heatherbeck

Letters From Heather - 2028 - So Many Memories

(The latest in the "Letters from Heather" series, loosely based on a true story. Take my word for it, fellas — if you're a denizen of the modern age, and happen to have all of your precious images stored only on one ganky old external hard drive, get a second drive and make a copy so you don't experience the same tinge of horror I did. A backup drive is NOT a backup drive if you only have ONE copy of it! One of those hindsight-is-20/20-no-duh moments that, thankfully, didn't turn out disastrously. Anyway! Enjoy!

As always, artwork by the amazing @aldoinheaven on IG; also, if you're feeling generous, check out his Patreon here. He's a super guy, and is just sooooo amazing when it comes to some really one-of-a-kind large breast/BE art. you'll be contributing to his well-deserved wine fund, and will help ensure that he can continue making more incredible art like this!)

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That was a close call… my ancient hard drive, long-since stuck in that drawer in my office. Going to plug it in, only to have it make weeeeird noises and freeze up. Click-click-click. The death knell of an antiquated electronic device that’s on its way out. Heart. In. Throat.

But, all hope was not lost. I have no idea the magic he worked, but Carlos was about to take the whole damn thing and back it up into the Cloud for me, where, as he put it, “It’ll be safe until I’m long gone.” Macabre sunuvabitch. But, he saved 20 years of photographs from oblivion, so he can sacrifice a goat and make a blood oath to Kthulu for all I care — the guy’s a tech wizard.

Still, permanence aside, you can never be too careful. And besides, I’ve needed a mundane little project recently. When I was on pins and needles, wondering about the fate of my life-through-photos, my sleepless nights were spent visualizing the couple of hundred pics I might never see again. Those irreplaceable moments that would snap back into my brain just when I was about to nod off, sending another pang of fuck across my mind like a firework.

It took me a little while to track them all down, but there they were. One-by-one, into a file, and then, off to the printer. A stack of 4” x 6”, glossies, destined for the scrapbook. Printed photographs? A literal, physical scrapbook? Kinda feels like going to the 24-hour photo counter at the drugstore when I was in highschool. When was the last time anyone even printed photos?

It’s just like when I sort through the first draft of a manuscript. Even the dining room table isn’t quite big enough — I need a bit more room to spread out. I guess I probably shouldn’t thought about sorting these shots out a little beforehand. But I’m a tactile person. Better to see them on (photo)paper and figure out where they’re gonna go in the thick, leather-bound, Grandma-Class scrapbook.

Double scotch prepared, and off to the big funky-print, that-hardwood-can-get-cold rug in the middle of the living room floor. Gingerly lowering Olga until she just meets the plush surface; a shuffle to the left; and slowly coming to a kneel, butt on the floor, with Natalia resting between spread legs. Sorry, Big-O: Mommy’s gotta get some work done, so she needs you to wait next to her for a moment.

Memory after memory… Should I just go chronological? Year-by-year, or place-by-place? Should I separate out that dozen-or-so from that big week in LA? Or put them into the overall “back in the States” pile? One after one, the photos are gently laid on the floor in a semicircle that starts behind my butt, and ends at the base of Olga’s chillout spot to my right.

No… that photo from the afternoon by the pool at the Winshaw’s place… That doesn’t belong there. Remaining photos clutched in my left hand, I lean forward to retrieve it, smushing into Natalia on the way. A slight tug on the right side of my chest forces me to angle my back a little bit... Olga doesn’t budge as easily as she used to (for better or for worse).

Neither Defer Nor Neglect

I don’t know about you guys. But when I live somewhere for a while, I get attached to it, warts and all.

Like, changing apartments. There’s that last few hours, when all of your shit is packed, or has already been hauled off, and for the first time since you moved in, the space seems a little… alien. Here’s this place, where you’ve spent the past year, or two, or three, and you’ve made it your own, and then, allofasudden, it’s just not yours anymore. It’s prepped for the next denizen who will occupy your space, which really, was never your space to begin with. We’re all just momentary inhabitants, worshippers of the External Buddha.

I think the trigger for that feeling is that “Shit, what did I forget” emotion. If you go on vacation or something, at some point, you brain will start to sort through all of the different ways your house could burn down while you’re away. Moving is a lot like that, but more permanent. “Leaving the iron on” is replaced with “Wait, what, exactly, does a bathtub look like when it’s considered clean enough to merit a five-star review on Airbnb?” Because I just can’t remember anymore. Especially after the last year, where the luckiest of us have been able to indulge in the trend of languishing.

In that last 12 hours or so, before leaving such a place, I tend to check out, literally, but also, emotionally. There’s that moment when you’re just kind of sitting there, and you think, “OK. I’m done. I’ve gotten all I’m gonna get from this place, and I’m ready to move on — let’s just get this over with, when’s my ride gonna be here?”

The hours tick down. You take a shit in the toilet, and realize that’s probably the last shit you’re ever gonna take in that toilet, a toilet that’s been so good to you over the years. You say goodbye to specific rooms. You make sure there’s nothing embarrassing leftover that you reminded yourself, weeks ago, to get rid of. You know — you just KNOW — that at some point in the not too distant future, that you’ll get that pang of “AW, SHIT,” because you left that vibrator in the drawer next to the bed, and isn’t that gonna be awkward for whomever finds it. (I am 99% certain I have avoided any such awkwardness, but who knows? I’ll keep an eye open for that adrenaline surge that’ll come with whatever didn’t make it into my suitcase).

But, whenever I leave a place, I do find a solace. We’ve gotta change somewhat frequently, lest we become stagnant. Nobody wants that. I suppose the tradeoff is different for every person — there’s comfort in the familiar, in the what’s yours, what’s permanent, The Only Thing That Matters, The Only Thing That Lasts, a lá Scarlett’s Dad. But salmon up the stream, and all that.

The solace always looks just a little different, place to place. But the connecting thread, as douche-y as it sounds, is a quote from this old Quaker poet named William Wordsworth (can you imagine being a writer and having a name like that? It’s just being a bartender and being named Jim Beam). It’s a part of a longer quote, but the takeaway is:

“Let me neither defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”

Sounds a little depressing on the surface. Shit, is life that temporary? Does anything truly belong to us, and is anything really ours? If you think about it, there’s a possibility that you did something this week, and that’s the last time you will have ever done that thing.

But, it’s a clarion call. (Complete aside — I’m in a taxi right now, reflecting on the above, and “All Star” by Smashmouth just came on the radio. The years start coming, as the man says, and indeed, they do not stop coming.) It’s an imperative that says, “Oye china, what if you saw EVERYTHING in the same way that a pixie-like Norwegian pop singer saw things?” Novel, and new, always, with its own complicated beauty?

To each their own, but I would probably go insane if that were the case. Just personal preference.

Still, it’s a Ferris Bueller thing. Take a moment now and then, establish it as a waypoint (changes of location are great for that, especially if you want to cut back on smoking, like I do), smell the flowers, see the stuff with fresh eyes, keep close the things you cherish from that experience, and then, see what the next step has in store.

I’m going to miss this place. The scenery and the food have been lovely; the non-intrusive, benign quiet have taken me to some dark places, but I’ve come out better on the other side; one relationship in particular has changed me, forever, in ways that I’ll never be able to adequately express (chirp-chirp. you — can’t wait for more incredible adventures, or simply, mac-n-cheese).

Bittersweet is the word? Excited, but scared; nostalgic, but anticipating what’s next. Sad, but with a wry, cocked eyebrow.

I have a few more stories to tell, from this place and time. A terrible person once said that “the memories are still developing…” but even broken clocks tell the right time twice a day. So with your permission, lovely readers, I’m going to take the next several posts and pretend that I’m still in that place, living that life. It’ll still smack of authenticity, because the feelings will still be fresh.

And then, once the chemicals have had their chance to wash over the celluloid, I’ll update you on what’s next for your old pal Heather.

Onward and upward; the open road still softly calls; let me neither defer, nor neglect.

Stupid Intellectual Property

"Trademark Rule 2.72, 37 C.F.R §2.72 establishes the basis for what constitutes material alteration. This rule was established in the 1983 case of Visa International Service Association v. Life-Code Systems, Inc. If the modified mark contains the "essence" of the original mark, material alteration has occurred. The basic change that occurs is small enough that it creates the same commercial impression. Alteration in this manner is copyright infringement."

ISN'T THAT FUN?! And sexy, too!

I haven't really brought this up yet, but as Mel Brooks said in Spaceballs, "Merchandising!"

Nah, not really. But, I've been making some T-shirts — things that I have for sale on teespring, one of those sites that does on-demand apparel. If it works, great; if not, that's cool too. The main idea I have is that it's a fun, creative outlet to have at my disposal if need be (and I get shirts for me at cost). As it gets going, I'll see what I can do with my ultra-limited graphic design skills, but who knows? I'm getting into visual art a little bit more, so maybe some duds with original artwork by yours truly? 

If anyone has any suggestions of Heather-based stuff they'd like to see on a T-shirt, let me know! :-)

But, back to now. 

It was pretty quiet. I got reminded of a fun design that has entered the cultural zeitgeist, and decided to fiddle around a little bit, until I came around to the image above. And I'm really happy with how it turned out!

The thing is, it wasn't until I was done with the design that a thought crossed my mind. CBGB & OMFUG was a legendary music bar in New York that closed down in 2006. Back in its heyday, it was where all the underground music got played, and it was one of the birthplaces of New Wave and Punk as we know it. The bar is gone now, but... does someone still own the trademark? Turns out, they do. It's this one, if you're wondering.

Fun stuff (property of Epic Rights Inc.).

So... Buuuut... if I change the wording, that should be cool, right? 

Ehhh, no. A little more Googling, and I discovered that, no, that's not cool either. I'm no attorney, but it doesn't take too much to figure out that my version of the image above  "creates the same commercial impression" as the original. Aw, drat.

I'll share my version here: it's a fun little thing that I created in an hour during a random afternoon, and, alas, I don't have any intention of selling it for any commercial gain. I shall relegate it, instead, to the realm of artistic satire and as a loving tribute to a cool brand of the past. So, this one goes the way of the dodo. 

For now, I'm sure a great many of you might be wondering, however... what do these letters stand for?

The full name of the original bar was "Country, Bluegrass, Blues and Other Music for Uplifting Gormandizers."

The intent for my interpretation? 

I'll leave that for the comments section. ;-)

Track 6 - Awwwwkward... & "Valerie"

Shit, dude. "Unruly" would be an understatement. I will admit that, before recording this, I jotted out a quick bullet point list of top-of-the-head occurrences that are pretty commonplace for me, but might come off as just wacky to someone who is just getting to know me. 

Let's just say there were stages. Stage one: breaking all of my fancy wine glasses. Stage two: getting a fresh batch of cheap wine glasses from IKEA. Stage three: breaking all of those wine glasses. Stage four: abandoning the whole stemmed glassware concept altogether. 

One tries to be adaptable when one can. 

Oh, and also, wailing out to one of my favorite tunes. (The Winehouse, speaking of wine; not the boilerplate '50s stock music [that's just begging to get its EDM remix]).

The 9:10 Bells

Truly, one of the more eerie and mysterious ways to rouse yourself with the dawn. That being said, I do tend to sleep pretty late most days, much to the chagrin of my circadian rhythm.

But at some point, I vowed that I would actually get it on tape. Or, on phone. Nailed it.

What’s the opposite of a knell? A peal, maybe? Yeah, I like that.

Oh, Yeah... Astrid!

You know, it occurs to me that I haven’t really talked about Astrid yet.

Not sure if you’ve been keeping tabs on Instagram, but there were a few times where we hung out, and just did some silly Instagram story posts. Some drinking and cooking involved, too.

Anyway, she’s amazing. She’s @3astrid33 if you’re interested in checking her out. We met online late last year (common interests to say the least), and pretty much hit it off right away. Figured we actually lived kinda closeby, and even in the age of Covid, hang-out-able!

So, after many bottles of Rioja, we decided it would be outrageously fun if she took her own unique brand of insight to this fine site. I know I’d sign up, lol.

I’ve been helping her get started with her social media. She’s SUCH an amazing person, so funny, cute as all hell, and absolutely mystical — she does Tarot, horoscopes, a little ASMR... You all know me as a pretty science-minded girl, so maybe it’ll surprise you if I say there’s a therapeutic charm to getting a Tarot reading, especially from someone talented.

Not gonna lie, she does have a lovely voice, too, which is always fun to hear. ☺️ There’s a fresh one on her $6 tier, which I kinda peacefully fell asleep to the other night.

Anyway, she and I were texting about stories that we are both going to post on our Patreon. Just about hanging out together, and storytelling about some trouble that we got into. (Mind outta the gutter, ya goof.)

Just a screencap of a couple DMs that made me laugh out loud. And the rest of the story is being written now! (Not in a metaphorical way, but like, literally writing it.)

Oh, and this one, too. Just liked it; there’ll be more to share.

🎼if i was young and far away, would you doopidee doop the world someday...🎼

Track 5 - "Reduction? and New Perspective"

This is my standard outfit for going out to bars. Remember? Jeans and tee shirts for the win, and a standard-issue button-down gives me the brand of casual that you could only find in a... '90s Seattle alt-rock bar. I'll take it. 

Hashtag born in the, hashtag wrong time, hashtag wrong place.

But it's a picture of me, taken in a mirror!!! So it's a new perspective — do you get it?! Do you get it? It's so deep! I am the DeEpeSt!>!%&

But hey, enjoy, y'all. It comes from a place of spontaneity and love. Early 20-teens, this one? I was... between jobs at the time? There were a few job interviews at the time. I remember taking my time to get ready, to look just effing perfect, the adrenaline. You remember those moments before you go into an interview, when you park in the lot, and there's a song playing on the radio, and it kinda goes into lockstep with the whole experience? Yeah, I remember this song on the radio. Nostalgia? "Pain from an old wound?" (though my Greek-speaking friends insist that it's not that simple — you know who you are... ( :-* ) ) In either case, it's just fun on the uke. :)

Oh, this is fun. I'm an Xennial (not sure how to pronounce it, yet), apparently. I love demographics, especially as they relate to generations as a collective concept of a societal construct. Anyway, you can only really label stuff like this in hindsight. 

So, there's Gen X, and Millennial, with the typical cutoff being born sometime in thd early 80s. But what do I have in common with someone who was 8 when the iPhone was unveiled? They've grown up with it. Their perceptions are different. 

"Analog childhood, with a digital adulthood," is the phrase being tossed around, and I dig it. It was a transition; I can still hear the entirety of the dial-up noise in my brain like it's happening in real time. Octothorpes were called "pound signs" instead of "hashtags." (Though I'm a snob, so I'll still call it an octothorpe.) Oregon Trail. What an interesting thing, that this mundane game was so indicative of a moment? Not a half-generation before or after, but Oregon Trail. 

I don't wanna throw shade, but today's whippersnappers couldn't get past the Kansas River without getting dysentery, so octothorpe with age comes wisdom.

Nah, I'm just playing. I'm kinda jealous of the younger gen in some sense. Allll this is native to them. And they're doing and pretty decent job with it so far, creating their own cultural standard for communication.  I guess every generation does that; but I remember calling a friend in England using the first iteration of Skype, and it was, like, $0.25 a minute. Now it's just expected to be free. That's some crazy experiential difference. 

Not sure why that was interesting to bring up. Humans like labels, I guess. It'll sell a lot more Oregon Trail merch in 2021, and that's not a horrible thing.

(Tune in next time, when Heather delves deep into the trend that is "Nostalgia for the 1990's; What's the Deal with Thaaat?" ... Seinfeld reference. Would have hit HUGE in the '90s, so it's part of the... never mind.)

4077

Want to know a fun fact about me? I never got into The Wire. Remember, that four-season super-complex, well-constructed think series that was a part of that first big post-Sopranos wave of Golden Age television? Yeah. Never got into it.

I’m not sure why. Technically, it’s a masterpiece. Well-acted, perfectly written, great pacing, superb production. Suffice it to say, I think everybody has that one show that is otherwise universally adored, that they just can’t jive with.

I have a friend who can’t get down with Breaking Bad. Another who just doesn’t see the appeal in Mad Men; there are West Wing haters; folks who think Lost is silly; that The Americans is too slow; Westworld just requires too much mental energy; Game of Thrones is a little too fantasy-y; you know that old trope about how, for people who don’t like sci-fi, except for one show, you just know it’s gonna be Battlestar that they’re cool with…

I used to be one of those people, who would say, “Oh, you’ve gotta try it — just power through until season 3, and it gets really good.” I don’t do that anymore. I remember how that trick didn’t work for me with The Wire. Everyone likes different things. Tell someone why you like something, see what they say, and move on.

Those shows are all dramas, though. There’s the other leg of television: the comedies. I don’t wanna step on anybody’s toes (again, love what you love, and that’s great), But I’ve never been able to get into some of the classics. Friends, How I Met Your Mother, The Big Bang Theory, et al… Just not my cup of tea. Arrested Development, Community, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, 30 Rock, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, The Simpsons (S1 through ”Principal and the Pauper”)... That’s my shit.

I think what it boils down to is structure; namely, as the structure relates to laugh tracks. Ohhh, I hate laugh tracks. They’re like nails on a chalkboard for me. Even when I was a little kid, I found it so absolutely strange that there had to be an audience participation component — why am I being instructed to laugh?

The four-camera “filmed in front of a live studio audience” format affects what kinds of jokes you can tell. Setup, punchline, hold for laughs, repeat. You ever see one of those clips on Youtube, where some scene from Everybody Loves Raymond is edited so the laugh tracks are removed? It’s downright creepy. The jokes aren’t jokes anymore; it’s just not funny. (Always Sunny, meanwhile, made fun of just this phenomenon.)

I’m not going on about this to say that shows with laughter are lowest-common-denominator trash, and shows without laugh tracks are for the smarties. Shit man, Frasier was solid. Seinfeld, Married with Children, Taxi… All these shows are just good. Visceral hatred of laugh tracks aside, I would hate, even more, for that prejudice to exclude me from legit enjoying these dynamite pieces of television. Fawlty Towers is arguably the funniest show ever made. Monty Python’s Flying Circus simply wouldn’t have worked without the laugh tracks, and its genius needs no introduction.

Shows like these took advantage of the format, and custom-tailored the comedy like a $3,000 suit. Even so, remove the laugh tracks from shows like these, and it’s gonna feel creepy or awkward: Kramer’s manic movements will be off-putting; Al Bundy will come off like a horse’s ass; Andy Kaufman will seem like a serial killer; Dr. Crane will just be unceremoniously insufferable. The built-in laughter is the glue that holds that superb writing together.

Which leads me… to M.A.S.H. Running for 11 seasons, from 1972 to 1983, M.A.S.H. is widely considered to be some of the best American television since the medium was invented. Set in a hospital camp during the Korean War, it unfolds the stories of a group of drafted surgeons and other Army folk. It’s a comedy; the writing is air-tight in that blissful mid-century “bada-bing” kind of way. But, it’s not afraid to be a drama at times. Even through the laughs, and at times, downright absurdity of the scenarios, there are stakes on the line. Heavy ones (this is war, after all), and heartwarming (these are people, after all).

And, yeah. M.A.S.H. is just one of those shows I could never get down with. For me, it was the laugh tracks. I could never put my finger on it, but they just seemed so out of place. It was a one-camera show, there was no studio audience, the comedy seemed as if it could stand just fine on its own. Goofy sight gags, theatrical plot arcs, and Groucho Marx quips (Alan Alda, master of comedic timing) felt dragged down by the fact that the creators felt the need to cram this canned, pre-recorded laughter into the show. Their writing was good! So why?

Turns out, it wasn’t the creators of the show at all. They made this show, it got greenlit by CBS, so everybody could pay their bills and work for a living. There was just one caveat: the network viewed it as a comedy; you can’t have a comedy without a laugh track; you’re gonna have to put in a laugh track. The showrunner was opposed to this — he didn’t see M.A.S.H. as a traditional comedy, and thought it was honestly a little inappropriate to take a show about people struggling through the futility of war and give it the Archie Bunker treatment. Still, you don’t bite the hand that feeds you. He did get one concession — they could skip the laughs during the surgery scenes.

Growing up in the states, the show was always syndicated on some network or another. As a fan of television, I tried to like it — shit, 250 episodes? That’s a binge well that goes deep! But I just never could. It was just too hokey.

Fast forward to 2021: a year in which I have watched all television that there is to watch. I’ve reached the dim edges of Netflix and have digested the greatest TV of the last 50 years. It’s lonely, running out of content.

I was telling this to a friend of mine, who is from the United Kingdom. We were both bitching about running out of television (first world problems?), and he was saying how he had already binged M.A.S.H. like, three times during Covid. We got into the usual “I could never get into it / Really? Why?” conversation. And I fumbled for a few moments before saying something about how the laughter felt like sandpaper on my brain.

“Wait… what?”

“Yeah, you know. The laugh tracks.”

“M.A.S.H…. doesn’t have laugh tracks.”

I kind of felt like I was in a bizarro world of brainfarting for a second.

“It… does though? You know, like there’s a joke, and then, there’s the sound of laughter?”

“Heather, I’m British — I know what a fucking laugh track is.”

My friend, like myself, enjoys utilizing modern technology to borrow content from the internet, so he sent a link.

Apparently, the show was also a massive success on the other side of the pond, but it didn’t test well with laugh tracks. So, the BBC was able to procure the original master reels, without the laughter. (A little internet research reveals that an episode with a laugh track accidentally made it to air in the UK in the ‘90s, and that there were a not-inconsiderable number of passive-aggressive letters of complaint... riots in the streets, by Gum).

But, there it was. An episode of M.A.S.H., without the canned laughter. And it all clicked together. No longer was this a slap-sticky little show about a bunch of goofballs in This Man’s Army; it was an absurdist commentary about the harrowing nature of people murdering other people, and the folks who are desperately, futilely trying to fix broken bodies. The writing isn’t just humor geared toward eliciting a response from the audience; it’s more introverted.

There’s the one character, Frank Burns, a straight-laced, stuck-up, frequently racist officer who is dedicated to living by the book (everyone just haaates him). Except in his private moments, when he opens up to Nurse Houlihan (with whom he’s having an affair). In these scenes, he turns into a whiney, tantrum-throwing man child. It’s a grotesque parody of vulnerability, and with a laugh track, scenes like these seem like throwaway clownery. Without the laugh tracks, you see a deeply flawed, unstable individual who is on the verge of cracking under the weight of his own self-imposed sense of obligation; his pitiful interpretation of what duty means. It’s sad, but it’s also fucking hysterical.

Radar is a corporal who handles clerical work, announcements, stuff like that. Just some barely-18 kid from the Midwest. Naive, well-meaning, heart of gold, and kinda dumb. With laughs: he’s a boob who accidentally slips some double entendre, or we get some “Oh, brother…” reaction at being uncomfortably roped into some crazy scheme or another. Without laughs: he’s just a fish out of water, forced to grow up too fast, probably on the spectrum, in an environment that’s perpetually uncomfortable for him. You just want to give him a hug.

Corporal Klinger, desperate to get kicked out of the army, always dresses in women’s clothing. He wants to come off as so batshit crazy that he’s (gasp) a crossdresser. It never works, but he perseveres. Laughs: Har-har, look at the fella in the dress! Without: Absurdist gold; he’s not really a transvestite. But goddammit, he hates being there so much, that he’ll spend his salary on a pair of 4-inch pumps if it has even the slightest chance of getting him back home. And, yeah, what the hell, he likes it a little, too. 

Captain Pierce, lead character, played by the incredible Alan Alda. A “meatball surgery” guy who had a medical practice back home, and was forced into war. Machine gun wit; always some slippery scheme on his mind; a gin still in his tent. With laughs: a carefree, snarky, hyper-intelligent guy with a razor-sharp tongue and a sense of Fonzerelli cool. Without? His quick quips, catty insults, and functional alcoholism are the masks he wears to just keep himself fucking sane. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful. When the show turns into a drama, as it sometimes does, you get these lovely layers where the mask comes off.

And I think that’s why M.A.S.H. is resonating with me, particularly right now. Haven’t we all been struggling this past year, trapped in some impossible situation where, on some days, we’re just barely hanging on? Where we’re fish out of water, stuck, willing to try anything, dedicated to maintaining this false decorum, playing it cool, but just languishing on the inside? I’ve felt that way. Def hits in the Covid feels. 

M.A.S.H. is a masterpiece, objectively. With laughs: it’s escapism; without: it’s a rabbit hole. Misery loves company, sure, but there’s also some near-magical quality this show possesses, transmitted across the decades, that almost makes you feel like you’re being heard. People have been through struggles before; their struggles don’t devalue yours; it’s hard; it’s gonna get better. Just try to keep a sense of humor, and you might make it out alive.

It’s the only thing I’ve binged, in a year defined by binging, that makes me think, “Yes. Finally. This show gets it.” And I’m sorry — that just feels good.

I call this one...

...standing in line at the deli, and this is the point of view from some bloke sitting at a cramped table during the lunch rush, noshing on a pastrami on rye.

Do you know what I miss the most about the States? There is this chain of Jewish delis in my old city. (If anyone is an ATLien, Goldberg’s, amiright?) They had this breakfast special, that was a fresh bagel, cream cheese, smoked salmon, red onions, tomato, and capers. Also a cup of coffee. For five dollars. It was the best.

Also, Dave’s Cosmic Subs... that’s a deathbed sandwich, that. The one with the turkey and gorgonzola sauce... Shiiit, that’s a good sandwich.

What’s the best sandwich you’ve ever had? Leave it in the comments if you’d like, I’m just curious. I’m on a sandwich kick (in case you couldn’t tell), so always looking for notes.

So, I think I’ve gotten a little pudgy.

Body positivity alert! Since that’s one of the things that I guess I’m all about (or at least people have told me that I am), I might as well spread it around, and practice what I preach.

One of the things that’s nice about having huge hooters, is that if I gain a little weight, nobody really notices. Especially because I tend to gain weight in my belly. Maaaybe a bit in the thighs, and a bit of extra padding on my hips. But it’s all gaining in the torso for this gal.

All that being said, I think the winter hibernation took a toll on me this year — that’s what you get, me during a pandemic-era baking binge. I don’t have a scale, but maybe... 10 or 15 pounds?

Though to be fair, this picture does have a few factors going for it. I kind of naturally have a potbelly. Probably just reflex to serve poke out my belly to serve as a shelf for underwires. The girls are heavy, so they are pressing down and squishing my stomach. And, these jeans are particularly tight. And the angle is weird. And I’m slouching. Pay no attention to the muffintop. I’m a supermodel who’s just, slouching.

They say the tastiest part of the muffin is the top. While I would certainly enjoy being more active, I’m not in any rush to get the pounds off.

Or, who knows. I might just decide to keep them. I don’t mind a little softness.

It’s funny, how everybody gains weight differently. Different parts of their bodies, and stuff like that. I do wonder what I would look like naked if I had an extra... 200 pounds on my frame. It’s crazy the stuff that goes through my mind when I’m laying in bed trying to get to sleep, but that’s one of them.

Lord knows it might help balance me out at least? Maybe I’d get lucky and end up with a certified booty. Hourglass > Upside-down pear.

Wait, I forgot... body positivity alert!!!

Found one.

Searching for a lighter. I had, like, four here, but I can’t find one.

Brushed the top of Natalia. Bunch of weird l… apparently, I’ve absentmindedly stuck, like, three lighters in my bra tonight. I am the official boob version of the grandmother who can’t find her glasses, even though they are on her forehead.

Also, yes, I have a printer! Did they ever get to make a really pretty consumer printer before paperless took over, and the need went extinct? Or are literally all consumer printers just these giant blocks that are still relics of the early 2010s?

I read once that Apple had a cool idea for a printer in mind. The size of a lamp, it was circular, and you could just feed one piece of paper into it at a time. Kind of a genius idea for the 90% of people who use printers like I do: to print out two or three pages every month.

Anyway.

The picture would have been better without the printer.

... but, the crust turned out OK!

The key to a good pizza dough is fermentation, at least for a day. Let all the bacteria eat up the starches, create lactic acid and CO2, and break down the gluten chains.

Fun fact. I’m gluten intolerant. Not the type of person at a restaurant to ask if such-and-such contains gluten, or anything. I always have been, and continue to be, sort of a human garbage disposal. I’ll eat literally anything. But I kind of get some heartburn sometimes.

I’ve been doing an experiment lately. made a fresh batch of pizza dough, and saw which day tastes best. It’s Around day two or three when the texture holds together, and you actually feel pretty good eating it, instead of getting that “blah.” feeling.

Anyway, at this point, I’ve gotten somewhat confident in the fact that I could live almost anywhere in the world and re-create at least a close resemblance to New York City pizza. Swap out the mozzarella for Bhutanese yak’s milk cheese? Sure. Everybody’s got tah’maters.

All this to say... pizza tiddies.

“Merry Pizza Tiddies!” — A denizen of the year 2047, when that’s a thing the youths say on their tikitikitiki machine.

Sonuvabitch.

Merely making pizza, when Olga strikes my jar of pizza sauce. I attempt to recover; Natalia knocks over a bottle of wine (still some left in it too, by gum!), toward the floor. I catch the bottle of wine with my foot so it doesn’t break (massive props); it still splatters all over, and now I need to re-bleach these stupid little curtains. (I just cleaned them a week ago… Come on, champ!).

Anyway, file under “Problems, Big Boob,“ entry No. 1,843.

Track 4 - "Did It Freak You Out?"

Pretty self-explanatory. But, the short answer is "yep." The long answer is as immersive as I could be with a couple of glasses of wine already in my system. 

I guess people ask this one, because it's completely crazy, but since they're boobs, they're treated differently, and are sexualized, and are a bit more familiar. Like, if someone had some huge Seinfeld goiter on their neck, you probably wouldn't be like, "Holy shit, dude, look at the size of that goiter!" But there's at least an empathy to a question like this one, which ain't nothing. 

It's still a strange question, though. Especially in an environment not too dissimilar from a grocery store checkout like, or a line at the post office. 

As an aside, it's probably about time I just start wearing this shirt, which I think does a pretty good job at answering questions, too. (Useless plug: this shirt is available at my very-real merch site, heatherwiththeshirts.com . I literally do not expect anyone to buy such a weirdly specific shirt, but I wanted one, so I thought I'd share the option with y'all.)

Crush

Normally, I would say a little something here, but I think all the details made it into the video.

I think the first time I saw something like this was on some YouTube clip a friend sent me a little while back. I think it was from some daytime talkshow from the 1990s? Jenny Jones, or something? Anyway, she had this dancer on the show, who had positively monster boobs, and her trick was that she could crush a whole line of beer cans, one after the other. (Giant melons, sensationalist daytime TV, AND crushed beer cans? What could be more American than that? This must be why the terrorists hate us.)

I think she actually did it braless, too, which I can NOT get my head around. Like, you can stand on an aluminum can. And when they crumple, you get all of these sharp edges. I know that I don’t want boob stitches! 😭

So, in the spirit of all of those great “don’t try this at home,“ shows that I grew up with, and using my unique position as quite the global thought leader in the field of boob science, I took all the necessary precautions.

And now, I have a pretty solid party trick for when the world opens back up, which is never a bad thing. My Christopher Walken impression SUCKS, so this is probably the next best thing?

Letters from Heather - 2032 - Spurt Days

(I’m really loving how this one came out. What I love about this whole series, is that all these pieces, especially at the larger sizes, have this sense of respect for the format. Like, it’s easy to make breasts this large look cartoonish, or like a caricature. But, these images sort of answer the question, “for real, what IF there was a woman whose breasts were just this big, and what would be a private moment in her life?“

The point of view is awesome, the glasses are a great touch, and at this point in this evolving story, alternate-reality Heather’s boobs are very literally (and figuratively) a big part of her.

On that note, I know I’ve been delivering the story a little all over the place, chronologically. Honestly, that’s kind of the way this story has been evolving in my head. So by design? My ultimate goal is going to have fun weaving all the pieces together and expanding on this whole story arc, transitions, plot development, etc… (hope y’all are having fun with the little hints). Order it like, short stories/illustrations/next draft of short stories/finished? I love collaborations like that. But more of that that to come!

In any case, I hope you really enjoy this illustration by @AldoInHeaven (on IG and the Big T). This link will take you to his Patreon; if you’re a fan of some pretty unique, dreamy, big boob art, I think he’s freaking awesome: he’s just starting out, has been pretty prolific so far, and is just a kind, super creative soul, Anyway, I’m informally giving him a hand getting his unique brand of content going, so if you like this illustration, there’s more where that came from, so check him out for sure.

Anyway, the rest of this series is/is going to be on the middle tier, so check that out if you’re digging it, there are like, 7 so far? Anyway, peace!

[-This has been a note from the editor, Her Majesty, Queen Heather, Duchess of Laptops.]

###

You’d think I would be able to set my watch by it at this point. That time every six months when I am positively wiped out. Carrying the girls around requires enough energy in the first place, so when I’m that zapped, I pretty much have to consign myself to the fact that I’m just going to be living in my bed for the next couple of weeks.

Though to be honest, I was actually looking forward to this growth spurt a little. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends with this new book, and there have been a lot of nights where I’ve wanted nothing more than to chill out and binge whatever series I’ve wanted to catch up on. Plus, I can’t deny that it’s not just a little refreshing to be waited on hand-and-foot for a little while... my assistant is set up in the guest room down the hall, and it doesn’t hurt that she’s a pretty solid cook. Call it a bit of a vacation... maybe I can even write it off on my taxes? Try to claim “Spurt Week” as a writeoff? Lord knows the fame is all theirs, and that I’m kinda along for the ride.

So, that’s what I’m doing right now... Writing (just this little journal entry, because I promised myself this would be a pen-free vacay) while propped up on a bank of pillows in my kingsize bed, joined in a threesome, as always, by Natalia and Olga. “Sorry mom, you get to live your life your way, most of the time. We’re just gonna sit here and... grow.”

I guess it is a pretty absurd sight. I tryto remind myself of that. Pinned in bed, dressed only in pajama bottoms, my laptop on one boob, and a half-eaten sandwich on the other, scribbling down words by the blue light of the computer screen. My little nightstands have grown up so big and strong... It’s a little warm tonight, so with a little pushing around, my assistant and I managed to wrangle the girls to the sides. I’ve still got a little time, I think (unless this turns out to be one of the big spurts), but I’m gonna have to think about investing in a larger bed at some point... I’m not falling off the sides of the buttress just yet, but knowing me, that’s more of a matter of time than anything.

Alright. Closing the journal, and tapping the spacebar. Miiight need to get a refill on this wineglass first. Better ring the bell and summon my faithful butler.

Letters from Heather — 2034 — Sitting for a Portrait

“Oh, he’s totally cool,” or “Yeah, he’s a great guy...” Those only carry so much traction. But in this case, with the radar I’ve developed, I can kinda sniff out the weirdos.

And besides. I’ve told myself over and over that I was gonna do it at some point, if it ever came up. For something with a reason, like some art book.

But he actually was a huge deal, and was working on a gallery project: in this case, “a contemplation on the complexities of the human form,” or something. That’s as much street cred as I’ll find, I suppose. And I did like his work, so. And besides... I’m mere weeks away from... 50. Who’d have thought I’d make it?

I suppose I didn’t know what to expect when our assistants set it up. I was a little nervous. My life is in my office, in front of a blinking cursor. And, I don’t exactly move around as freely as I used to. But everyone seemed to say it was going to be some easy, artsy portraiture.

He sent a ride, a van, thank goodness, and I was on my way to a large, open loft space, like from some movie. Thank goodness the building had an elevator... I can’t remember the last time I was able to “do” stairs.

He re-introduced himself, quiet and soft spoken, and asked me if I wanted anything. He looked, but didn’t stare, and led me to his hair and makeup person (my hair looked kickin’), before showing me to a large blue backdrop with a single chaise lounge.

“I was thinking of having you basically sit there,” he gestured to the lounge, “with your back as straight as possible.” He looked at me, and with complete curiosity, said, “Do you think your breasts will rest on the floor comfortably.”

I was kind of relieved. I hate trying to... make people feel better because they are uncomfortable with my body. Artists, dude. Tell it like it is.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said, gently waddling over to chaise to get a closer look. “I’ll know better if I... should I?” I gestured to my shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, whenever you’re ready,” he said, heading off to find a piece of gear. “By the way, that dress it’s very clever.”

“Thanks,” I chuckled, beginning to undo the zippers and fasteners that held this unique garment firmly in place. “It... makes me look a little more put together than a muumuu.”

Undoing the support bands, I pulled the dress off my front, unraveling the large, full coverage pouches that enveloped my breasts. I hoped my assistant reminded his team that I would need a place to get re-dressed for a half-hour...

Nude and slightly chilly in the quiet studio nook, I rested my arms on my sides and evaluated the chaise. Gently lowering my butt, and keeping my back straight, I slowly straddled and took a seat facing the camera, feeling Nat and Olga make contact with the floor to each side of me — obviously cement beneath the paper, which made me wince. I arched my back, relieved to have a little of the strain removed from my shoulders. Pulling myself backward slightly, I gently tugged them a little toward me, feeling the tickling of the paper on my flesh, enough so (I assumed) my nipples were pointed roughly the right way. I didn’t mind a little rearranging with help, but it takes explaining.

I was experimenting with where to place my legs, was trying to use my toe to even out a little crease that had formed on Olga, and shifted from left to right on the chaise, anchored in place a little by the girls.

The photographer walked back in, and raised his eyebrows. “Don’t move,” he said. “That’s great,” as he raised the camera to his eye.

Audio 3 - How Long, and Wish You Were Here

A little pairing of tracks. The first, I can't really blame anyone for — I would assume the same thing if I met me.

The second... I'm no Adele. And I haven't put a lot of music out there into the world, for the usual reasons. I haven't had any formal vocal training, but for me, singing is a nice form of self-expression, the ukulele has been a good friend through thick and thin, and hey, it comes from the heart. I'll stop. A friend of mine once said, "Never apologize for your cooking," and I think that applies here. Be kind. Or not; I've got thick skin. :-P

Credit where it's due...

Intro track — 

"The Colonel Bogey March," a classic little World War 1 number... one of those songs that's just been stuck in my head alllll week. The kind I hum while I'm making coffee or taking a shower. Earworms, right?

Middle transition piano track —

"Soft Piano Music"
Summit - by Jonny Easton
Link: https://youtu.be/ZH5B_C8r9Dk​
Check out his channel Link: https://www.youtube.com/jonnyeaston

Letters from Heather - 2029 - A Look in the Mirror

Another vignette about an alternate reality Heather whose boobs never stopped growing. Etherial artwork done by the amazing @AldoinHeaven [Twitter & IG].

This piece just kind of flows. When I wrote this short story (as is the case when I write most things that, you know, have a description of some tangible object), there’s always this little Golum Smeagol in the vack of my brain, asking, “Do YoU tHiNk tHeY’Re gOnNa KnOw WhAt ThE hELl yOu’rE tAlKiNg AbOuT...?!” That was the case with this fictional dress, which I think Aldo nailed completely.

For me, this was a fun vignette to write... just a casual moment of self-confidence (if a little reluctant) from a woman who has loooong-since gotten used to herself.

(Extra image here, which baaaarely didn’t make the cut. The redlection is sooo much fun, but the blank space in the main one? Too good to pass up.)

###

“Not half bad,” I said to myself as I twisted and pivoted my body in the mirror. It was definitely “more” than I thought it was going to be, but I did say that I was thinking of something light and easy, for springtime, that was just a little flirty. There were a couple of cocktail events coming up, too, so I felt like it might be time to upgrade from the standard-issue flowy tops and borderline muumuus.

When she laid it out on the table, and started to explain it, I was worried that there might be a little too much cleavage. My mind flashed back to a dress I had a few years ago, when I was smaller, and unless the girls were battened in place, I would spill out like crazy if I just moved wrong. Those got retired, and ultimately, outgrown.

It was a pretty standard, gown-length dress, in a flowy dark red satin. At the chest, a single pouch that was built to contain Nat and Olga. Running down the front, a long triangular cutout that looked like it would run from my collarbone, clear down to my knees.

Melanie could see the hair of trepidation in my eyes, and with her usual candor, simply said, “Try it out.”

So, I did. And, again, not bad. It was starting to grow on me. The full length of my cleavage was exposed, but the horizontal bands, placed at intervals and holding the two halves of this “breast sock” together gave it a trendy, modern vibe that had a dash of conservative fun without being prudish. Thick straps were a little reinforced to provide at least a little bit of lift and support, which was a nice touch.

“I think it fits ya’ well,” Melanie said, mentally completing the sentence I had heard from her many times before: “It’s not like we can just throw a blouse on ya. Dress for the body you have, sweetie.”

“I’m such a pain in the ass,” I said, chuckling a little, slowly pivoting my body to see the view from behind, my comparatively small butt framed by the sisters, which still pressed heavily on my thighs as I bent my legs a little.

“Nah, just a challenge sometimes,” Melanie said matter-of-factly. “But I think you’ve got a winner until next time.”

Next time... jeez... It would be nice to hold on to a nice dress for a while before the next couple of spurts put it into the donation bin...

Letters From Heather - 2025 - Champagne and Satin

(Making this available to the “Heather’s Life” tier; if you’re interested in more from this series, and other pieces of fiction, check out the next tier up!)

Another vignette about an alternate reality Heather whose boobs never stopped growing. Etherial artwork done by the amazing @AldoinHeaven [Twitter & IG].

I really adore this one. You’ll recall I posted this story recently because it resonated with a good friend of mine, and he decided to take his hand to it. I appreciate that, and love that rendition. But, this one by Aldo is canon. There’s a length to her, the breasts have this honest “weight,” the facial expression is right between demure and aloof, there’s music in the blank spaces... everything just hits in a way that feels like I could hang it on a blue wall in a dining room.

Aldo’s on Patreon too, by the way. Something to keep in mind if you’re a fan of elevated busty girl art.

###

I removed the top from the gift box that was beside me on the bed, and gently unfolded the tissue that protected the delicate silk and lace beneath. You knew I’ve never been the biggest lingerie person, but even I have to admit that it’s fun to dress up sometimes. I had given up on the idea of traditional lingerie years ago.

I found the top of the garment and slowly lifted it out of the box. A simple camisole, it was not a particularly elaborate piece. But it felt expensive, and was gorgeous, simply: capped silk shoulders that evolved into delicate, gossamer-thin, semi-transparent water.

A card drifted from the fabric: a thank you note from Melanie, the seamstress who had created this unique piece - an already close friend, who you went around my back and commissioned a little fun with.

Makeup, hair, perfume. All that’s left is to remove the cumbersome, ingenuously built bra at the last possible second. Naked, with you eagerly waiting in the next room — hardly too far to walk straight and unsupported before plopping myself on the bed and going phew — I drape it over my shoulders, and feel cool, light smoothness against my skin. Final glance at the full length mirror... I thought so. It hangs down to my upper thigh, draping loosely down the long twin teardrops slope that is the front of my body these days, but still not low enough to completely cover the two cream-colored curves of Natalia and Olga.

Olga in particular. Almost as if it was cut to the millimeter to emphasize their already substantial size difference. Which you totally intended. This was your night, and I know you don’t mind when the girls come to the party.

I took the champagne off the dresser, and snatched up the two flutes we were sipping from a few moments before I kicked you out to wait patiently.

Walking up to the door, bottle and glasses hanging loosely to my sides, I lean a little on the frame, crossing my legs loosely. Bathed in the orange candle glow, I allow the girls latitude to naturally sway heavily, a nipple barely threatening to peek at you. A small smile crosses my lips.

“I can’t believe you put Melanie up to this.”

Every Inch a Lady — The Newest Addition in the Heather Beck Library

(Note: It gives me a warning if I try to use the word p*rn? Which I can understand. This post is in no way p*rnographic, nor does it link to anything like that, but Patreon is cool, so why bug the Trust and Safety Team? So I'll just stick with an asterisk in the text. -H)

There are times when I find myself completely baffled by the kindness and generosity of the friends I've made on this crazy internet journey. Those instances where one of you says, "Hey... Listen... I've got this thing somewhere in my attic, and I think you might dig it. If so, I can see if I can root it out, and send it along if that's ok?" And it's like, "Hell, yes! That would be the bees' knees!" (Singular bees? The knees of several bees?)

Anyway. Such was a conversation I had a little while ago with one of you lovelies (you know who you are). In this case it revolved around an arcane relic from the not-so-distant past of what I affectionately refer to a "fluffy-p*rn." 

I think fluffy-p*rn reached its zenith in Great Britain back in the '80s, though it certainly had its presence on the other side of the pond. Those of you who are older than, say, able to remember first-hand what that dial-up log-in scream-from-hell noise sounded like probably had a second-hand stash of pre-internet printed erotica. 

I'm 37, and while I never had a pubescent male's appreciation for such content, I was a denizen of the zeitgeist, and I recall the tropes: hitting up the mailbox before dad got home to see if you could grab a peek at his new Playboy that usually arrived around that day; buying a candybar at the convenience store, and getting an idea of what sorts of magazines were hidden behind the panels of cardboard on racks behind the counter; that section of the comic book shop/video store that had a forbidden fruit factor, that you could quickly spy before the manager yelled at you to get the hell out of that room. Some of the content was pretty hard core, I'm sure. But a lot of it was fluffy p*rn — that soft-core, lightweight, elevated pinup stuff that you could describe, if caught, as more of an artistic pursuit, rather than a spiral down the rabbit hole of deviation. Which is, to be fair, what it was. 

I love magazines. I made my living in them for a while, during those first days when print was starting to really, really go downhill. So, it was a short ride, but a fun one. And truth be told? I was about in my mid-teens when I really fell in love with Playboy. I think I got a couple of copies from one of my cousins as a joke — let's give the girl a p*rno mag and watch her go, "Ewwww, gross!!!!" 

On the contrary. I didn't particularly mind the images of naked women (budding bisexuality?), but what really got me was the music of the magazine: the way the wit of the cover flowed through to the high-ended interviews; snarky, off-color cartoons; pieces of fiction; long-form articles; the ads... damn, the ads, with their loooong copy and the insistence that Winston does taste good like a (honk-honk) cigarette should. Especially in the '70s. That was some PRIMO magazine making. Everything so intentional. I can see why this mag was a cornerstone of the sexual revolution, and why, by the time it matured a little, it wasn't some dirty little piece of smut you had to hide under you mattress; it was a sign that you were sophisticated, could talk about watch brands, and knew how to mix a Moscow Mule while reciting some quip by Kurt Vonnegut. 

No shade to the women who learned to love magazines because of Vanity Fair and Cosmo. But for me, it was National Geographic, TIME, and motherfucking Playboy. You can't beat quality construction. 

Segue into this. 

What I was referring to at the top of this essay, the magazine my buddy dug out of his attic. What. A. Treasure. I've already talked about my cursory knowledge/appreciation of American fluffy p*rn, but from the best of my understanding, the Brits were at a whole other level. I think it has something to do with the overall conservatism of the society at the time, but the general availability and distribution of erotic material, and the form it was permitted to take without overstepping the line, was different. A lot more strict; stuff you couldn't quiiiite get away with. But, creativity rests within the limitations, and one manifestation of this was a woman named Tina Small. 

I've written about her before, and if you are reading this now, there's a somewhat decent chance you know who she is, but in short, she was an erotic model who made a brief splash in Britain back in the '80s. A few pieces of print, a few fly-by-night magazines she appeared in, a couple of loooow-budget movies she showed up in, some 3"x5" photos that were exchanged like baseball cards, and... that's pretty much it. Tina has been a hobby of mine, in a strange way, for a couple of years now, and in that time, I think I've managed to gather most every image of her that's ever been converted to digital (the age of film, and there weren't that many to begin with). But, as a person who has a near Amy Sedaris-level of love for the peculiar, novel, and downright strange, this little magazine has always been one of those rarities I've kept my eyes peeled for.

I think it's because I find myself feeling (at least) like I have a bit in common with Tina — even aside from the obvious. She's pretty reclusive, but isn't really afraid to spread her wings a little and have a bit of harmless fun; she took her time getting to figure out what she was all about before finally getting comfortable with her place in the world; she wasn't out to impress anybody; and I am almost fairly certain she had to overcome that odd realization that nearly everybody viewed her as a sex object or something to shield kids' eyes from (or both). She did what she did because she enjoyed it, and when it stopped being fun, she said, "OK. That was cool. I'm done now. What's next?" I once spoke with a person who considered himself to be among the world's foremost experts on Tina Small, a Tina-ologist if you will, and the closest he could determine is that she's still around, still has the boobs, is somewhere in her 60's, and lives a quiet life in the south of England. Which sounds pretty cool to me. 

Photographically, too, which is another part of the reason this magazine is such a delightful treat. There are fun little blurbs that give insight into Tina, and into the lives of those who knew her, but then there are these fun pictures. She apparently only ever had one photographer, a fella by the name of John Xavier (though who knows, as for Tina herself, if that was just a nom de plume), and his style was that perfect brand of etherial, Vaseline-on-the-lens, angelic. It gave a sense of rarity to the shots — like I said before, there weren't many of them, but when you saw one, I can't help but think that it carried that feeling of "Ooohhh... I'm getting a glimpse into her crazy, kooky world..." I won't say that my images have the same qualities, aesthetically. But I can attest, personally, that there's something so-fucking-liberating about being picky with the pictures I share with the Big Bad Internet... especially in a day-and-age when the norm involves sets of 150 images in 3,000x4,000 pixels. For me, it would take about 6.8 seconds for that kind of output to become double-plus-not-fun. For me, it's like eating a $6 Belgian bon-bon versus wolfing down a king-size Snickers. They each have their place, and to each their own, right? (For the record, I only like to think that I can lay claim to the bon-bon — truth be told, most days, I'm a fun-size 3 Musketeers bar that was stepped on during trick-or-treat and left in the gutter 'til morning). 

By the way, just look at that! A hand-written black-and-white letter on tabloid paper, opposite the full-color pic on glossy. A classic money-saving technique in old-school pulp magazine production, but it just works so well! I'm drooling! (Plus, I've always wanted to recreate that pose — I blame it on being at the wrong latitude... and not necessarily having access to a professional photographer for the last year, which, oddly enough, is something I've kind of really wanted to have during the past year. Away with you, 'rona! Heather's gotten to the point where she thinks it would be fun to do a formal photography session — keep your fingers crossed?) But yeah, just read that letter. Isn't that fun?! How can you just not love her?

"I'm not a freak, because I do not feel like a freak." Preach it, sister. Easy to say; you have no idea how long it takes to live it. 

Reading through this thing has been an absolute joy. There are more pages, of course; these just kinda stuck out at me. Try as I may, I've never seen this magazine in any sort of digital form on the internet, so if anyone wants to see a few more pages, or has any greater interest in this kickin' little piece of memorabilia, drop a note in the comments, and maybe I'll flutter some more in another post?

In the meantime, I'm gonna keep reading, and enjoying. Thanks again, you-know-who-you-are. :-)

Oh, and since no good piece of fluff-p*rn is complete without a centerfold...

Audio 2 - Are They Real?!

Ha. Yeah. This one. I mean, you can probably guess, right? 

It's ok. I try my best to explain. I'm still just a little curious as to what folks expect when they actually just come out and ask. And, I mean, it's not like I'm "perky," no matter the bra. So... yeah? 

Anyway. Just a fun one. Also, music by David Holmes, from the "Ocean's 11" soundtrack. The song is called "Snake Eyes," which, if you think about it, is kinda appropriate.

Hee hee.

Letters From Heather - 2022 - Bought It For The Bathroom

(The next in a series of vignettes about alternate reality Heather, whose boobs never stopped growing. Illustration by the fabulous @aldoinheaven [on Twitter and Insta].)

I think I definitely bought it for the bathroom. The view is still a little whamp-whamp, but it’s a few floors off the ground, and the layout is really solid and modular. My first big-girl purchase with the last couple of royalty checks.

But that bathroom, though. I think three people could lay down in that crazy garden tub (or at least one whole Heather), and (achievement unlocked) I finally have achieved my dream of having a huge walk-in shower with a rainfall showerhead. I get so grumpy throughout the day if I skip rinsing off in the morning.

It still feels wonderful, even after a couple of weeks living here. Gentle hot water cascading straight down, dripping onto my toes from the terminus of my chest; long after the hair is washed and the soap has been cleared from all the underboob, it’s the kinda shower where you just want to stand around in, swaying side-to-side, humming whatever is playing on the Spotify.

Audio - Track 1: Welcome and "How Big?!"

My first foray into the wilds of this whole recording thing. It's fun! That being said, I'm still learning the ropes, especially when it comes to the editing part . I can rock AP style like I'm ringing a bell, but when it comes to a program even as simple as Audacity, I'm still pretty much a novice. So, go easy on me while I continue to figure all this out. :-) But, I'm having fun, and I think that's all that matters. 

This is my first track. Just a quick welcome, and for the heck of it, probably the question I get asked most in the world. I'm positive there are gonna be more questions down the line that fall under this FAQ umbrella, so stay tuned! Hope you get a kick out of it. 

In case you're wondering about the music:

• "Aram Khachaturian - Gayane Ballet Suite (Adagio)" (for you 2001 nerds out there)

• "Jeopardy! Think Theme," because LeVar Burton needs to be the next host (think about it — mind blown!)

• "Lara's Theme" by Maurice Jarre (from Dr. Zhivago)

Letters from Heather - 2021 - My Last Days Here

The next vignette about an alternate reality Heather whose boobs never stopped growing. Artwork done by the amazing @AldoinHeaven on Twitter.

I really love this one. Very relaxed, demure, abstract... and SUCH a splendid aesthetic on the expression. Now to find a nice warm rock where the girls and I can lounge like iguanas...

###

It had to happen at some point. And I’ll admit, a part of me is excited. After three years in one place, it’s gonna be nice to have a change of climate.

But, the wilds of Spain have grown on me, so to speak. When things got too nuts back at home, this seemed like the complete opposite. And getting to spend this time, out in the middle of nowhere, has done wonders. Especially 2020... at the very least, I got to really confirm that I don’t particularly mind being a homebody-bordering-on-recluse. Have internet, will travel.

And, it gave my brain time to settle. Away from friends, and social stuff, and expectations, and noise. Especially with the macro. It’s kinda been great to live in a tiny community where people just... get used to you? It’s gonna be weird, too: going weeks at a time when the only person you see is the lady from town who delivers your groceries. Don’t know how I can go back from that. Hope I’ve “practiced” enough...

The time has come for a change, though. Time to break out of my shell. Can’t stay forever.

So, I’m enjoying all the stuff I tell myself I typically do, but never actually get around to doing. The world is still closed, but the weather is getting nice, so I’ve dug out the tank tops and go for long walks where I can actually feel the sun on my shoulders. Usually I find some big rock where I’m 99.9% sure the nearest person is a mile away, strip off the two sports bras (note to self: God I need new sportsbras), and just do some fucking sunbathing — some big rock where I can at least go topless and get warm. Plant my butt, prop myself up with my arms, let the girls flop next to me on the warm, hard stone, and the three of us just close our eyes and listen to some music.

I still haven’t done solo public (but remote) full-nude sunbathing yet. My mind always goes to what’s gonna happen when that’s the half hour some family would stroll by to find this oblivious chick sprawled out on a rock, bobbing her head from side to side on Taylor Swift, reaching for the thermos she made a cocktail in, naked as a jaybird... and with boobs like these plopped next to her? Depends on the family, but either embarrassment or... jail? So even though I keep the jeans on, it’s still nice to feel the heat.

But with things the way they are... Why not. It’s going to be super-nice this week, so I’ll take my chances. Find someplace hidden, and take the weight off, for a change. I feel like I’ve been deep-cleaning forever. Before I have to give my aunt back her house at some point I suppose; I at least want it to look like a slob hasn’t been living here. But my back is feeling it.

Letters From Heather - 2025 - Champagne and Satin

Another vignette about an alternate reality Heather whose boobs never stopped growing. Artwork done by a good friend, the amazing @victormarquez_pinup_art on Instagram, as a sweet, spur-of-the-moment thing. When the inspiration hits! (Look forward to seeing more of the dreamy, etherial work of @AldoinHeaven [Twitter & IG] coming to this series soon, btw - just saw a preview and it’s so cool...)

I like the way this one turned out, the liberties that were taken with adapting from the text. The expression is peak Heather snark, lol, and I kinda want those shoes (and that camisole, for that matter!)... Otherwise, glad to see I still know how to get my drink on at age 41. Plenty of room to keep the extra blood alcohol?

(Oh dear... I’m gonna be 40 in 2024? Hoo boy... Who’d-a thought I’d make it?)

###

I removed the top from the gift box that was beside me on the bed, and gently unfolded the tissue that protected the delicate silk and lace beneath. You knew I’ve never been the biggest lingerie person, but even I have to admit that it’s fun to dress up sometimes. I had given up on the idea of traditional lingerie years ago.

I found the top of the garment and slowly lifted it out of the box. A simple camisole, it was not a particularly elaborate piece. But it felt expensive, and was gorgeous, simply: capped silk shoulders that evolved into delicate, gossamer-thin, semi-transparent water.

A card drifted from the fabric: a thank you note from Melanie, the seamstress who had created this unique piece - an already close friend, who you went around my back and commissioned a little fun with.

Makeup, hair, perfume. All that’s left is to remove the cumbersome, ingenuously built bra at the last possible second. Naked, with you eagerly waiting in the next room — hardly too far to walk straight and unsupported before plopping myself on the bed and going phew — I drape it over my shoulders, and feel cool, light smoothness against my skin. Final glance at the full length mirror... I thought so. It hangs down to my upper thigh, draping loosely down the long twin teardrops slope that is the front of my body these days, but still not low enough to completely cover the two cream-colored curves of Natalia and Olga.

Olga in particular. Almost as if it was cut to the millimeter to emphasize their already substantial size difference. Which you totally intended. This was your night, and I know you don’t mind when the girls come to the party.

I took the champagne off the dresser, and snatched up the two flutes we were sipping from a few moments before I kicked you out to wait patiently.

Walking up to the door, bottle and glasses hanging loosely to my sides, I lean a little on the frame, crossing my legs loosely. Bathed in the orange candle glow, I allow the girls latitude to naturally sway heavily, a nipple barely threatening to peek at you. A small smile crosses my lips.

“I can’t believe you put Melanie up to this.”

Letters from Heather - 2019 - Day at the Beach

(The first in a new series of vignettes about an alternate reality Heather whose boobs never stopped growing. Artwork done by the amazing @AldoinHeaven on Twitter.)

No clue it would be my last trip to the beach before everything shut down… Those last days of summer before the crispness of late afternoon turns into something just a little too chilly for an outfit that I otherwise wouldn’t be caught dead wearing, were it not for the particular emptiness of a strip of shoreline already labeled a nude beach. At midday? Perfectly warm, with just the faintest breeze wafting over the waves.

As I lay there on my beach towel, a bottle of rosé wedged at an angle in the sand, I reclined onto my elbows, scanning the expanse to the north and south. A fellow sunbather was a dot close to the horizon; otherwise, I had the place to myself.

Tanlines linger. That’s why I came here, I reminded myself, still a little self conscious about the idea of being completely exposed from the waist up. Though, I thought, if I was that intent on being wary, why would I have pulled out a long-dormant, and even now a-hair-too-small micro-bikini top in the first place? To think, I was wearing this diminutive garment at all, when it began its life with me as a stupid novelty gift? With its tiny triangles, which barely sufficed in covering my nipples, I had made the walk from the car almost entirely (rarely) unsupported, swaying to-and-fro as my feet navigated the soft sand uncertainly, my center of gravity (as always) just a little ‘off’ — a sight that would have merited at least a double-take from even the most seasoned of nude beach enthusiast.

Stringing my thumbs under the long, thin straps that held the bikini (mostly) in place, I pulled to the sides, allowing the fullness of my breasts to take in as much sunlight as they pleased — only 15 minutes or so, for some color, before remembering to liberally apply some serious SPF.

Nestled to my sides, and resting heavily on the towel, the girls were content. For now, anyway, as I reclined completely, one arm under my head; the other, reaching for the sweating bottle of refreshing wine.

...Want...?!?

I’m not a service member, so I’m not exactly sure how I might be able to get my hands on one of these (top image from Google). And I know this is the last thing most people tend to say about military issued attire… but my god that looks comfy! (A maternity flight suit that the Air Force started issuing last year? Cool for a bunch of reasons!)

Longtime readers will know that I invested in some maternity clothing somewhat recently. Namely, a particularly dynamite set of overalls.

To avoid any confusion: I’m not pregnant. But you can understand how the cut of such an outfit is kind of complementary to a shape that doesn’t so dis-resemble two pregnant bellies in front of me.

Sooo... not sure. But I think I could pull off the fighter-jet-chic look pretty decently. And, it would be nice to have a bulletproof outfit that’s ideal for some of them are rough-and-tumble activities in day-to-day life. I always welcome suggestions, especially if there are any USAF brats out there! 😜

And womeeen’s lingerieee...

Recently, a rather busty friend of mine on Instagram told me about this woman she was working with on a custom bralette. She was stoked, because, like me, she’s never owned a brawl it. But this woman specializes in all sizes, handmade, all that good 21st century gig stuff.

I got her address, and reached out to her… I’ve heard that before. No offense to the clothing designers of the world, but “caters to all sizes” usually cuts off a little below my cup range. Bigger than cantaloupes? Sorry, can’t help you.

But she seemed awesome about it, and is totally on board. She has some great style ideas for how we can provide some support, but still kind of make it look flirty and fun.

Here are a couple examples of her work...

Pretty cute, Huh? That one in the top left is actually for my friend. Mine would be a bit bigger. (still figuring out colors, too.)

She also asked me for a little inspiration, if I can find it. Here are a few that I stumbled across.

I did tell her that I don’t have anything against see-through. Conservative, overall, but mainly in design and coverage.

We also talked about a camisole, too. Something long and flowy and soft. I love camisoles, but they simply don’t make them with cups that will ever work. I’ve mentioned before that I wear lingerie differently than most people, so when I typically have a camisole, I get it in the smallest cup size I can, and use that as a bit of a shoulder decoration. Long time viewers will remember this oldie but a goodie.

I think it would be fun to have one that’s actually made for me. But in this case, a bit more flirty. Yay, lace!Plus, totally curious about where her imagination might take her! She’s super nice, so I think she’ll be easy to work with.

I also asked her one side question… Some little totally custom design that I’ve had on my mind for a little while now, and that I think would be a hugely fun little specialty piece. So I asked her this.

“One quick question. I’d like to do something special, and I was wondering if you would be able to create a type of bralette with a high neckline, and in place of cups, you could put two lace (hah, it does sound a little funny to describe) pouches (socks?) almost, so they can be completely covered without being supported at all (they do hang pretty low, FYI, below my belly button, and they’re slightly different sizes. Let me know if measuring things like diameter and length might help), ... something like that? Here are a couple of the type of neckline I was thinking of.”

(Here’s the type of neckline I was thinking.)

Does that make sense to you guys? I know it’s a little out there, but I think it would be an interesting way to maximize the oddness of my body.

She told me that she absolutely adores the idea, and that is something she would definitely like to approach. She said it might take a little time to create the right type of pattern for a project like that, which is totally understandable. But I think it’s cool, And she seems up for the challenge. Plus, I mentioned to her that I know quite a few women who would be very interested in getting something similar, so who knows? I might’ve just helped her with her new side hustle.

Plus, her prices start at around $25, depending on how much fabric it takes, for a basic one. Which is actually pretty reasonable! No word yet on how much the others would cost, but at least we’re not talking about crazy insane prices here. So that’s my justification, right there.

Tossing it all around still. I’m not really an impulse shopper, and it’s not that stuff like this is the most PRACTICAL in the entire world. But I think it would be a nice little treat, so we shall see. ☺️

To the A, to the B, to the B...

Like, have you listened to them?

I know,

Dancing Queen,

Waterloo,

Does Your Mother Know...

I was born in 1984, and it wasn’t until the early 2000s that I told a much older friend of mine that I had just discovered ABBA. He dead-stared me in the eyes, with no conceit, and no ill will — and with only pure interest! — was all like, “oh, you just discovered ABBA?!

I know the Puritans will say they learned only by phonetics. But the words came from somewhere.

Nobody needs a 40 year post-mortem on the awesomeness of ABBA.

But if you listen to this in the next several minutes, this is what I’m listening to, on loop, on my ancient iPod.

https://youtu.be/BshxCIjNEjY

Such a short URL? Hecks. Do you know? A song about the folly and loneliness of celebrity is going to be a pretty goddamn good one.