sequitur snippets remaining for long-term memory storage. Probably for the best: like that brilliant stroke of inspiration you jot down while high as a kite, only to look at it the next day, and think, “What the heck was I thinking? That’s a terribly dumb idea.”

This dream was different. Not so much a dream, but a scene — one that was vivid, hyper-realistic feeling, and upon waking, positively seared into my mind in a way that stuck with me until long after the coffee hit. Refresh button, again — no new news. Though they’re saying that we shouldn’t expect any new developments for another day or so, anyway.

I remember asking my mom what it felt like when we landed on the moon. She said she can’t really remember. She was just hanging out with friends, read about it in the paper the next day. That made me a little sad. How could she not give a huge shit about arguably the coolest thing that humans have ever done? I’m the opposite. Refreshing my phone like a derelict, waiting for some update that says, “Breaking: Humans Just a Little Closer to Red Planet.” Well, duh. I guess I’m just excited for tomorrow evening, at approximately 8:54 p.m., Eastern Standard Time.

Probably has a little to do with my imagination running wild. Having thoroughly nerded out for the past 7 months, I think I might know what the inside of The Ziggy Stardust looks like better than the astronauts do. That thing looks massive from the outside, but inside? I can’t imagine it not being a little... cramped at times. I mean, I guess they’ve been doing it on the ISS forever, but I dunno… at least you can look out of the ISS and see the Earth. It’s gotta feel different just chilling out in the blank void of space, watching your little blue dot get smaller and smaller.

Weird food… recycled pee… I wonder what everyone’s favorite bad TV show is, or if there’s a person like in The Martian who has an irrational, Manic Pixie Dream Love of Disco?

And just the gravity. Or lack of it. That has to have been lurking in the back of my mind. In this dream, I wasn’t on a spaceship, per se. It didn’t feel cold, and mechanical. It felt lush, and just a little green, like a grove in the middle of a forest, but still somehow artificial, like a movie set, or something.

I had that slight tinge of fear, like a subdued version of the sense of surprise you feel when you’re falling. But I wasn’t falling, nor was I standing, exactly — any feeling of up or down didn’t really “click.” Arms stretched down my sides, waiting to find a way to become useful.  My breath felt bated; my lungs were full, so I was only able to take short huffs of breath. Completely naked.

My toes were barely touching the ground. From time to time, an outstretched foot made contact, but the slightest push set me back up again, nearly weightless, a few inches off the ground. What would that be… half-a-percent gravity?

My loose, long hair floated to the side of my head. I swear I could feel strands brushing against my shoulders as I continued a series of ultra-slow motion bounces, always waiting with trepidation to find out when my toe would make contact with the ground again.

And, my breasts. Hoooly shit, dude. They were… fucking huge? (And from me, of course, that’s saying something.) It’s weird, but the whole dream was sort-of from my POV, so I couldn’t really see over their “horizon” or anything. But sometimes, in dreams, you have this greater awareness, this “feeling” of what the reality is like, so in that odd narrative my subconscious had cobbled together, I just knew that they were waaay larger than could ever be reasonable. (An observation that has been leveled at real-life-awake me once or twice, so, again, saying something.) Let’s just say that I have the distinct impression that normal shit, like walking, would have probably been impossible with that pesky Earth gravity; in the case of this dream, they bobbed strangely, up-and-down and side-to-side, gently bouncing off my legs, or off one another, obscuring my sight to one side or another from time to time, until tension retrieved them into their slow, chaotic, gently colliding orbit.

As I’m writing, that’s another thing. I know I was asleep, in my own bed, so it’s not like I’m particularly dealing with the ravages of the natural forces or anything, but in the dream, they felt weightless, which was a little alien, to be honest. I mean, letting them float in a pool kiiinda gives a similar feeling, but there’s always some pull of some persuasion, even if it’s just one of being anchored to reality. But (as someone who has been officially busty, in one form or another, for the past… 12 years now? It was just a skosh surreal.

Can’t say I hated it, though. It’s a dream I would probably appreciate a bit more if I had it again. It felt creepy at first, but by the end, just before the alarm went off, everything was... peaceful. Who knows. Maybe I’ll get to head up into space someday. Start a GoFundMe and promise a video of big floaty boobies to all of those who were kind enough to spot the ticket price (though I might be out of luck in the space suit department).

Anyway. Crazy stuff. Maybe I’ll pound some vindaloo tonight and see if I can trick my brain into a Round 2.

Yeah, I’m good.

Just sharing a moment of appreciation to you, dear subscriber. I was going through some ollllld comments from back in the day. The so-many day mark of not posting anything, and figuring out that it’s a nice thing to get something in the mailbox for your lovely contributions. I’ve got some cool content in store for the next coupl’a days that I think you’ll really dig. Part two on the Astrid saga, wrapping up another audio file, a piece of space-loving fiction... also, ( . )( . )

But in the meantime, I’m good. Sitting right now, late at night, looking at this place. Faaar from home, a temporary denizen. It’s quiet, at this hour.

You see the content creators. The surplus when the web-savvy ENFPs have been taking to the airwaves. Say what you will, but at least we’ve been entertained during this time. God forbid we lived during 40-day quarantines during the Spanish Flu. Those assholes didn’t have endless scrolling. Meditative moments.

The world has been crazy, right? So, I’m glad that you stop by here from time to time to check in, and to see how things are going.

Tell you what. Let’s run with the bullshit “challenge” idea. In the comments below, leave a haiku about how stuff has been for you. That 5-7-5 syllable structure.

Me first:

Three flights up the stairs

But the barkeep doesn’t care

If you pay later.

Muchomuchomucho....

Just a late afternoon journal pondering, concluding at the same time as the beer did. Kismet. Apologies in advance for my wahmp-wahmp cursive.

Hoy, y mañana, y siempre...

Somewhere...

"...in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing"

Omnomnom

“These gyozas are kinda like a vagina. A complex flavor that’s unexpectedly salty with marine overtures, a little scary, but wonderfully entertaining to eat, overall.” — Heather, munching on one of the first meals she hasn’t cooked herself in, like, 18 months.

The Age of Shrieks and Vomits

Everyone gets everything they want. I wanted an adventure; for my sins, they gave me one.

I can't remember the year, exactly. It was when I was about 10, so it was sometime in that Golden Age of local broadcast journalism, long before the days when the oddities of the medium were chronicled on platforms like Youtube. 

It was summertime, so peak season for an amusement park I lived not-too-far from. One of those operations that couldn't hold a candle to a place like Walt Disney World, but large-enough in its own right, and a frequent destination for fun-lovers from throughout the region.

One of the signature rides at this place was a roller coaster, the name of which I can't recall off the top of my head (let's call it 'Frank'). It was made of wood, which apparently, is a pretty unique thing for a roller coaster to be made of. In the age of space-age materials and advanced large-scale metallurgy, probably not the ideal material for such a diversion. But I suppose one of the draws is that it earned bonus points for nostalgia. 

The ride, according to the best of my recollection, lasted the typical amount of time for a roller coaster — about three minutes: four, tops. It had one chain of cars that people would board; it would make a single revolution, return to the place from which it started; the people would depart, and a new batch of thrill seekers would start the process anew. 

The ride would creak, the timber would bend, as those on the ground below would hear the Doppler din of voices squealing with delight before being transported up, down, around. The noises the ride itself made were, I can only gather, part of the thrill — surely, a roller coaster such as this would simply not be in operation if it could topple down at any moment. Rather, like a faithful skyscraper or a centuries-old galleon, its noises and groans were signs that it was still healthy, its motions and squeaks a cherished part of its storied heritage in a Barnumesque, "do you dare to ride the oldest coaster in such-and-such a place?!" A sort of challenge for the courageous, the strong of fortitude.

A family tradition was watching the evening news. Or, at least having it on in the background while we were doing whatever it was we were doing. Top of the hour — a pre-recorded segment that contained all the elements a primo piece of news is supposed to contain: local appeal and familiarity; the normal turned on its head; stakes involved; a not-inconsiderable amount of human suffering; a healthy dose of irony... 'a fun day at the amusement park, turned sour;' and, an overall happy ending — but an ending that was hard-won. The ultimate amount of trauma and turmoil, but no death, no injuries. The line producer must have orgasmed, right on the spot, on the newsroom floor. 

I remember the segment clearly, on the cathode tube TV in the living room. Clear as day. The blue, broad-shouldered blazer the field reporter was wearing as she hoisted the microphone to her mouth and spoke loudly, deliberately, at Jim Cantore-hurricane-coverage levels, about the drama that was unfolding behind her. Towering over her padded shoulders, the wooden roller coaster, the periodic bemused laughter and whole-hearted whoops of joy replaced by... what I can only describe as the wails of human misery. 

I was only 10, and try as I have, I cannot find any record of this event online. I can only presume it's lost to time, or (hopefully) tucked safely away on some VHS in the W-station's archive. So, I must paraphrase.

"Confusion today, at a place otherwise known for family fun — Frank, the famed roller coaster, has run out of control, the park goers stuck on an adventure that will not end." (Insert some B roll footage with a voice over, some background, etc). "For 75 minutes, the ride has been running continuously, the passengers of the coaster's cars unable to stop, or depart." Another swell of screams, before they faded. 

Back to the anchor's desk, with a brief update — the officials at the park were able to get the coaster to stop, finally, and with nobody seriously hurt. At the time of the broadcast, no comment was available as to the origin of the incident. I think it made all the papers the next day, and in all likelihood, people were sued. 

I remember it so clearly, though. The news anchor trying to find the will, deep inside of his soul, not to laugh. I think that was the emotion that clung to all of our brainstems. It was the talk of the town for a while, there. Like any good tragedy that isn't ultimately tragic, the human propensity to find the humor took over. Because by God: it was funny. 

Think about it. These were normal people, like you and me. They came to the park to eat fried food, spend too much money, and get whipped around on a bunch of rides. American Dream type of stuff. This unwitting bunch signed up for what they thought would be a three-minute trip on a roller coaster, only to slowly become more and more confused. Three minutes turned into 6, as they passed, for the second time, the origin point. Then, it got passed again. And again. And again.

You can't confer with your fellow humans very easily on a roller coaster. There's not much of an opportunity to lean over and casually whisper into your boyfriend's ear, "Hey... is it just me, or is this ride running just a little... too long? Shouldn't we, I dunno... have stopped by now?" 

Instead, we're left to our own devices: our own perceptions of what is taking place. Our survival instincts have overwhelmed the advanced human emotions on which we have so carefully crafted our society. The attention to the well-being of others, even our own children in the rows behind us, have been usurped by adrenaline's affect. In such a situation, we're no longer humans. We're beasts, in fight-or-flight mode.

I guess the closest analogy I can think of — the one that most closely resembles the parable of being stuck, so perilously, on a piece of technology run amok — is being on an airplane that's going down. Sure. We hear miraculous stories from time to time (Sully on the Hudson, and the like), but if you're seated on that plane? You know the odds are stacked against you. You cry, you scream, you sit there, paralyzed. The end is nigh — you knew the end was going to come, eventually, but... so soon? Please, not now. Not this way. Is your soul prepared?

That's bleak. And I don't want to make this essay bleak, because again, this isn't a story about 259 fatalities. It's a story about a roller coaster, and nobody died. That's always a good thing. And because it's a story about an otherwise purely recreational amusement, and because nobody died, there's something in it that both defies and exceeds mere schadenfreude — it's objectively hysterical. 

I still remember friends and relatives talking about it in the days that followed, in our part of the country that must have routinely experienced slow news days (remember those?). People just couldn't stop talking about the vomiting. How screams got gurgled, and how wind and inertia would blow a seemingly endless flow of amusement park puke into the faces and bodies of the people packing the cars. 

In hindsight, I know it's human instinct to feel close to a story that's on everyone's lips. Had I been more mature, I would have seen through the ruse, and would have realized that not everyone "was at the park that day/knew someone on the ride/was on the ride/knew a guy at the park who explained the malfunction/etc." People always have their own theories, and want to back those theories up as much as possible. 

But it always revolved around the shrieks, and the vomiting. The extremes of the norm. Because, unlike an airplane, that's what we are supposed to do on a roller coaster. Scream, and get a little upset in the tummy. It's a fun adventure, that we're supposed to have. When those qualities are elevated, through time and fear, whoops turn to shrieks, and nausea turns to vomits.

Close your eyes. For just a moment. Put yourself into minute... 45. You're covered in the puke of so many people. You can't stop screaming. You know you want to, but the last time you did, you got someone's puke in your mouth, and that made you throw up, too! You don't have the mental fortitude anymore. Is this how I'm going to die? On a stupid roller coaster, covered in semi-digested funnel cake? With every turn, are you just gonna careen off the edge? Might not that fate be better? Dear God, what if this is hell? What if I'm already dead, and this is hell? 

And you're only halfway through.

From the point of view of one of the 60-some-odd people on board who are still around, I'm sure the hindsight is only trauma. In a litigious American society, we frequently sue for "pain and suffering," and it's usually bullshit. But in this case? I get it. I hope these folks got a nice big payout. It must have been sheer horror.

For the rest of us, it was positively hysterical. 

Because, isn't that just the way we are, sometimes? Don't feel bad about it.  Shows like "Breaking Bad," "Better Call Saul," and to a greater extent, "Ozark" are so popular because they feature normal people just trying to do their thing in as streamlined a way a possible, only to have the absurdity of the world get in their way at every step. We love to identify with people going through something impossibly difficult — we've been there, too! But, we can't help but laugh at the dark humor of (spoilers till end of graf) Jimmy McGill stumbling down a dirt road in the desert, wrapped in a space blanket, dying of thirst, $7,000,000 in a pair of duffels, with a car flipping behind him; Walter White wailing with destroyed delight because the cash that needs to get to the cartel now has been stolen by his wife for her former boss/fuck buddy; Marty Byrds face when Camino Del Rio gets pumped in the chest by a shotgun because he "went into business with a bunch of fucking rednecks." Hooooly shit — how the hell are they gonna get out of this one?!

The Bible had Job. The Greeks had Oedipus. Jay Gatsby. Romeo Montague. Creon. Ted Kennedy, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Willy Loman, Michael Corleone, Lady MacBeth, Capt. Ahab, Faust, the supporting cast of Dante's Inferno, half the characters in Game of Thrones. Whether or not the dark humor of Icarus, flying too close to the sun, comes across to us is dependent on each one of us, and on our experiences. Stories rely on conflict, and the best ones excel because... We identify; we're glad we're not them. We can relate; we've been there. We have to laugh; otherwise, we'd cry. 

During this last bit of time, I've been on an adventure of sorts. Some of it has been internal, in relative seclusion; most recently, parts of it have manifested into blazing what-the-fuck technicolor. In the quiet, our fears become manifest; in the open, dominoes, and dominoes, and dominoes: backup plans begetting new backup plans: exploding pickups, cartel cash, shotguns to the chest. 

I wanted to get onto this ride because I thought it would be fun — so why the hell won't the fun just fucking stop for a second?!

In my case, I do tend to catastrophize — and for my sins, when something bad inevitably does happen, I get that little tick in my brain. See? You KNEW something shitty was gonna go down — it did, you were RIGHT, so keep thinking that way. Even if it's not the same thing, the electrocuted mouse skittering around in your brain got its piece of cheese.

I don't think anybody has really viewed this shared experience of the last year-and-a-half as "an adventure." Not yet, because in the general view, adventures are supposed to be good things. But we're social creatures, and when society radically changes, we encounter experiences and interactions that somehow feel like shades, shadows, poor interpretations of what we've been trained to consider as "normal." 

Not to be one of those people, but the dictionary defines "adventure" as "an unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity." (For reference, while the dictionary defines exciting in favorable terms, I contend that it is one of those words that can carry a foreboding Monkey's Paw vibe.)

"Be careful what you wish for — you might just get it."

I wished for an adventure. And for my sins, they gave me one. 

Plunge

When you get to be a certain age that some would describe as old-ish, there are certain privileges that come along with it. At some point, you kinda realize that you can serve as a sage voice of wisdom (or something). I have no idea where this role comes along... the older I've gotten, the more familiar I've become with the creeping suspicion that, no matter how many years pass by, nobody really has a clue what they're talking about. To a certain extent, we're all just kinda gropin' in the dark. And, I think that's okay, provided you come to terms with this "life is for learning" principle, and actually kinda embrace it. 

So, I have this friend. None of you know her, and at the end of the day, I suppose she's more of a casual acquaintance. Anyway, hers is not a terribly unfamiliar story, especially in an age where we're in high school one day, asking for hall passes and dealing with curfews, and then, after a summer, are thrust into a system where we're expected to know what we want to do when we grow up. 

If I had it to do all over again, I never would have gone to college, to be perfectly honest. I didn't really learn anything that I couldn't have picked up from a few books that I could'a just gotten at Barnes and Noble (back when we had those). I was always a good-ish writer; college didn't teach me much new in that regard. And by the time I submitted the resume that would result in my second real big-girl job, I discovered that nobody really gave a damn where I went to college, or in fact, if I had. I suppose it's one of those "to get credit, you need to have credit" paradoxes. Did you GET a degree? Fine, the rest of your stuff checks out, you're not a serial killer, and you have a few clips that got published. Welcome aboard, there's your cubicle. (It's the system. Just seems like I spent a lot of time and money that I didn't have to when, it turns out in hindsight, I could have just Jeff Winger'd it and lied to begin with. 

Did I ever mention this before? I was a political science major for the first three years of college. I hated it. I think a lot of poli-sci people will tell you that — they go into it because they're interested in politics. They learn a little about it, discover that everyone is just running around like headless chickens, and grow to despise it. And besides, what the hell was I gonna do with that degree? I didn't wanna go to law school, that would have just killed my soul. So... open a political science store? Murp. 

I remember the day it hit me. The semester was about 3/4 of the way over, and I had been to my one 8 a.m. class... twice? I was gonna be lucky to pull out a C- in that class, and that was stressing me out. Before I got out of bed, I was like, "Fuck it. I know I should probably just get the degree, but in this? No thanks." 

I didn't know what I wanted to do. So... I decided to take the semester off. My family was NOT thrilled. They didn't cut me off, per se, but if I wasn't gonna go to school, I was damn-well gonna support myself until I went back. 

Best half-year of my life. I was the cute, moody girl at the trendy hipster coffee shop making dirt cash. But free lunches, it was walking distance from my tiiiiny apartment. I went out and drank cheap hooch every night, wrote a lot, found myself making out with a LOT of people, and... figuring out what was next. My gut said English major, but (no offense to those of you who went the B.A. route there), there's not much of a market. How can a gal make money with a degree that involves writing?

A-ha! JOURNALISM! A noble pursuit, if there ever was one! Despite everyone's convictions, I DID go back to school. I had to bust my ass to finish with the extra credits I needed. But for the first time in my whole college life, I loved what I was doing, and was surrounded by a bunch of like-minded scoundrels. My first class DID include a professor reminding us that none of us was going to get rich off this stuff, but it wasn't about money for us. It was about the honor. We were all a bunch of Hunter S. Thompson junkies, and one of his quotes summed it up for us: 

“I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I felt that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actor, kidding ourselves on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between those two poles - a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other - that kept me going.”

Right? Who needs money? Not when you get your degree, get a job at the paper, working the copy desk. Late hours and thankless work? Who cares! You earn your stripes. You bust your way up to a beat you hate, get a few bylines, and one day? Maybe you get a scoop that gets you a column! Who cares — you get to write for a living!

I got my degree in 2007, juuuuust before the Great Recession kicked in... The paper started to fold... all of them did... Ah, well. Still managed to get a paycheck one way or the other. And what's more, I did it with a degree that I didn't have to look at, and figure out... why?

That was about 15 years ago. I've learned a lot since then, but that was a big lesson. I took a plunge. My family and friends were some mix of disappointed, mad, or incredulous about whether I would be just another dropout (not that there's anything wrong with that — refer to previous 'overall, kinda wish I hadn't' comment). But I pulled it through. See?! I told you I'd do it!

In hindsight, it was a bold move for me. Annnnd, it was the first time in my life that I had ever made a big decision, for myself, that nobody else wanted me to make. Isn't that liberating? Taking the reigns in your own hands and making up your own mind, for yourself? Best feeling in the world. It seems small, but it's something I'm terribly proud of. 

My friend. She's 21. Same boat as I'm in. And yeah, it made me feel a little old when I was giving her the "when I was your age" conversation. But, it was a good talk. I think I gave the advice well, didn't pressure or prescribe, and for what it was worth, I think I was the first person who found her in this difficult time in her life and said, "You know what? You're making the right move. Good on you, chica." 

That felt pretty good. 

My New (Disturbing) Favorite Food

First impression: I just found my new favorite food.

Essentially, it’s a combination of dill pickles and olives. Olives are wonderful. Especially when you don’t have to deal with those fucking pits. Pickles, meanwhile, are also awesome. They have a salty brininess that goes well with the delightful, fishy vagina flavor that olives so often have.

So, I stumbled across a jar of these things in the back of Astrid’s cupboard. The ultimate hodgepodge. The Korean taco of things you can find in jars.

I love these. I could eat about 1 million of them in a sitting. And still want more.

But, after I put about the third one in my mouth, my mind was riddled with questions.

Who thought of this? At what point in the evolution of our species did we figure the need to mix these two together? It seems obvious. The flavor works. It’s universal, like Pringles. But then, a third question wandered into my brain. Why jam a pickle inside of an olive?

I wonder if it was some sort of joke. Did a bunch of people just sit around and decide that it would not only be a tasty combination, but one that is objectively hilarious? I could go on. But as a denizen of the 21st-century, I feel it is more appropriate to communicate my emotions in the form of a meme.

Which then, of course, led me down a rabbit hole.

These could have been packaged separately, but in the same jar. They were not. This was the method of packaging and presentation that was determined. And so...

Are the pickles inserted by hand? If so, was the innuendo gradually lost on the pickle-pokers through the process of repetition alone? On their first day at the microscopic cucumber ramming factory, did they get a small chuckle out of their job, and over time, became numb to it? I hope not. That makes me just a little sad.

If this is not the method of shoving long things into a hole, is it because someone designed a machine that pokes the pickles into the olives? And if that is the case, that means that someone created this device, and shared it with his contemporaries. “Gentlemen, we have been plagued by an issue. But I think… I have a resolution. At long last, the masses will have what they crave... Salty, bulbous, delicious snacks, at a preservation of man hours and psychological torment that comes part and parcel of manufacturing this exquisite product of ours.”

What do this mechanist’s off-hours consist of? Is he (it’s a he) a gentleman pornographer, or is he the kind of guy who is not allowed within 100 meters of a school? The spectrum is defined thusly, and inflexibly, for such an aficionado of gherkin/olive penetration such as this.

Needless to say, I think that might be the problem with our society. These questions legitimately disturb me, and yet, I cannot stop shoving these micropenises into my mouth. I am part of the issue, here.

That is all I will leave you with, because I can’t think of a better second-final sentence.

My Turn

For dinner tonight. Bacon and eggs are upstairs already, and the rest of my carbonara is on point.

Molto. Mutherfuckin’. Bene.

Gracias, indeed.

So, it turns out that SOMEONE, despite all her mystical wisdom and insight into the universe, has just as much of a 13-year-old’s brain as I do. Thanks, Astrid, for introducing me to an old standard Spanish bar trick. 😘

Track 7 - To Bra, or Not to Bra?

A little duo of questions that I hear from time to time. The first is one I've spent my fair share of time considering myself, especially during those instances when my bank account is a little less than agreeable: "Aren't bras expensive? How the hell do you even find them?" 

(In case you're wondering, here are two options that I forgot to mention: Ewa Michalak, out of Poland, does AWESOME work; or for the more budget conscious, just upsize the band on a $40 Goddess bra on Amazon, and pop the underwires out for instant house bra.)

The second is, "Do you ever go braless?" 

Yes, and no. Listen on, dearies. 

Heather & Astrid (Part the First)

How do you meet someone new?

If you’re like me, a somewhat-insular, hermit-minded gal with no shortage of filters, defense mechanisms, and a (well-earned) capacity for (non-cynical) mistrust of intention… it’s not always easy.

And how does a homebody like this meet someone, say, in the last 16 months? With lockdowns, provincial border closures, and a generally heightened sense of social aversion compounding an already Gladys Kravitz-level of suspicious interaction with the outside world? It gets a little more difficult.

Especially when this person lives in a sparsely populated village that’s 5 miles from the nearest store, and a solid hour away from the closest thing that can be considered a “city?” Now, we’re off to the races.

And then, when she lives in a country where, try as she might, she’s had a just-rotten time learning the native tongue? I envy my polyglot amigos — as decent as I am at English, Spanish is just… hard. I blame it on the conjugations, and on the PTSD I still carry from those two catastrophic semesters of Latin I took in college.

We are denizens of a modern age, so an obvious answer to all of these “how” questions is “the internet.” And that’s worked, to an extent — in the last spell of time, I’ve met a number of folks who I’ve grown to appreciate, and even moreso, consider to be friends... insomuch as the boundaries imposed by a computer screen will allow.

But, that human contact, dude. A pox on the fundamental human need to be social, even for the relatively unsociable, such as myself.

So, insert a day in the not-too-distant past, around the time when the weather was just starting to get a little chilly. During my time on Instagram, I’ve received a near-infinite number of direct messages; the vast majority of them have been a simple “hey;” some variation of “I have a question,” but there’s never a question; or heart/baby bottle emojis (if I had a nickel for each baby bottle emoji I’ve gotten, I could retire).

But every now and then (I read all of them, usually on the toilet), there’s one that has a little substance. One such message is from a person I typically refer to as a “sister:” a person who, like me, has been afflicted by some form of macromastia.

I always give these messages a little extra attention. I remember, a several years ago, how pants-poopingly thrilled I would have been to stumble across an Instagram, or a Patreon, like mine. I’ve mentioned this before, but when I was growing, the only info I could scrounge up on my condition were a handful of WebMD-ish articles that offered little insight, a few straggling newscasts from far-flung countries, or (of course) material from exotic websites geared toward dubious end results.

Anyway, the messages from the sisters. I’m not gonna judge anyone based on their ice breaking abilities, so I’m always willing to give the benefit of a doubt. But, there are a few factors that always affect how seriously I take missives like these.

The first is the age of the account. If it’s a few days old, there’s a better chance that it’s a poser who’s out for a role playing thrill. Not my cuppa.

The second are the images represented on the account itself. When you’ve been around the block as many times as I have, you tend to build a familiarity with the women out there who legit have had experiences with GM/MM. So, when the pics have been pirated (as mine frequently have been for similar RP accounts), you can tell who they’re from. “Hey, that’s totally yungfrekz, or BVT. Merp.” You send a quick line to the woman in question letting her know that so-and-so account is stealing her hard work, hit the report button, and move on with your life. Women with giant boobs have enough to deal with — best to look out for each other whenever you can.

Another tell is the language in the message itself. Keep in mind, these are semi-pro role players, so they’ve had some practice when it comes to getting into character. But, chinks in the armor show up pretty quickly: questions about what I do about (specifically) bras; an unfamiliarity with the “trick responses” I throw out there that would absolutely resonate with a giant-busted gal; requests for pictures because “I’ve never met another woman like me before, so if you’re comfortable, I would love if you could share…”; lactation, lactation, lactation (no, I don’t, because huh?); or simply, diving into conversation that’s just a little too (as my grandmother would call it) familiar. “Hey, so isn’t it fun to just play with your nipples all the time?” Hmm. Nah, I’ve got a day job, and my back hurts.

But. Every now and then (and it’s waaay more rare than you would think), there’s a missive that gets green checkmarks across the board. Wait a sec… is this chick for real?!

You keep it to DMs for a while. People are clever, and Lord knows we’ve all been bored this past year, so it wouldn’t surprise me if there was some bloke out there who took the time to carefully cultivate a presence and a voice that passed muster. As time goes on, though, the quality of the conversation just seems like, well, conversation. You share jokes, memes, life experiences, a few light-hearted chuckles, sometimes dealing with the bowling balls on your chests, but often not. And when everyone’s finally a little comfortable, the verification process effortlessly presents itself.

(A simple voice message isn’t always trustworthy — I got burned in the past by one couple who was into it for the thrill — she provided her voice, I believed it, and from there, a whole new thread about how she wanted to have some fun with her boyfriend, and how the three of us should set up a group on WhatsApp, there’s the chain of dickpics, and… ahhh, there it is. The ingenuity comes out.)

But back to that one day, when the weather was just starting to get a little chilly. I got one such message, and suffice it to say, the verifications got the seal of approval to the point where, beyond the shadow of a doubt (at least in my experience), this gal was on the level. Not only that, but she was cool! Smart, funny, irreverent, gosh-darned cute, and to top it all off (of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world), she actually lived reasonably close. DMs turned into swapping phone numbers and eventually settling on Telegram (you guys ever use Telegram? It’s great — way more handy than WhatsApp). And then, one day, we decided to actually meet. Like, in person. That human contact thing that I was talking about earlier.

Long story short, this is the story of how I met Astrid.

I’ve mentioned Astrid before, so if she sounds a little familiar, that’s why. A few story posts that ended up making the cut when we spent some revelrous nights together cooking, drinking, and gettin’ all fat and fancy.

The first time we met, it was actually pretty goofy. This was back in late 2020, and there were some burblings about how Spain might get a little froggy (again) with lockdowns — closing borders, police barricades around cities, etc. At that point, we had spent hours and hours and hours chatting on the phone about whatever. The text message log was looooong. We had been hitting it off really, really well.

One morning, I stirred awake to an uncharacteristically formal text message from her — her basically being like, “Hey, so, not sure if you’re down for this, and if you’re not, that’s totally cool, because I know you have shit to do… But I’ve kinda got nothing to do right now, and it’s all setting up to get awfully lonely again, so… if you’d like, it might be fun to hang out, if I can come to where you are?”

It took all of about 15 seconds for me to rub the sleep out of my eyes and respond with a “Hell yes, let’s do it!”

She was like, “Are you sure? I didn’t want to ask, but my friend said ‘DO IT,’ so…”

“Yeah! When do you want to come?”

“I dunno… tonight?”

“Yeah! We’ll hunker down, I’ll make sure we have all the wine!”

We didn’t talk much that day. The house was a MESS — I’m talking aftermath of a college house party catastrophe, so I dug out my most faithful house cleaning bra, prioritized the apocalyptic setting, carefully chose a room in which to deposit all of the laundry and random detritus, and started wailing.

I suppose there’s an angle to look at this day from. On one hand, lovely — it had been ages since I had any semblance of company, so hooray for Heather! On the other hand… a little pathetic? What, an outside observer might wonder, had Heather even been through this last year to put her into such a good fucking mood? Sweeping the floor to a never-ending Taylor Swift playlist, whistling into the broom handle like she was in an ‘80s movie, dear God, is this how inmates feel when they get their twice-yearly conjugal visits? A long-awaited break in the monotony from something as simple as someone coming down to spend a night or two? But, there you have it. Heather was happy, in that way that you typically only find with four-year-olds on the playground when they make a new best friend in the whole-wide world for a day.

You might get a particular hoot out of this part: later, she dropped me a line, letting me know that she was about an hour away from my little place way out in the countryside. I had some nibbles prepared, made sure the supply of boozes was more-than enough to last for at least a couple of days until another delivery could be scheduled, managed to steal away a moment for a shower (it had been a few days, because at the height of Covid, who really showered every day? I’m disgusting in so many ways, and am not afraid to admit it).

Anyway, standing there, surveying a kitchen and dining area that (I am happy to say) I had actually done a pretty good job with, it hit me… I was a little bit nervous.

LIke, actually, really nervous. And it wasn’t just because my social skills, like so many of ours, had been eroded. I was sitting there, sipping on some wine, tapping my foot, going through a mental laundry list of stuff that I may have overlooked during my cleaning spree. Did I clean the toilet? Bedsheets all done? Should I put some wood on the fire to warm the place up a little more?

And then it hit me. A part of the anxiety had something to do with all this normal first-impression stuff. But, like so many of the not-always earnest messages I had received on Instagram had implied, I hadn’t really met too many other women like me. If you’ll recall from any of these past posts involving Astrid (or, if you’ve visited her Instagram yourself), you’ll know that her boobs are huuuge. Like, I’m talking Heather-class. And I didn’t quite know how, when she arrived, I would treat her peculiar physical anomaly.

Isn’t that weird? I mean, I look at my boobs in the mirror everyday. I haul around all 20-some pounds of them, and I get all the looks, reactions, and types of treatment you would expect to come along with having Heather-class boobs. So why the heck was I so nervous for precisely the same reason? Did other people, men and women alike, have a similar trepidation when interacting with me? I know for a fact that they do. But for heaven’s sake, doesn’t my entry into that particularly blessed club make me exempt from such considerations? Is there some logic to it, or do I just overthink this stuff too much?

I saw the car pull up into the driveway, just as the last dregs of twilight were dipping into an indigo over the mountainous horizon. Astrid hopped out of the car, and went into the backseat to retrieve a small backpack before jaunting in my general direction (uncertainly, was that my door, or that one?)

I remember the first thought I had was a playful pang of envy — where did she find a leather jacket that fit her so well? I gave a few sharp knocks on the window, and a small wave and a point to the front door. One more glug of wine. 

Turns out, your mind plays tricks on you. I had forgotten, in that last hour before she arrived, that we had had probably dozens of hours of just mindless, wonderful yammering on the phone, and with that, I had forgotten that we actually have a great deal in common. The moment I met her, it was like seeing an old friend. The boobs came up in the conversation right away, as we both did our instinctive lean-hunch to give each other a hug and the standard-issue European double cheek kiss. One of the first things we commented on was that it was waaay harder to pull off when both women are rocking boobs the size of Christmas hams.

And, after the brief tour of the digs, a glass of wine being poured, it didn’t take too much time to sink into a comfortable normal in front of the kitchen fire as the hours stretched on. Wintertime is kinda great — there's nothing that messes with my mind more than the summer, where it doesn't get dark until after 10 p.m., and the sun is already coming up by 6 — it's kinda cruel, not having that many hours of night time. But the wintertime, that part of the year specifically, you're looking at a solid part of an Earth's rotation being spent in pitch. So it's lovely, when you can look at the clock, realize it's waaaaay too late/early, and not have to pay much consideration to the fact that the sky will be turning blue any minute now. 

More time for wine with someone new — and all the silliness that might entail in whatever sort of night might be spent scream-singing the Rolling Stones, solving Sphinx's riddles, burning the shit out of pancakes, digging through each others' piles of clothing, et al, et al...

This was only the first rendezvous of what would turn out to be many for Astrid and me — stories that are certainly worth telling in the near future. How'd she get onto Instagram in the first place? What happened during that day we got lost in the wilderness? How fucking competitive is she when the dominoes come out (and she insists that *I'm* the competitive one)? Does she have names for HER boobs (I'll let her tackle that.)? And, as you might be wondering... when two women with a collective 40-ish pounds of boobage get together, what in the fuck, exactly happens? Is it a frat-pack flick from the '80s, a relatively subdued experience more reminiscent of a Victorian novel... or somewhereabouts in between? 

All I'll say is to stay tuned for a brand of silliness that might not deviate too far from this little tidbit that I'll leave you with for now.

Wine does funny things to people.