heatherbeck

Bag Thing

An absolutely little reflection. Though I’m sure not even Wes Bentley could muster a “wow” outta this one. (The Video should work if you click on it, but Vimeo is giving me some trouble, so let me know if you have a hard time.)

Just Where to Start.

After so long, and after a month that featured the first flu you’ve had in three years, and the more standard-issue normalcies, and the days that slip together, because concern is dependant on the time of the day, and history is short, and that’s why it repeats itself so gash-durned always… you always, always… think about how shiddie you’re doing your incredible, resplendant, always handsome, and ever-knowing Patrons.

So, you think… yes! I’ll do this one giant post! Or I’ll do this crazy interweaving series that’ll just BLOW THE MIND! The one about the pregnancy outfit! Or the thing with the Magic cards! Maybe! The one where I get to babysit a Great Dane!!!

The Post-It notes on the door? That’s where these notions live, because i didn’t write them down fast enough! They’ve got legs, buttt… Fuck’em! How about the NEW idea I had JUST NOW! That’ll flip the SHIT outta the whole format!

It’ll have audio! Sound effects!!! A whole recreation of an early-century drama! With… insight! Insight into the inner workings of man!!!

But that’s just the beginning! Collaborations, which involve original art! Art for what? Oh, just an epic erotic tale, perfectly tailored to those that love ME! Mwaha!

And then! And then!!!

…

… and then, you don’t get a damned word onto the paper. And a day turns into a week, and then you realize it’s been 40 days, a Whole Quarantine, since you last posted?

So. Where to start?

Shit, man. Fucking somewhere.

And you know what? Feels good.

See you soon, my lovelies.

(Sorry for the sweat. It’s wretchedly toasty.)

H

Just a thing.

Got a comment from a subscriber who said they like the long stuff, but sometimes, they just want something brief. Bite sized. Quick. Easy to digest. Chevrolet Beat. Shortie, Angel, Want to show the nation My Appreciation. Sometimes, Ubers take place after dawn.

Happy April, y’all. 😘 #mañana

Fireside No. 1

It was something Roosevelt did. I hope a part of it was the fact that he wanted to keep himself accountable. But I think he did it for the correct reasons too. 

This is something I would like to do each Friday. I'm getting settled, and it's just fucking nice, you know? To take all the thoughts, pour a scotch, and just talk for... well, as long as I kind of feel like it. 

There'll be fun ones. There'll probably also be sad ones, too. But they'll be there for the correct reasons. It's just that, y'all mean a lot to me, and this is a way where I can connect, and keep the gears spinning.

Please pardon this recording. It was done before bed last night, and it wasn't until later on today (once the hangover had subsided somewhat) that I was able to do the stuff one needs to do to get it all up and about. And so it goes.

Ceteris Paribus. Without any further ado, y mucho, mucho, mucho, mucho... amor. 

What the Frock?

Say what you will about ol' Heather, but this chick knows how to clean up well.

I said she knows how to. NOT that her default mode isn't Full-Gremlin.

Since really settling into a new city, I've been finding my footing, which is pretty cool. And in that time, like I said before, I've been finding my group. There have been downs, as well as ups, but overall, when it comes to just hanging out with a cooky bunch from time to time, there's always something going on.

And, all people have cameras in their pockets, these days. Which objectively, I think is cool. Since William Henry Fox Talbot invented photography (eff off, Daguerre, and eat it, Niepce), it's slowly become more and more democratized, which I think is just fab. Back in the early days, the art form was rare, and pretty expensive. I've thought about this the last little while, especially since I miraculously came into re-possession  of a thought-lost backup flash drive that contained (amongst mainly drivel) a little cache of old family photos. I'm talking OLD.

One pic I had long forgotten about was one of the rare photos of my great grandmother. Check it:

Like, holy shit, isn't she hot? It's difficult to rectify the fact that your great grandma was a smoke show, back in the 20s. I got to know her, briefly-briefly. From what I understand, she was stern as shit; hope she found out how to let loose every now and then. But yeah, right? The resemblance is pretty cool. Big British pug nose, exquisite resting bitch face; solid cheekbones; hell, she even nailed the side swept bangs. There's one defining factor she and I do not have in common, but there it goes.

The reason I say all of this, is because there's not necessarily a rarity to photographs any more. And, again, that's a good thing. Back when I was alone during Covid, especially, it was up to me to set up my ancient iPhone and, using my considerably bad photography skills, capture pics of myself to share. Now that I live in a place where there are... What are they called... Oh yeah, people, I'm increasingly discovering (and I suppose there is no surprise here) that many of them are more than happy to play Richard Avedon for me. (Whether I necessarily request it or not...)

The pics I've been sharing for the past few days on Instagram, Twitter, and on here, are a random smattering of those pics. They have been kind enough to share, and I have been diligent enough to collect and organize. I will confess that I have fallen into the trap of social media -- I've taken some of my favorites (and more importantly, have taken the ones that help me tell a story), and prioritized them to go out into the world first. They have been flattering. They display that, apparently, my life is a never-ending giggle show of Champagne parties, artsy fetes, and gregarious outings. 

Alas, as I'm sure you know (especially if you've hung around here long enough), that my life is (still) a pretty solitary one. By choice, I might add -- I enjoy socializing, because I'm human; with my personality type, I try to find the balance so my batteries end up getting charged, and knowing when to bow out, before they get drained.

For the most part, then, I am casual. Makeup free. When they arise, my fashion decisions, in my Goblin default state, veer toward the purely practical. I am fortunate to live in a place that I have all to myself. It's humble, but it's all mine, at least for now. 

Truth be told, I prefer to walk around aunaturel. (And yes, there will be such shots on her soon enough --  have an essay for that, and it revolves around the repeated "but what about your back!?!" questions.) But? There are times when I need to be presentable, somewhat spur-of-the-moment. Let's say, I need to swing by the corner store to grab some provisions. Or, I get a ping from an Amazon driver who is dropping off a package. it's a me day, and I look like shit. 

So, next to the front door, I keep what I refer to as "The Frock." It's... Utilitarian, and little more. I mean, right? It makes me look like a whale with a little head and some arms sticking out. But you know what ELSE it does? Cover everything, and keep the air moving underneath. 

It's casual. It's easy. I can just pull it on, over my head, and walk out the door, 20 seconds, tops. Beat the living daylights out of assembling the engineering marvels that are my usual "I'm doing something for more than a minute" go-to's, like rigging up bras, and finding one of the few remaining tops I have where I'm not just bulging out all the time. 

This is a hideously long way of introducing you to "The Frock." And, as you might be able to tell in the above picture, an introduction that includes the WYSIWYG Heather: the one who woke up only recently, who is a little hungover, whose face is a little puffy, and who realized that she's all out of beer, and it's a hot day. Hair of the dog, right?

Frock Chic. That's what I call it. Custom modified, don' cha know. With extra buttons across the girls to keep them from popping out and saying Hellll-oooo! And, nicely tapered at the top, flaring out as it descends, so it doesn't look like I'm wearing a burlap sack on my shoulders. Got it on Amazon, originally! And my talented seamstress friend did the rest. Love ya, V. 

And, besides. It's a quiet neighborhood. Do I get stares? Hell, yes. But these days, usually only from kids, which doesn't bug me so much. The rest of the folks know that I have La Protección de las Abuelas del Barrios. If you're from Latin America, you know what I'm talking about. 

And, still. With CCTV absent, but cameras still everywhere... Every now and then, someone snaps a shot. whatyaseeiswhatyaget.

Dingbats (Nincompoops?)

There was a word that was tactlessly omitted the other day, when I was formulating my Grand Return post. (For future readers, it was posted on Instagram, in March of 2023, and featured an image of yours truly in the green... top? The one with the cleavage. That one.)

In short, I spoke of the waywards. But, I neglected to mention one particular type of nincompoop I find myself particularly drawn toward. A person I can really only refer to as...

The 'Dingbat.'

There are a couple of meanings, I guess. On one hand, it is a playfully derogatory term for a person who is eccentric, foolish, or silly. Maybe a little naïve. Clueless? Lacking in intelligence? Nah... not so much. But those are charms the dingbat tends to indulge in. Certainly in their most-cherished hours. 

In the daytime? They're indiscernible. Couldn't tell them apart. But in the reverie? You'll find them. If you know where to look.  

I was a magazine gal, back in the day. One of those folks with real, actual bylines in magazines you might have actually heard of! (I used a nom de plume, so no use in Google-ing. Plus, it was all rubbish, the majority of what I wrote -- this is all far more interesting.) 

In some magazines, there's a little symbol they use to denote the end of an article:
"No need to skip ahead; this is the end of the story." This mark would vary from periodical to periodical, but assume it's a type-sized square, a star, a dot, a capped letter, or that douchey little top-hat wearing guy from The New Yorker. About 1 pica tall, and just a little bit of silly. Frivolity, at the tail end (at least for now) of carefully collected wit, observation, and hard work. The dingbat. 

I think that term applies to people of a certain sensibility, and most certainly in the modern age. Take... Walter and Chad, for instance. The two gents in the back of this image who are casting their own particular versions of concerted curiosity. At first glance, it might seem as if they were looking at *me* with lascivious eyes! But, no. Don't believe everything you see. They're actually a wonderful pair of chaps. 

A call from the other side of the room was more like it. More, like a pre-coordinated smash of vidrio, and attention was drawn, and a flashbulb. I'm not unaccustomed to having a camera in my face; in this case, it was a friend who was just taking a pic, and this the the moment the shutter went off.

Walter, on the left, was a metal man. Still is. Easygoing guy who had spent the majority of his life cobbling together the ingredients necessary to make his shop work. An anvil here, a hammer there, and finally, a coal forge. 

Chad (everybody calls him Literal Chad) worked in finance. Still doesn't. One of those fellows who takes money, turns it into more money, and for himself, makes money in doing so. He hates money, and knows that it's just a thing we invented, and he seems authentic about that, so I give him some credit. In the way that only someone who knows how to create it can possibly hate it: it's easy/hard, "Face/Off" to produce; God forbid that you spend your life in the pursuit of it. He's benefitted, from this, for sure... But. Not an enemy. If there is a cross to get off of because we need the wood, he'll eagerly trade it for one that's made of something more decorative, stronger, and fuerte. 

Whatever the case, their story is not my own. But, it was a fun, drunken talk. These men-of-a-certain-age, they got out. Moved to Mexico, as the old meme said we should all do. It's nice down here, in the free-flowing air. I can't blame them for the decision; it's mine, too. I'm only 39. The last year, where 'only' feels like its last huzzah. There's nothing that makes you feel younger than to have a pair of 50-somethings say, "Shit, wish I would have been doing what you're doing when I was your age." 

"Nice Work," or some variation thereof. 

Makes you feel that your boat is going the right direction. 

They're right. Here, the rent is fair, the food is tasty, the people are nice. It's safe. Life, here, isn't as destructible as it's so-goddamm-frequently made out to be. This'll be an essay for later, maybe, but in short... the air fills your lungs different, down in these-here parts. It just does. 

The glass broke on the other side of the room, again, intentionally. Someone had an announcement that didn't make a whole lot of sense (not because of the linguistic barrier, but when you're lulled by the muse? There it goes again.) His quadrant of the room, excited about something, feigned amusement, but it's all cool. I mean, shit. Who are any of us to take away from someone's moment of joy? Not these days, shit-knows. 

Walter, and Chad. Great couple. They have a pair of mutts, a fine house not too far away, enough food in the fridge, a place to chill out back, and no shortage of fine, fine, fine Iron Filigree. I fear I shall be a dog sitter again, soon. (One of them might be reading this right now... and if you are, you guys know that A.) We Talked About This; and B.)I can 96% guarantee that your dogs aren't gonna die. 

They're scamps. That's another word. Schmucks? Literal Chad would agree. Balderdasherous miscreants? For sure. When the wind blows, and when the full moon is up in the sky. Cretins. Nincompoops. 

Dingbats. 

May the same be said of all of us. They got out, intentionally. I got out, by accident. 

That's all I can instill into the rutillation, for now. I'm just still wrapping my head around the idea of just hanging out, and if I'm lucky, making soup.

Better to do so with the dumb, the brilliant, and (always concomitantly) the dingbats. 

Laissez les bon temps rouler.

And that, mon fréres, is how you make a gumbo. #TheSumOfItsParts #RouxIsGonnaHappenOnTheUpperLeft

S. S. Mulligan

There are two boats. These boats have been sailing around together for a while now... a long while. There have been a bunch of adventures over the years: popping into different ports to have a good time; weathering tempests out on the open sea; figuring out what the fuck to do when the wind dies down for days at a time, leaving you just... drifting.

But it was good. Lot of water across those hulls. 

One day, these two boats find themselves in the middle of the Great Atlantic Sea. It's big out there. After a while where the wind didn't blow, it finally picked up again. Restless and stir crazy, these boats wanted an adventure, again. One of the good ones. So, they decided they would sail east. East seems like as good a place as any.

But something happens: a shift in the current; a main sails is angled in a slight different direction than usual; maybe a line getting pulled to tight. Eventually, the boats start to drift apart from each other. They're still going east, and you don't even notice it at first. But there's like, this half-degree difference. 

Not much at first. The two boats can still call out to each other. But they keep drifting. Calling out is replaced with waving hands. Waving hands, then, can't be seen anymore. Eventually, the view from one boat has the other one, somewhere out there, beyond the curve of the horizon. More time goes by, and eventually, the radios don't really get the message across anymore. 

But it's cool. Shit like this has happened before. It's all part of the adventure. It'll all work out in the end. It almost always does. 

After sailing east in that big ocean, the two boats eventually hit port. Different ports. Turns out, that half-degree of difference, maintained over time, wasn't such a small amount after all. One boat hits Lisbon. The other hits Freetown. 

The two boats will be in touch again, for sure. But in the meantime... there are so many cool things in Lisbon, and there are so many wonderful experiences to be had in Freetown! The boats start acclimating to the waters. They meet other boats -- boats who are different from what they're used to! New boat things are learned! New boat relationships are made! And eventually, it hits. Are you still the same boat anymore? 

The boats meet up. But this time, they're different. One of them got a new mast, and a paintjob. The other is pretty much the same as it was before, but it got a jib, and it can go really fast now, like 'zoom.'

The boats are happy for each other, of course. They sailed a lot of ocean in their armada of two. But now, the boats have become different boats, because they spent a lot of time apart. Maybe these boats need to sail with other boats. 

The boats are both a little upset about all this, of course. One of the boats recommends that some other boats come along, and the other boat isn't really a big fan of this. It was just supposed to be the two of us. But then, that boat thinks... it was just having a better time with the other boats. There was a happiness and fulfillment that boat didn't even know existed. It wants to go back to its boat friends; the other boat doesn't. 

The boats respect each other, and with trepidation, they promise to keep in touch. But I think most boats, deep down inside, know how that turns out. 

Alright. Ditching the metaphor. I lost someone recently who I was really close to. Like, really, really close to. They're not dead, or anything. They're perfectly well, and are doing some really cool stuff now. I'm happy for them. 

But, there's been this period of remorse that's come along with it. There wasn't any huge falling out, or anything. No grand fight that put us both in a place of stubborn silence. In fact, we've talked about it! Extensively! Which is somehow worse, because at least, if there was a fight, there would be closure! Rip off that Band-Aid, mutha-fukka!

We still talk... but not frequently. The conversations are different, more cordial, without a lot of the goofy, knowing laughter we used to have. The references have changed, those anchoring points we used have in common are planted in different ports, now. (Dammit, I promised I was gonna ditch the boat metaphor!). 

I still care about this person. Always will. And I think the same is true, visa-versa. And that makes me happy. But, still. It's just sad. 

It's messed me up lately. Might be a part of the reason I haven't posted on here a lot recently. Even though there is SO much to talk about. 

I have a client. He went through SHIT, like God taking it all out on Job levels of crap, around the holidays. Busy guy, keeps the gears spinning, right? He confessed that he had basically just given up on January as far as being productive. Better to take that time to embrace, lean in, process, and move one. For him, February 1 was HIS New Years Day. Basically, he took a mulligan on a month. I like that. 

What I CAN say, for myself, now, is that I'm through the woods. February, it turns out, was MY mulligan, a time when the sadness finally morphed into acceptance. And then? What else can you do? You move on. As President Bartlett would say, "What's next?"

While I'm quoting... what was that line from "Apocalypse Now?" Everyone gets everything they want (...) for their sins, they get it." In exchange for this sadness, I'm still settling into a new place. For the long term, too! And there's not a plague out there, which means I get to interact with those... what are they called... humans? My social skills are rubbish at this point, but I've found a sense of community, which is... like, just making me tear-jerkingly happy. As a person who never-much liked people, it's just *nice* to be around people again. 

It's an odd group as well. I look forward to tell y'all more about them, because there's a lot to it, and they've actually been helping me get my mojo back. I guess we're social creatures, after all. Dammit. I was hoping I could pull of that hermit-chic look. But then again, that was an older version of me. 

Might as well start somewhere, however. The pic at the top of this post was taken by Claudia Last-Name-Omitted, but keep her in mind, because she'll be coming up in future posts. Claudia is a ROCKING fucking photographer/stylist/creative spirit/Next Guillermo Del Toro, basically. We were just kinda sitting around after a long night out, I offered her to crash at my place, we were drinking beer out back, and I was wearing my "smoking kimono," and after shifting around Nat and Olga a little to make them look presentable, we got a few shots in the name of artsy-ness. I looked like SHIT at that point, but hell dudes... the magic of dramatic noir lighting, right? (And maybe some post-shop magic that didn't make me look like this was hour 7 of eyeshadow-plus-getting stuck in a rain storm -- I defer to the professionals.) 

This was my favorite, I asked her if I could post it, and she was like, "hell yeah." Who knows, maybe I'll be the Dora Maar to her Picasso. I think you all might think that's fun, too. 

And she's like, only 23, which is cool, because I don't necessarily FEAR Gen-Zed. But occasionally peculiar, because I always get this bug in my head that says I'm old enough to be her mom (I would have had to be 16, but that happens all the time, so technically true). But, to hell with it. She's an old soul, with the same sardonic sense of humor and a general sense of say-la-vee. (Just-so-happens that she's pretty busty as well, and it's been a fucking roller coaster for her self-confidence over the years. So, there have been some venting sessions about THAT. It's funny... profoundly boobed people do have this odd propensity to bond. Shop talk, right?)

Long story short, we've had some great times so far. Nothing romantic at all, mind you -- if anything I kinda get the same vibe I feel with me and my aunt. Which is nice... kinda makes me feel like a real grownup. 

And, it's allowed me the opportunity to meet other folks in the literati. The kinds of folks you feel comfortable around, because they're just as different as you are.

Well, more to come. For what it's worth, I do have this desire to post something every day. Actually incorporate it into my routine. There's just a lot to share, so I'm finally starting to prioritize, and come out of the cloud of option paralysis. We'll see if it happens, because I'm an easily distracted mockingbird who likes shiny things. But I'd like that. I hope you all will, too. 

Pineapple

I love bullies.

Don’t get me wrong: I have no respect for bullies. I have no admiration for them. The act of bullying somebody is (and I don’t think this is the Merriam-Webster definition) a cheap attempt to make some other human feel awful for no particular reason. There’s nothing constructive about bullying: that’s what criticism is for; there’s nothing virtuous about bullying: that belongs more in the realm of finding the thin line between niceness and kindness; there’s nothing transformative about bullying: the bully gets instant gratification with the nutritional value of cotton candy; the person being bullied just feels like shit. So maybe I should clarify: I don't love bullies. They're just... fascinating. Odd, considering that bullying just doesn’t have a place.

Which isn’t necessarily the message you get if you look at the world. I confess that I’ve had to consciously take breaks from the Twitter-sphere. Doom-scrolling can lock you in after a while. Even if you’re just a casual observer, we all have that instant gratification gland that gets tickled. (On a side note: between rocket ships, Tesla Roadsters, flamethrowers, his marriages, and now Twitter, it seems that Elon has a particular affinity for surrounding himself with endeavors that have a tendency to just kinda… catastrophically ignite in ways they were likely not intended to.)

Oh, shit… was I being a bully just then? Hmm… He’s a public figure, and we give a bit more leeway for those folks… It was a mildly witty observation, so there’s an Oscar Wilde bonus point or two in there for me, I’m sure. Can I use the “He has it coming!” defense? Proooobably not: I don’t know the man, so I can’t vouch for his character; he lost $200 billion dollars this year, and while I think that we should just cap people at one billion and give them a trophy that says “You won capitalism,” it’s his money, and he can use it as he pleases. Just because I don’t identify with the guy doesn’t mean he necessarily deserves my revulsion. Not the lifestyle I’d choose…

There’s this line in the first episode of “Poker Face,” where Charlie is responding to the idea of being rich. “Better than being broke; not as good as ‘doing just fine.’” I like that. I wouldn’t want to wear Elon’s pants.

Now that I’ve made myself feel better… bullying. I find it fascinating. If you’re a normal kid growing up, you build up a defense mechanism or two. “I’m rubber, you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off me, and sticks to you!” It’s a clunky rhyme. But not without its nugget of truth. I confess that I used that line once or twice when I was 8.

At some point, hopefully, most people find out that the answer to “why is so-and-so so mean,” is “because they’re insecure, and make other people feel bad makes them feel better.” It’s damned fine advice. But on a younger mind, it falls on deaf ears. Context makes that little idea make a LOT more sense, and there’s just not a lot of context you get by the time middle school rolls around. Again, hopefully — kids should have their childhoods.

(Or, you find that middle ground where you just never mentally mature. Pretty sure I was thinking about fart jokes here, because that's what I usually think about.)

Hopefully, that idea builds on itself as the years go by. “Kids will be kids, and kids suck” is just an excuse. But by the time high school rolls around, you’re starting to get a pretty good idea of how people work, and why they do what they do. There are a million movies about how jocks can be assholes, and about how girls can be just sooo mean, but the reality is that most people are osmotic, and gravitate toward people they identify with more closely. Doesn’t mean that there won’t be disagreements, fights, and fallings out, but if you play your cards right, the best way to avoid bullying is to not really associate with bullies. God knows it doesn’t always work, but it’s better than trying to shoehorn yourself into a relationship dynamic that’s doomed from the start.

Know what I mean? The trope about the nerdy kid who gets taken advantage of by the bro who pretends to be his friend so he can get some test answers; the girl who doesn’t fit it, but desperately wants to, and the girls talk about her behind her back, because it’s entertainment; relationships where someone pretends to be someone they’re not, just to come across as more attractive to the other person, even though it hasn’t hit them that there are plenty of perfectly fine relationships out there that don’t involve the emotional stress of always having to pretend to be somebody else. Even if these relationships don’t end in bullying, per se, they weaken the constitution, and calcify the bad parts.

So then, you get out into the world, and in most cases, you have to interact with a bunch of other folks. That shitty boss. You’re stuck with that fucker. And there’s no way you’re going to change them. So, you endure. And it stresses you out, and pumps up the cortisol levels. Kinda blinds you to the other bullies you have to put up with. Like, that guy who starts towing your car, even though you’ve only been in that parking space for 10 minutes longer than you’re supposed to. This is a motherfucker who knows that he’s gonna cause you a lot of problems, money, inconvenience, and especially because of all that — he’s just not gonna cut you a break. He’s a guy with the power.

That happened to me once. Same scenario. Good friend of mine said something really cool: “That sucks. But it’ll be ok, you’ll get your car back. In the meantime, you had to deal with that guy for only about 20 minutes — he has to deal with himself every god-damned day.”

That clicked for me. Brought in all the other context I’d scraped together over the previous years. And over time, it made me feel… fascinated by bullies. “What happened in your life to make you this way?” “Were you born like this, or did life throw you some truly shitty turns, early on?” “Do you ever take the opportunity for any sort of self-improvement or personal evolution? Heck, would you even know what that would look like?” “Why is happiness the default state for you? I mean, I have depression and anxiety, but at least I know I do, and I get sad, and I’m trying to work on that… Do you even know that you’re sad?” “What’s your future going to look like, what kind of people do you hang around, do you consider yourself to be a person with any real friendships, if you’re in a relationship with another person, what does that look like, do people turn to you when life gets hard, how do you respond to bullies in your own life?” Things like that.

It’s got to be the saddest, saddest, fucking saddest thing in the world to be a bully. For the emptiness of that wellspring to be what feeds you. God, I feel sorry for folks like that, on a deep, visceral level.

I’ve dealt with my fair share. Before the boobs, and after the boobs for sure. Every now and then, some variation of the question, “how do you deal with people when you have boobs like that” comes up, usually for the reasons you would imagine. The answer? You don’t get used to it. Not really. It still stings when somebody treats you like shit based on your physical appearance. (There’s SO much other stuff to make fun of me for, if only they’d take the time to get to know me!)

(Like how, if the light hits just right, I apparently look like early American tapdancer and former New York City firefighter Steve Buscemi.)

The guy who’s hitting on you, and upon being rebuffed, calls you a cow as you walk away; the casual acquaintance you just met who snidely remarks that ‘you wouldn’t understand’ her relationship problems, because everyone must just loooove me; the guy at Starbucks who comes up to you and asks if he can borrow some milk (and like, as a pickup line); conversely from the woman before, the cattiness of comparison: “you’d love to wear such-and-such… it’s just too bad they don’t make it anywhere near your size…”

(In case you can’t tell, women are much more convert in their bullying. Just as bad.)

But… there’s a bit of a superpower in it. Nat and Olga aren’t just a fuck ton of subcutaneous adipose tissue: they’re built-in human filtration devices. I’ve talked about this before, but I really don’t care when people acknowledge the girls, and we just move on. Those are the folks who are much more likely to have their shit together, and who are happy to build relationships that are based on more than the occasional absurdity of physical appearance. Even if you’re not a bully per se, insecurity does end up being a dominant personality trait. And when we’re insecure, we become uncertain of anything that’s outside of our comfort zone. That eventually causes us to fear it, and in some way, we present that fear to the world. And that usually turns into nastier stuff. Take it away, Yoda. Better to hang out with the cool folks.

Social media has been a crash course in that, too…. I knew what I was getting into back in 2018, when I started this whole “look at me, world!” campaign, but… damn. People are fucking horrid sometimes. Early on, I would let each negative remark just ruin my freakin’, night, dude. It got better. Especially once I figured out how to use the “block” button (that led me to relishing the block button. “We’ll, fuck… you… [press] too,” and move on with the day. Still, people do say something that digs in under the ribs from time to time. It’s not as bad anymore, by far. And, I’ve learned a lot — especially about getting some context on that most basic of human behaviors: to not let one negative remark outweigh the 100 other good things.

I imagine Pineapple got bullied a lot in its life. Probably by Orange, and Apple, those cunts. “Hey, Pineapple! Yeah, you! You’re fucking stupid, you know that? I mean, look at you. Lookin’ all sharp and shit, but you’re not. Pussy. And what’s that fucking haircut all about? Just all spiky and green, like who are you trying to impress? Need a knife to eat you. And nobody can even eat the center of you, because it’s too hard! And your sour! And yellow, and chunks of you get stuck in people’s teeth! And hey, wait… Oh my God, you guys — it doesn’t even have any seeds! You need to plant that STUPID haircut in the ground to get another one! That’s like, a one-one ratio of new pineapples! PINEAPPLE SUCKS! PINEAPPLE SUCKS! PINEAPPLE SUCKS!”

(Away with you, fraud! Though you are colloquially known as a fruit, you are technically nothing more than a cluster of berries!)

Sucked for pineapple there, for a little while. But pineapple grew up, and got more comfortable with itself. Surrounded itself with other fruits that had been through their own fair share of shit. Dragonfruit, Kiwi, Pomegranate… those eccentrics became good friends — the types to throw the best kind of party where everyone’s invited. Even Durian. As for Apple and Orange? Nah. Hope they’re doing well, but we haven’t thought about those guys for years. They wouldn’t want to come over, anyway.

Pineapple probably got laid. Had a trust with Horned Mellon. They had a lot in common. And Horned Mellon told Pineapple a lot of stuff about itself that even it didn’t know: about how it can be blended up with rum, and how everyone at the beach loves it; about how it’s loaded with vitamin C, manganese, B6, copper, folate, potassium, and that sexy, sexy iron; about how, not too long about, people used to pay a fortune for a single Pineapple, and Pineapples of the past got so FAMOUS that people in the South would make sculptures of them to use as decorations; about the wars that got waged over its place on pizza; about how it makes semen taste better. But be careful, pineapple, because it's not all great: some people really don’t like you… you can be too much for them. You could even kill them! So don’t worry about it if someone just doesn’t like you. Plenty of others do.

Over time, Pineapple got really sure of itself. It didn’t change all that much, and sure, it still made mistakes. For the most part, it was still the same fruit as it always was. It knew what it felt like to feel like shit for no reason, just because somebody else said so. It was never afraid to be nice to all the other fruits, but never to a fault. It was done with taking shit from anybody. It even got to the point where it made some great friends with other Apples or Oranges (not all Apples and Oranges are bad).

But, it wasn’t afraid to be a little cautious, either: when you’re different, but are actually cool with it, a lot of other fruits will come out of the pantry who would have never given you the time of day, before. The other side of the insecurity coin — fakeness.

But mostly, Pineapple just preferred to hang around and do its thing. Not a lot of things better than doing “just fine.”

(Yes, you’re allowed — feel free to make a joke about “melons” to match the metaphor. I won’t think you’re a bully.)

The second impersonation.

Sweet Jesus, I think I need to script the next one so it doesn't go off the rails so completely. If I had one less scotch in me at this... 3:21 a.m.(?!?!?!) This would never see the light of day. That's what I get for tinkering. 

Ah, well. :-) That's my take on... well, I think you'll get it, right off the bat. 

Guess That Voice - Part 1.

New mic, new me. Still getting this thing calibrated. I'm in a new setting, nowhere near the veritable (makeshift) Hollywood-quality sound studio and crazy-ass lended mic I had at my disposal before. So pardon the dust while I figure out if acoustic tiles are necessary, how they work, and whether this mic I was gifted is megatron, or just looks it. 

But still, it doesn't really matter, because it's fun. I think I posted some pics before of the new workspace: There are some crazy curtains and concrete walls, and a painted cat in the corner. Not exactly Capitol Records. Though there's the joy: creativity rests in the limitations, yes? Can an Oscar winning flick not be shot with an old Sony Handycam? Is there not an inherent charm to the grain of an old tintype? Doesn't music just SOUND better if it's being played off of [insert media format that was popular when you were 13-17]? Indeed, I say thus! 'Tis a poor carpenter who blames her tools!

In my case, especially when it comes to goofing around in good fun with something I posted on social media earlier today. The one about celebrity impressions and all that. I figured I might as well make it a guessing game, so we can both have fun. Maybe make it a series. 

I think I gave it away at the end, so if you figure it out before then (I would be shocked if you do, becuase it's RuBbiSh!), let me know, like, how many seconds-in you were when it clicked. 

Let the terrible impressions begin!

Under the Wire

Soooo…. There’s this time at the end of every month where I realize that 10 days out has turned into 4 days, and then into 2, and I think, “I’ll make do for my Patrons!” And, once a year, that end of the month turns into New Years — a holiday I once had a tremendous affection for, but these days… it’s not “not so much.” It’s just that I’m out of practice.

It’s a luxury, you see, to be able to have the time to write what you think. I can’t tell you all how much I Appreciate (with a capital A) the hell out of it when you send me a message that says “I came here for the boobs, but I stayed here for the words.”

And, yeah. I know some of you know that there are a not-unquantifiable amount of folks who may or may not say that this might or may not be the reason… Hey. If you’re here, you want to be. You put your cash where your mouth is, so to speak. And, I appreciate that. It’s a curious life, this weird thing of mine.

I want you to close your eyes for a second. Imagine being a pretty attractive 38-year-old woman (I’ve got two weeks left!), and knowing that, if you go outside, people are gonna pull their phones out. Guys — you get it. I know. As Benoit Blanc said, to paraphrase, “Yayus, Everybuhhdy knows.”

It’s an adjusting period for me. Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve lived in a city for… ages. Longtime fans will know that I was in the middle of Spain for a long spell. Then, the panda happened, and I set the Mona Lisa on fire (a true story, based on real events?).

But, I’m in a city now. A real one. And don’t get me wrong, it’s a lovely experience. I am thrilled to get to know the people I knew in the past, and the ones with whom I am developing relationships with now. It’s… yeah. It’s thrilling. (Nothing terribly romantic yet. As is my nature, I still keep to myself.)

(Though there was this one person, for a second there… They were (HAHA! I’m not gonna give away their gender!) lovely. It was one of those things that hit home, for the first time in a long time, where I was just able to talk, and talk, and just freagging talk. God, I missed that.

OK. It is now, at the time of this writing… One hour and 14 minutes until the patrons who departed (I love you so much, andI want you to get this message so dearly) will no longer have access to this message. It will arrive in their email until… Well, One hour and 12 minutes from now, and not after. Pacific Standard Time, and all that.

Signing up for a platform like this one is not a simple process… it requires intent. So, it’s only lovely that I give you a hint of what to expect for 2023 (ugh, right?) should you decide stick around. Teasers. For me, however, 2023 is the year of really embracing. I can just feel it. In my bones, in the eternal tortoise, in the fireworks that are currently exploding outside, because in Mexico, reverie is ever in the air.

That Magic: The Gathering post I’ve been promising you. It’s a long take on nostalgia. There are a BUNCH of cards I’ve been working on designing that are not gonna be printed you understand, but I found some templates, and had some fun. Here’s one of them.

There's gonna be 15 of them! I mean, just as pictures on this Patreon, nothing like NFTs or printing presses or any of that bullshit. But it's been fun tinkering! (And, if I might add, not a BAD limerick.) 

Speaking of Nostalgia: Chicago. A place I have never visited, have no particular affiliation with, and don’t know many people from. And yet. There is something to be said about feelings for a place you’ve never experienced. It’s a bookend. And a silly preview.

Clue. No secret that I’ve always been a fan of the Ol’ Agatha Cristie Zeitgeist. You might recall that Astrid and I did an intro that, well, kinda fell flat at the start. But there was air in those lungs, and there are pictures from that night where we just kinda went goofy nuts, and portrayed all the characters. I was Green, Scarlett, and Plum. She was Mustard, Boddy, and Peacock. We fought over White. ANYWAY. With a spurt of inspiration from Glass Onion, heck — how can we not?

(Totally didn't post any of my own pictures, because who would I when I can just show a pic of Mrs. Peacock and Ms. White instead?)\

You're looking at her boobs, aren't you. Eileen Brennan's I mean. It's ok. You can stare. This is a safe place. 

(Oh, but this is cool, so listen up! There are gonna be voices, too! I got a microphone again! And, shit, we dressed up for this! And, at the same time that some buddies of mine have “volunteered” to provide their own brand of voiceover work! You’ll have to check it out… It’s gonna be a shitty whodunnit, but it’s MY whodunnit! (And Astrid’s too — please don’t kill me Astrid. You’ll get yours, mwahahahahahahaaaa….)

(It’s… 1 hour and one minute until you don’t get this email. I must speed up.)

I am in a city. And sometimes, dear heavens. I do like to just head out and about. But (and long-term fans might recall) I have ways around the idea that when I’m just hanging out in a book store, someone tries to take a picture or something. Sooooo…! This is my workaround!

I am NOT pregnant. So that’s settled. But if I bind everything up correctly, I can go out into the world, and folks will just kinda go with it. So, in January, I’ll be posting a bit about… fuck, I mean, “How that works..” It involves layers, smushing everything down, clothing that cooperates… the kinda skillset that you don’t think a person would necessarily need. But, ah-ha! I am Lupin, the master of disguise! Please pay no attention to the woman with the overdue with twins goat belly! (Especially when she’s wearing her ever-trusty maternity overalls).

[Again, not pregnant! But I[m sure you can understand that the maternity section is my preferred department. Tunic-length and wide in the middle? Sounds like someone we know!]

Also. This week. I got a Rolling Stones shirt that is WAY TOO SMALL. I’m planning on quaffing up a blue wig. And cursing the shirt up. And using some tongue-sticking-out logos as pasties. I will take a picture, and post it here, because the wig is blue, and because it would not the TECHNICALLY illegal at a concert, but would DEFINITELY not be appropriate on Instagram.

It’s 52 minutes.

It’s not like I’m writing this quickly. I’ve had the privilege of being able to write this stuff, and produce all this content, because I spend a LOT of time at the back end thinking about it. What to write, what to say, why the hell would anyone care about what some backwoods post-modern hipster chick has to contribute… I’m being self-deprecating, because my ego is something I’m trying to build. (And doing a fucking amazing job at it!, bwahaha). But the reason I say it is because this is all rumbling around in my head. And I think January is when it’s gonna come out. 2023 seems like, and correct me if I’m wrong… but it seems like a year where we can finally take ourselves back.

We're all veritable Picasso's, telling that lady that his pencil sketch is worth $5,000, because it didn't take him 7 seconds to draw. It took 70 years. 

Which is why it's with a curious heart that I'm desperately curious about AI Art these days. This following picture is going to be the catalyst for all the madness that I am sure will unfold. Because doesn't that seem appropriate? A taco on a boob? I think so. Best place for a taco. 

But I am rampantly curious. I won't spill it all here, but this-here picture is the very root of a chunk of philosophy that'll follow. 

It’s been a while. For me, I remember when I started this, I just wanted to scream all the things, good and bad, at the world. And, you guys listened. I fall silent sometimes, but you stick around, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. (And yes, there are boobs! Boobs are objectively fun!)

There are a few tiny anecdotes coming up about that, too. It’s been a while since I’ve just sat down and rambled about the day-to-day experiences of what it’s like to be HWTB. (Heather With The Boobs). So, I’m likely gonna get a little tipsy and ramble in the Audio Tier. A lot. This month. [I have a microphone again! Eeeep! It’s so cool, it has and arm and everything!]

44 minutes. There are at least a couple of pictures I want to stick into this post, so I’d better get started.

All I can say is, if you’re reading this at the start of the year, I have just one question: What silly, stupid, wonderful thing do you want to embrace this year? We’ve been through a lot, and we all owe ourselves something… pure. For me, it’s more scarves. If you think about it, they’re comfy, and make you look classy. And for ME, especially… they’re strategic.

I love you guys. I sincerely home your New Years are off on the very best start, and that, during 2023, you fall in some with something stupid and wonderful. And that you become good at it, and it either fulfills you, or becomes some-kinda crazy fucked up catalyst that causes fulfillment in the long run. Good, either way. 

41 minutes. Certainly not enough time to proof this thing. Pardon the typos. 

Auld Lang Syne, y’all.

[Ed Note. This is not only being published at... 11:55 PST. But this is apparently my hundredth post that is an actual (as determined by me) essay. Huh. Anniversaries, all 'round] 

The Truth is Out There.

Soooo... there are really only two possible reasons I lost the bet.

The first is simple. Essentially, the Mayans were right. Hear me out.

Possibility One:

Some you might remember that kerfuffle back in the oughts, when we thought that, because the Mayan calendar was ending, that the actual end of the world would coincide. Now, those highfalutin, fancypants elitist scientists, those “archaeologists,” and “anthropologists,” and “pre-Columbian Latin scholars” MIGHT have you believe that the reasons this calendar situation was taking place was because the Mayans were indicating the end of an astrological age. Along with that, these “academics” say, maybe they just thought they were good to go for a little while.

“Ma’lob Ja’atskab K’iin, Itzel.”

“Ba’ax ka wa’alik, Zac-Kuk. Bix yanikech?”

“Hach ma’aloob’. Kux tech. Listen… We know you’ve been working hard on this calendar, but you’ve got it pretty nailed down for the next, like, 800 years.”

“Yeppers peppers,” Itzel replied. “Was gonna get the next 800 taken care of, too!”

“See, that’s the thing. We were talking, and we kind of figured that maybe 800 years is enough, and that we can all just kinda pick it up later. I mean, great work! But, they could use you over at observatory in Palenque, so how would you feel about heading there for a while?”

“I mean, OK. But, like… you don’t think that some people are gonna come from across that ocean, and that maybe they’ll take over, and then, they’ll freak out a little because, you know, I haven’t finished the calendar?”

“What are the chances of that happening. Besides, Xmucane says she could totally use someone who’s good at spreadsheets.”

Yeah, all of my Mayan astronomers are WOMEN. Bet you didn’t see that coming!!! In any case, the aforementioned “academics” also might reminisce about how “the Maya never actually predicted the end of the world at all, and that’s just something we made up recently, because it was a slow news day.”

To that? I say, “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Because that man isn’t a man at all. It’s a rabbit! And there’s no curtain, because it’s not a curtain at all, because it’s a rabbit hole! Which is where we’re fucking headed mon frére! So maybe DO pay attention to the man behind the curtain, because this rabbit hole goes so deep, it goes all the way to the top!”

Fast forward to the real 2012, the one on the Georgian calendar that Jesus invented. The European Organization for Nuclear Research, a.k.a. CERN, a.k.a. 666 Devil House No-Freedom Factory has been chugging along for quite some time. They’ve been doing all of their little “experiments —“ all cover stories, obviously, for CERN’s TRUE purpose… to save the world…?”

See, long time ago, before the Maya, before HUMANS, a proto-black hole came flying through our solar system and pierced the earth. This thing was microscopic, and upon entering, began playing a dangerous game with Earth: Earth’s gravity was too powerful to let the black hole escape, so there this tiny black hole stayed, for millions of years, chugging around on the inside of our planet, slowly eating it away. That’s why we have earthquakes and volcanoes. (I’m not letting you off THAT easy, geologists and volcanologists — you know the TRUTH, and you’re NOT TELLING US!)

Eventually, the “scientists” got wind of the problem. The first one was Galileo, but he was killed by the Vatican (look it up, I’ve done MY research). Later, once we completed the Hubble telescope, we found proof-positive (the Hubble isn’t a telescope, but an Earth-monitoring device that also controls our minds and convinces us to buy foreign cars).

So. What’s the best way to catch a black hole? With ANOTHER BLACK HOLE. They TRIED to fool us by telling us they were looking for something called a “Higgs Boson,” this thing that’s supposed to “give everything mass.” But, Uhmm, I’m sorry… isn’t that what MOLECULES do?! (Yeah, I’ve been to school — I remember there being a periodic table on the wall). But… it was enough to convince the SHEEPLE.

In 2012, they flip the switch. But quickly, things get out of hand. Who are we to play God! The black hole they created got out of control, and in the blink of an eye, the WHOLE WORLD WAS SUCKED INSIDE.

What happens when you go through a black hole? What awaits on the other side? Conventional wisdom says… we don’t, and can’t, ever know.

Except we do know, don’t we.

See, when we were instantly sucked through the black hole, the entire world MERGED with a parallel Earth in an alternate dimension. It didn’t replace it… it didn’t destroy it… it just… merged. Thing is, THIS other earth was similar to our own in almost every way. Except, this Earth 2 existed in a universe where the dinosaurs were never obliterated by the asteroid. And THAT’S why Queen Elizabeth, The Clintons, and Jerry Bruckheimer, and even BETTY WHITE? ALL LIZARD PEOPLE. They WEREN’T lizard people back on Earth 1. But they are NOW, here in the Earth 2 that we all share, because some of them merged with the humanoid lizard people who inhabited Earth 2!

“But Heather,” I can hear you saying. “This all sounds incredibly plausible, of course, but I am a like-minded person who also values good, thorough research. What PROOF do you have?”

Ha, I thought you’d ask that. See, my proof is the Mandela Effect. In the OLD Earth, Nelson Mandela did pass away while incarcerated on Robben Island (as a lot of people recall was the case!). But in the NEW Earth, he became president of South Africa, and passed away in… wait, what?! 2013! Which is ONE YEAR AFTER 2012!

I’m sure you know of the Mandela effect, learned readers. BerenstEin Bears?! J.C. PennEy? The Statue of Liberty NOT being located on Ellis Island? Looney TUNEs? The Monopoly Man’s Monocle? Pikachu’s Tail?!! Fruit of the Loom’s Cornucopia, Froot Loops, and Febreze?!!?! The Lindbergh Baby, The Challenger, “Luke, I am your father,” and “Play it Again, Sam?!!?!??!?!?!?!!?!?!?!??!!?!?” WHAT MORE PROOF DO YOU NEED FROM ME, LEARNED READER!??!?!

Of course, “skeptical minds” would have you believe otherwise. They might say, “Logical misspellings and misremembered quotes are just a result of a collective group mind’s influence by media and popular culture, and that group mentality is explainable by a pseudoscience called ‘reasonable logic.’" OR, they might say that “a misremembering of world events can easily be explained by a homogenized and woefully underfunded western educational system that fails to provide context for the importance of history by a hyper-reliance on rote memorization and standardized testing measures.” But… WE KNOW THE TRUTH! WE LIVE IN A PARALLEL EARTH, SURROUNDED BY LIZARD PEOPLE, AND THE FOLKS WHO REMEMBER THE STUFF ARE CORRECT, BECAUSE THEY’RE REMEMBERING IT FROM THE PAST REAL EARTH, BECAUSE WE’RE THE ONES WHO HAVE OPENED OUR EYES!!!!!

I say all of this because, the other day, I made a bet. I had some friends over, who I hadn’t seen in a long time, and we all got around to talking about movies and stuff. Somebody couldn’t remember the name of the woman in “The Shining” (which is, as you might know, one of my very favorite movies), and I said it was Shelly Winters. Another person corrected me, and said it wasn’t Shelly Winters, and that they couldn’t remember the name of the woman from “The Shining,” but it definitely wasn’t Shelly Winters. But I stood my ground, dear reader.

So, before resorting to our phones, we made a bet: if it wasn’t Shelly Winters, then I had to wear (we’ll call her Maria) Maria’s bra for the rest of the night. Fine! Fine with me! Maria is a C cup? Who cares! Because I KNOW I won this bet already.

Hmm.

Shelley Duvall. Hmm. This is disconcerting. Obviously another result of the Mandela Effect. In REAL EARTH, the woman on the left was named Shelley Winters, and the woman on the right was named Shelley Duvall. In crossing our own human-made event horizon, they got switched.

Possibility 2:

There’s one other explanation. That I was drunk, and I had seen “The Poseidon Adventure” recently, and that the name was in my head, and I just brain farted and got them switched.

Which is bullshit. I blame the scientists.

But, a Heather always keeps her word. Even when she’s been wronged. By the scientists. Not by whiskey. 

Anyway, thank GOD it was a Maidenform. At least it was stretchy as hell. I wish they made them in my size... 

Though they probably did, back on the much-more boob-friendly Earth 1.

Meatballs

What a difference three inches makes.

Funny, huh? Because, there’s a double meaning in that. One is a penis joke! Do you get it?! Because penises.

I never understood why that’s a point of obsession for the menfolk. I assume it’s all actually just over-exaggerated, and that it’s basically one of those silly tropes that gets repeated again and again, and that it’s not really a big deal. Genitalia, at the end of the day, is consistently hysterical if you step back for a moment and think about it. (Vaginas are funny enough, but penises especially — I’ve only ever seen a few in real life, but with my inbox on Instagram? I feel like a fucking scholar! That isn’t a good thing. Please never send dick pics unless they are specifically requested. Which I don’t think should be so hard to understand…? Though maybe that means that penile-self-obsession IS a real thing, and I’M the one overthinking it! [a møøse once bit my sister…])

For an essay that’s not about schlongs, this sure got off on the wrong foot, didn’t it. Permit me to start again.

If you take a look at the picture at the top of this post, the “three inches” remark should make a lot of sense. One shirt is longer than the other, by about three inches. Yeppers peppers.

But, there’s a deeper meaning in that for yours truly. I’ve been taking my sweet-ass time coming up with a few good posts for you kind and decent souls, and what I’ve discovered is that a great many of them are dealing with the notion of nostalgia. I won’t go too deeply into any of that just now; that commentary will come with those postings.

Instead, I’ll focus on these shirts. That one on the left? I’ve had that shirt for ages. So long, in fact, that it was featured in some of my very first posts on Instagram and Patreon, all the way back in 2018. That’s long enough to have any article of clothing. But for as often as I wear THIS shirt? And considering that it was, like, just some shirt I bought from some reluctant bit of online shopping? It should have died a LONG time ago.

And yet, there it is. Still operating like a shirt. I love sleeping in it.

Thing is, I’ve come to an uncomfortable realization. I always thought it would just wear out on me, that the threadbares and holes and stains would make it simply unpalatable for further use (this was before Goblin Mode), and that I would have to fold it up neatly and send it off on some floating pyre that I'd ignite with a flaming arrow (a fitting end to a good and reliable shirt).

Instead, the tables got turned. I guess I’m the one who out-wore it.

It’s been an odd funk for me lately. I mentioned this before, and in doing so, signaled to my brain that it was time to process something kind of interesting, a wee-bit frustrating, and just a tiny skosh… disconcerting (?) : I grew a little. Again.

Pretty sure that’s how it’s panned out. I haven’t had the gumption to do any formal tests. But the bras fill out more, for sure. I hang lower, which I tried to write off before as a matter of simple gravity and time. I guess I have put on some weight; most of us did with Covid, I think? (Unless you were one of those assholes who somehow stayed in shape and maintained self-discipline!) In the days before the Reign of Natalia and Olga, I never put on weight in my tits, per se. It was more of a general, evenly disbursed ‘chub’ that would overtake my form.

All I know is that I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, and it kinda hit home. I never really minded that this shirt didn’t cover the girls up 100% (it is, after all, a comfy house shirt), but… damn.

I have still worn it to sleep in. Still do. And if I’m just sitting pretty on the couch or something. But the point of a shirt is to cover. Feels like that should be the point. I dunno. It’s a shirt that hasn’t done anything wrong. And I don’t feel like I should be at fault for the chicanery of my tiddies.

Maybe we’re simply going separate ways. Time changes things. I don’t want to say that me and the shirt are breaking up... "Moving on" might be a better turn of phrase. See… I’ve found another shirt.

It makes me feel nice, in a way that the old shirt did. Just like the old shirt, I get to look down at the boob slope, and see the NASA meatball on collegiate grey. It makes me feel cozy.

I’m sorry… I know, I know. It’s only a shirt. But that’s what favorite shirts do for us. Transport us back to a place where we feel [insert Don Draper monologue here]. It’s a little nostalgic, a favorite shirt. And, sometimes, you find a new shirt, and you hope you hang on to it for a while, because maybe THIS shirt will be a shirt that you get nostalgic about some day, because that means that you can still love a piece of fabric, and that you won’t get too old to establish new meaning to silly things, and that there’s nothing terribly devastating about the fact that your boobs snuck up on you and exploded by another, like, 20 cup sizes (or however-the-fuck-much), and that if you get to be nostalgic about something you just found out about one day, that means that you’ll still be alive and kicking, and not dead, and that’s never a bad thing.

Batter’ Up!

You Patreon lovelies do deserve a bit of a sneak peek. The Instagram folks get it for free! And that just doesn’t seem fair.

The next post is going to involve literally outgrowing my very favorite T-shirt; a narrative that dwells on the idea of nostalgia. Those of you who have been around for a while will know the shirt I’m talking about. Let’s just say it’s something to do with a space age meatball.

Ah, fukkit. Here’s the pic the IG folk’ll see. Speaking of sneak peeks. (And I don’t care that I look like crap: I had a sinus infection, was a little hungover, and I whacked the SHIT outta my arm. The things I do for love!)

The next-next one also travels in that vein of nostalgia. I’ve been working on it for a month, and to be honest, no surprise here, I’ve been taking my sweet-ass time on it. It’s one that I’ve allowed myself to get a little artsy with… In short, I’ve been designing my own set of Magic: The Gathering cards. My very own little collectors edition. A few of them are done, and are ready to show… But I’m not gonna ruin that yet. I’m really excited for you to see them, though. I’ve been working with some cool artists, have been finagling some graphic design of my own, and it’s a big, long, long, long essay. (With the fun illustrations.) So I really hope you get a kick out of that. I’m having a blast with it.

The other is about losing a bet... I mentioned that in the Instagram post... I was at a shindig, and… Do you member(berry) that episode of South Park where Kyle had to suck Cartman‘s balls if Cartman could prove that leprechauns exist? I was really certain about this bet. I was really, really certain about this bet. Just like Kyle.

Anyway, I lost. I didn’t have to suck anybody’s balls, but I did have to strut around the entire fucking evening wearing a C cup bra. Not comfy. But a Beck always pays her debts.

Otherwise, I have moved! Again! (I sort of alluded to that in the previous posts… But it’s actually much more of a permanent thing now, which is doing wonders for my mental health.)

God, wait until you guys see this place. I’m gonna take you on a bit of a tour at some point. I really promise that I will. It’s grand, in a very humble way.

And, it’s in a fantastic city, which, come to think of it, is the type of place that I actually haven’t lived in for a long time. You know? One of those places that has buildings? And people? Various entities that offer goods and services in exchange for capital? Culture? Food? I forget what those things are.

And, yes. This picture above? That’s my pool. I get a pool! Like, I actually get my own little pool for a while. I’m kind of flipping my shit.

Yes, at some point in the not too distant future, there will be a picture of me in the pool.

And, yes, fine. I might be wearing some sort of outfit. Or maybe… I don’t know. Maybe I’ll figure out a time when the guy next-door isn’t fiddling with the water tank on his roof. I don’t know why he’s up there so much. It IS the only place where you can get a view into the backyard.

Maybe he’s just a fan. But he’s a little older, and I don’t want to give anybody a heart attack. Insert joke about plumbing issues here.

Love you guys. Talk at you real soon.

The Workspace.

I know, I know. Boobs to come, no worries, y’all’ll get a fancy of what the Good Lord dun decided to give me.

But! For now? Before I de-sweat myself? From the Desk of Heather Beck?

Well, here’s the desk.

I’m…………. Excited. ☺️

Fukk Yeah.

No boobs right now. But environments change you. They leave you breathless, or with a nasty scar (as the prophet once said).

Good God, when was the last time you get to feel like yourself. Especially during the same three-day period where you have to deal with…… family. Triumphancy (it didn’t autocorrect, so it’s’a word now!): those you have; those you adopted, welcomed, maybe let go of, or decided to keep; figuring out who’s in-or-out-of style.

You get closer to figuring it out. And while you do, you get LEGIT New York Pizza on the way, and the non-religious individually determined blessing of taking a moment.

New place. New keys. New smell. New walls, and chairs that feel different. There’s an enthusiasm to it that riles your brain. Jostles! That’s a word, too!

I can’t wait to ride this wave. It’ll, like most new places, become normal. And that’s OK. I love that about beautiful places.

Thank you all; I love you. More to come, so soon.

Eat, Drink, and be Fat and Drunk

This is a happy Heather.

One who behaves erratically whilst at a nice restaurant. She says silly things, and gets more drinks than she needs, and loathes the idea of leaving before 4 hours have passed. (If she’s in a tipping culture, she always tells the server that she’ll take care of them.)

Banquettes are always preferable. Especially the particularly mushy ones that you can sink into. Being at just above armpit level is fantastic. It means that she can have a nice time while Natalia and Olga take a nap, and the waiter doesn’t get so blown off course mid-Specials. (Not that kind of taking care of.)

I’m sure I’m not alone here (experientially, if not chestically), but there was this one point during Covid when things loosened up a little. Found myself in a random restaurant, some plain little sidewalk bistro, realizing that I was actually consuming food that I, myself, hadn’t prepared. First other-person-made meal in… 8 months. It kinda hit me, emotionally, halfway through a tapa. It was a good tapa. Best I’ve ever had.

Restaurants have always been important things to me. Didn’t quite realize how important until that odd little day in late 2020, with the goat cheese, and the winter sun, and everyone being as chill as possible, and everyone playing their parts, and we were all a little sad, because you can see that in the eyes, and masks don’t cover eyes.

It’s taken me a little while to get back into the swing of things. So whenever I find myself at a restaurant these days, there’s something special and beautiful in it. Nice to live long enough, through something pretty terrible, to figure something out that makes the other things better. Context sucks.

The simple things that count. I still try to maintain good table manners, but table manners are a flexible construct, and I don’t really think they matter much these days, provided you’re having a nice time.

This is a happy Heather, gushing about in her seat, about to blather on as she shoves herself into the edge of the table. She’s pretty sure she is solidly into her third mojito, which doesn’t hurt.

Start at the Bottom, and Work Your Way Up.

Can you feel it? I can feel it. Kinda? Maybe not really? Maybe it’s just psychosomatic.

I’ve alluded to this before, but I’m beginning to be impressed by the fact that Ol’ Nat and Olga are… what’s the right word. Evolving?

I’m pushing 39 (I just resentfully smashed those two numbers on my keyboard, fullness of gravity impressing upon me). But speaking of fullness and gravity… I get it. Time is a fickle mistress; there are too many days where I avoid wearing a bra as much as possible; skin is an amazing organ, but it’s not exactly a super-durable wonder material; the pull of gravity on Earth’s surface is 9.807 m/s squared…

I guess all the busty chicks go through this. It’s just that most of them have become acclimated over a substantial period of time! Eight years ain’t nothing, sure. But shit, put yourself into my shoes. Halloween, 2014. The inadvertent start of puberty v2.0. I was 30, for goodness sake, kinda settled into a life with (what were at that point) perfectly normal, only-slightly asymmetrical C cups.

Then, they exploded. Just like, three years of it. Once I was out of the woods, it was like I had some rockin’ pornstar bewbs: full; frequently sore; constantly drenched in whatever elasticizing lotion I could get my hands on; downright spherical in their own football-ish way; the kinds of tits that only a certain class of entertainer would volunteer to have installed. Specialty knockers.

That was a pain in the ass time. You know the worst part of it? They were massive, but still just too fucking perky. I spend a lot of time at my desk, and at some point adopted my trusty lap pillow for them to rest on. You can’t imagine how happy I was when the first inklings of “settling” began to manifest; with a bit of slouching, I was able to just kinda rest them on my thighs. One less thing to think about.

And then, time goes on. I’m not mad about it or anything. At this point, the supportive lap contact takes place even when I adopt a good sitting posture. They just stay there, asleep, while mama gets some shit done, tappety-tappety-tap-tap.

Thing is, I don’t think that they’re bigger. Like, actually bigger. I’ve written about growth spurts before, the ones I used to have every six months or so for a solid three years… Those were not fun. They KNOCKED ME OUT. That was a while ago.

And still… the bras are overflowing these days. I tried to ignore it for a while there, but if I wear a certain top, or whatever, there’s that dough rising effect… you’d think a 40R would be enough, but… I really don’t want to have to up-and-purchase a whole new family of bras that accord with a farther letter of the alphabet.

Tell you what. Those are commentaries for near-future essays. I’ll see if I can get any better comparisons to other pics from a few years ago. Try to match the angle so you can see (apologies for this one, use your imaginations, it's not like I have the easiest time seeing the camera from this vantage point!). I’ve got some ideas floating around.

Maybe they’re not actually bigger. Maybe it is just a result of time, gravity, skin stretching. And, yes — the reluctant acknowledgement that I may have put on more than a few Covid pounds... They’re below my belly button now, solidly. A brief review of some past pics… not the case. Belly button bellwether. Heh.

As for the pic above? The top one was from late 2018; the bottom one is from today. So, about 4 years. Not quite as full? They do hang lower, but they do seem to project as much... It's all just curious, my lovelies. 

Can you see it? I can see it. Kinda? Maybe not really? Maybe it’s just psychosomatic.

Just to let you know.

In an attempt to let you know the inner workings of my day-to-day, I have to start (again) somewhere. So, I just wanted to let you all know that, whenever I access my "downloads" folder on my Dock (I'm a MacOS girl), this is what the FIRST picture is, every time. 

It's been there for months. Don't get me wrong, I see my tits every day. But there's something only somewhat surreal when I'm all like "Ah, yes, that 17-page doc my client sent, I should review that and get back to him with my notes and annotations, and after that, we'll settle on the nature of Q4 marketing strategy, and —" then, boobisses. 

I'm not sure how to change the pic that pops up when the 'idea' of Downloads is conjured. I'm not sure just what picture I would change it to! But, that's what's there, on the Mac, now, whenever I access anything that's been downloaded. 

Probably for the best. Keeps me humble. 

[Ed. Note: The original of this pic is... somewhere, way back, here, in the Patreon. A reward for the weary searchers. 

Dishes, Spiders, Cutouts, and the Best Painting Ever.

I suppose that's what this bully pulpit is for, isn't it? I'm not gonna lie. I've gotten a bit burned out lately, for all the reasons we usually get burned out these days. That's okay, and I don't foul myself for it. I think we all should get some sweet, sweet time to just be good-and-burned-out from time to time.

But Dear, Sweet Patron, it caused me to fall into a folly — one that society typically reserves for the "creatives" of the world; although, I think everyone is (actually, like for real) creative, so I can't help but imagine that we all have had our ankles clamped by the bear trap of "option paralysis" from time to time.

Here’s how it goes, at least for me. I’m a writer. It’s what I do for a living. And, I’m pretty good at it, if I do say so myself. Still, that doesn’t sometimes mean (Good God, No!) that I don’t just sit there for a while, staring at a cursor, and re-writing my first sentence some 100-odd times.

Maybe a change of music will work to get the juices flowing? Maybe if I take the laptop to some other part of my space, the change of climate will do me some good. Maybe another cup of coffee. A terrible attempt at yoga. Maybe I’ll just do the dishes real quick-like, and by the time I’m done, the divine spark will have burrowed into my brain!

(By the way, for what it’s worth, doing the dishes usually involves a wardrobe change, so I can’t be blamed too much for this one.)

Sometimes, it works! Most of the time… it’s just procrastination. Hours to days, days to weeks, and so on.

But, there are some ways to get out of it. And one of the most effective I’ve found is it just “get everything out onto the paper,” and go from there. Spill it all, in no particular order, and just see what happens. This is a cousin-philosophy to the old idea of “get the small shit done first,” which is a fine way of at least feeding that little instant gratification-loving portion of lizard brain.

And so, that’s kinda what I’m doing here. Taking all the stuff that’s... piled up on the Desk of Heather Beck*, and putting it out there. I wanted to make short posts about all of these in the last month or so, but none of them seemed “cool enough,” or relevant, or worthwhile, and I kept telling myself, “I’ll get to this, soon!” Or, I would say, "I've got something BIG to write and say and share! So I want to do THAT first, and THEN I'll put out one of these little ones, maybe the one about the silly spider!" Blah, blah, blah, creative self-flagellation! Ah, well.

Not to say that any of it isn't worth posting about! There’s some fun, goofy, sometimes interesting stuff to follow. But in the interest of giving my brain-desk a bit the ol’ clean-off, heeeere we gooo…

*You like that logo? Yeah, I do too… that’s from @BDzArt on Twitter, the guy who did my banner on this-here Patreon. Keen-eyed folks will notice that it’s the same image he stuck on the back of the laptop. Fun, huh? In addition to commissioning some awesome artwork, I got an emblem, ready to be slapped onto my superhero outfit! (Though for real, I’m thinking of getting a stack of old-school stationery with that as the letterhead… I’m thinking… Smythson of Bond Street, Cotton, 6.25” x 8”, Nile Blue on Cream, 110gsm. Or something like that. I’m not picky.)

A Little Bit of Love

This is a print of a painting a stumbled across. It features some of the most iconic figures throughout Mexican history. Unrelated, but at around the same time, I got this (piece of an unfragmented) bag as part of a delivery order. I was having a bit of a rough day, and the burrito craftsperson with good handwriting must have intuited that somehow. It made me feel nice. 

Flippidy-Floppy Fan Art

I'm generally the type of person who welcomes fan art with open arms. Granted, there are those unsolicited pieces that arrive from time to time that are... beyond the pale. Those get deleted immediately so they don't haunt my freaking dreams, dude. But for the most part, I take it as a compliment: somebody spent their time and talent creating something, and for that, I tip the hat at them. 

Case in point, this udderly fun little piece of silliness from @secretpen_art on Twitter. I mean, I've got to hand it to the guy — very few folks quite nail Nat and Olga's squish factor, that's for sure. If you're a fan of this one, you'll like his Twitter. 

By the way... You'll probably find the uncropped version of this pic on his Twitter. In it, the lower part, with some added extremities. To each their own, no worries, but for the sake of my own Patreon, I like to keep the content light, fun, and generally un-genital'd. 

Midnights

Nothing much to go with this one. I just wanted to say that I made a very audible "EEEEP!" noise when I found out that Tay-Tay is coming out with a new album in October. If I'm not terribly mistaken, I should be riiiight in the middle of my period when it drops. I'm already stocking up ice cream, red wine, and frozen pizzas, so I should survive. 

Well, that's new. 

A moment ago, I was talking about fan art. Generally, it's an illustration, maybe a Photoshop, or a song, or some original piece of writing. But in all this time, I've never quite considered the idea that there is, somewhere out there, a life-sized cardboard cutout of me. 

Like this one, courtesy of @keymaster728 on Instagram. I mean, heck, dude! At the very least, that's a new one on me! I was curious. So, I reached out (his name's Thomas, btw, chill dude). 

Lifted the pic of my Instagram, which is fine by me — those pics are for the masses and all — though I have no clue how he got the resolution high enough for me to not look like an NES character. 

And then I was like... wait a sec, my lower legs weren't showing in that IG pic. Clever cut-and-pasting? (Not sure who they're borrowed from, but they're better than mine, so I'm jealous.) Then, 8x10 printouts, puzzle-pieced together onto poster board. 

As Thomas put it, it's about "seeing the true size distortions and amazing statures of legendary big bust models." I wouldn't say I'm legendary, but I'll take it as intended. ;-) Anyway, word has it he takes requests on his DeviantArt page. If you happen to stumble across him, tell him Heather says "'sup."

Crrriiiinge...

Oh yeah, this one, which still gives me the heeby-jeebies... Don't get me wrong, I dig satire just as much as the next person, but it settled in pretty quickly that this wasn't even one of those "is this from The Onion?" blurry lines. Person who made this is serious. 

Which raises some questions. So many questions! I'm gonna look past the apparent ignorance that breast reductions are major medical procedures that are performed for myriad reasons (well-being, sense of self, that stupid cancer thing, etc.). I'm gonna skip the whole autonomy thing, because the Supreme Court deeply pisses me off, society is dead, and I just don't wanna talk about it. And, I'm gonna let slide this notion that breasts — especially giant fucking ones! — exist (it seems) only to please the dude folk. I'm not going to bring up any of those absolutely valid points!

Because, WOW! The weeping emojis over a pic of a gal who I'm guessing did not volunteer for this little campaign (she certainly doesn't look thrilled). The clipart that looks like it came out of one of those CD binders from the early days of graphic design. The fact that that clipart gets... weirdly militaristic on the third panel. The change of topic in panel two, with "Money being the root of all evil," because, what the hell does that have to do with anything? And a Crime Against Humanity?! So, me getting my tits lopped off would be tantamount to the Rwandan Genocide for this guy. And that 'testimonial' at the end, Oh My God! I mean, to be fair, that's a whole story, there! The jealous girlfriends, and the world destruction! I would read four more panels about that! 

What kind of worldview does one have to have, I wonder, to even come CLOSE to thinking that something like this could, or would even have to, ever happen, and — [ring-ring... ring-ring...] 'scuse me...

...

Ah-hem. I just got a phone call from the year 2026, and it seems that.. Hmm. Yeah, fuck this, I'm moving to Canada. 

Yes.

On to something fluffy. This is a label I pulled off a beer bottle. It is an ale, made with hibiscus. It is delightful. Also, that is a hippo, with wings. 

Did you know that hippos kill about 3,000 people a year? They're quite vicious. If they could fly, we would all be screwed. 

And I said I was gonna keep it fluffy. 

Oh, yeah!

Dudes, I found this, tucked away on some old hard drive I haven't touched in years! I don't THINK it ever made it online... It's an outtake from this goth-y Victorian-ish shoot I did aaages ago, and it seems like a shame to waste it. 

Plus, it made me chuckle. As I recall, it totally wasn't an intentional shot — I think my tripod was in the middle of falling over onto a hard floor and my phone didn't have a case on it, so I was in full panic mode.

More Fascinating Than Anything

Nothing much to see here. I just found this crazy spider recently and managed to get a glass over it. It was quick!

It's a Yucatecan Tarantula. Looks viscous, but it's pretty harmless to humans. Except for its hairs, which are supposed to be like little barbs that get stuck in your skin and itch like a mother. (Thanks, Google.) I didn't find out before I threw him over a wall, harder than I wanted to. He almost got out of the glass! Anyway, that little guy caught some serious air.

I Know, I Know...

Yeah, I got into Wordle for a second there, just like everybody else did. I'm not gonna share my stats, or anything (they're impressive, of course, brub-brub-brub). 

Haven't played for a long time now; I think the beginning of the end of my addiction was this particular puzzle. 

Screw you, Wordle. I'm going back to the Crossword Puzzle (another fine subsidiary of the New York Times news and game agency).

Adversaries and Alliances

This one was a hoot. You guys know Astrid (3Astrid33 on everything). She and I get into these merry wars sometimes, basically just messing around in the IG stories. It's good fun.

In the midst of one of these faux spats, a fan sent this along. I wish to God I could remember his name (can't find it anywhere!), but it made me laugh out loud. 

It also proves that I am always the winner at all things, and that the (presumably) guy on the left is obviously correct about life, the universe, and most things.

Peek-A-Boo(b)

@boxy_dojo on Instagram did this one, an homage to one of my favorite old pictures. His stuff is a whole load of fun — he specializes in pics just like this one: woman with big ol' boobies, from the neck-down and the hips-up.

Dammit... I still miss that shirt...

The Greatest Painting of All Time

I do not recall where I first saw this painting. For a while there, I was honestly convinced that it was the product of some fever dream — that my mind had invented it for only an instant before the neurons went back to doing important stuff. 

But, no. I had seen it and saved it to my phone, only to let it independently evolve in my mind before rediscovering it. 

The second time I saw it was even better than the first. These two are fucking under a preposterously large painting of their dog, who is also present in the painting. There is a disproportionate keyboard. Were they playing it as foreplay? Why is the dog still there? I can't have sex if there's a dog in the room. They stare. It's odd. 

I would own this painting if it were possible. I would purchase it for a not-inconsiderable amount of money, and I would hang it in a place where people could see it.  

And with that...

The desk is relatively cleaned off, more or less: I still need to Lysol it down to get the sticky stuff off; there are proverbial crumbs caught in the keyboard; there are a couple of papers that'll just get folded up and inserted into the bottom drawer where I may find them later. But, for the most part, about as disorganized and sloppy as... I prefer.

Let's see... what's next on the agenda... (Oh, yeah — probably something to do with the fact that Olga is being a little [big] bitch lately. But more on that later.)

I Wonder About the Old Songsters.

They make a whole lot of sense, don’t get me wrong.

But Willie, and Patsy, and but git’-dang’it, I spen’t unironic damned evenings having a fine time at Cracker Barrel.

If you’re not native to to U.S., check it out. It is a cultural experience on par with the Smithsonian.

Try the Sawmill Gravy. Hit up the giftshop. Get me a Klutz book.

Nostalgia terminated. For now.

You know, it’s funny. It’s taken me getting a bit tipsy tonight (pretty tipsy), to figure that saying anything is better than saying nothing. I’ve got STACKS of notes! But, option paralysis — that’s where they fell in love when stars above came out to play… yeah?

Or When the Stars Fell Over Alabama…? I can’t remember sometimes. Though I’ve had some consequential evenings in Montgomery.

So, this is a first thing in a list of things, as promised. Long time fans will chuckle for different reasons as the newer folk. But all are welcome.

Talk at y’all (very) soon, babe.

"Slow Down, Everyone..."

"...You're moving too fast."

Not a personal criticism. More of a rare moment of nostalgia from a late-stage (or can I call myself and early-stage?) millennial? In either case, as a Floridian-of-the-time (seems important to insert that particular state in the Union), he was a bit of a muse.  

I hear Jack Johnson hangs out in Hawaii these days, with his wife, his kids... she does yoga, he hews surfboards. Seems like a conclusion that's all too boring, except for the folks who are blissfully involved. But, hey. I don't know him, aside from that once concert in... Clearwater, I think it was? Not a bad night. $8 tallboys, but people were passing more-than enough blunts to make up the diff. 

And, aside from that, in the CD player of The Tardis (Mine was red, and it was a VW Golf. Still, bigger on the inside).

Have fun finding the clues in this-here picture. It took me precisely three runnings of "Brushfire Fairytales" (and one of "Breakdown" — YouTube Premium [it's a game-changer] started me in on Ella, because Ella) to write. At such an early hour of the first day of a month that came too soon. 

Ah, shit. Anyway. As far as the pic is concerned... I have no doubt you'll find a cute little teaser or two. 

Unless you're a denizen of Plato's Cave. Full of bleedin' loonies, the lot of ya'.

In that case, you'll find dozens. 

Love you guys; siempre, y siempre.

Letters From Heather — The Art of Distraction — 2022

[Ah ha! On more, and I got @AldoInHeaven’s images mixed up! So I THINK this is the pic to go with this story — sans clothes — the PREVIOUS is in water, so I’ll guess that’svthe lake one! Well, context is hard earned, but better late than never. Enjoy the full res (ah, will always wonder what the finished one would have looked like… always think it would have been one of my faves.) 😘]

###

Averting the eye is a bit of an art form. But the weather is pleasant, cool enough to feel like peppermint on the insides of your nostrils. I’ve been living in this old city for weeks now, and still haven’t taken the opportunity to get… lost, yet.

That’s one of my favorite things. The world-famous landmarks, monuments to tourism. Give me the quiet bookstore that smells like cigarette smoke that settled into the wallpaper decades ago; the hole-in-the-wall bar that serves exactly three types of snacks and just as many flavors of wine; the shadow of a tree in some forgotten park that doesn’t get quite as much love as it used to. The guidebooks call these sorts of places “spots the locals love.” Or, they would, if the guidebooks could see the charm of a place through the eyes of someone for whom it’s all brand-new.

Today is a day for walking. Aimlessly. For turning off the phone and experimenting in my scarcely cobbled-together tongue as I ask an old person for directions to this or that. Will I even be in the same part of the city as what I’m looking for? Will I understand them when they tell me to go two blocks and hang a left? Will they know it when I nod my head, that everything they’re sharing is flying right over it? That’s part of the fun. And, it’s not too hard to find a little cafe in this town, if I need to duck inside and cheat with the GPS for a moment to re-gather my bearings.

My favorite sweater. I’m a little bigger than I was last year, but God bless pure wool. A spray bottle, some loving stretching by hand, and I think I can muster another season out of it. I love the way the billowing collar feels against my neck; a little scratchy, but worn enough to feel like an affectionate tickle from an old friend. Natural fiber, cable-knit, a dull shade of cream… enough to forgive the occasional sin of dropped food or splashed wine.

Comfortably hoisted with the straps of my bra set to “loose,” the girls protrude from stomach level, gapping the bottom of the sweater. I should be fine in face to face conversations, but I might want to keep an eye peeled for onlookers if I encounter any glass staircases.

I wouldn’t be able to blame a person across the street, seeing me in profile, for thinking that I’m overdue with twins. And in a way, it’s not too far from the truth; Nat and Olga are going sightseeing, too.

Match with a loose ponytail and a pair of sunglasses, and who wouldn’t feel like a modern-day Audrey Hepburn.

And of course, the art of distraction. Jeans and T-shirts for so long… why did it take so long for my stubborn mind to have a little fun dressing the lower half of my body? I saw them in the window, and it clicked. A whole line of form-fitting pants with the comfort of my favorite leggings. Years ago? I might have dismissed the patterns as too eccentric for me. Too Bohemian. Bold, bright, jewel-tone hues, accompanied by complementary stripes. Some vertical; some horizontal. Eye catching, to say the least. In that first moment I saw them, the old prejudices — Dress down, Heather! — flared up. Thank goodness I allowed myself the time for a second opinion. But the time I walked out of the shop, I was the proud owner of six loud bottoms. My butt and legs… I’ve never been particularly proud or disappointed. But let’s see the eye not flicker away, if even for a moment, from the more obvious points of attention.

Comfy black flats, trusty leather messenger bag over my shoulder, and out the door to finally explore.

Woman in the Lake - Letters From Heather — 2018

[Update: first time seeing this WIP! Wish I was still that perky, but in this heat, I’d take the water. Anyway, adding it here! So, here’s the already existing text. 🙃😗 — Signed, Me, 1 day after initial post.

###

Yeah, a little WIP glimpse that was sent along ages ago, from @AldoInHeaven. It was tantalizing for me, so I hope it is for you too! Otherwise, this was always intended to be the very beginning of this Alternate Reality Heather story, so why not wrap up by returning to the place you started to discover you know it for the first time? Full circle. 2018 was a year of transition for me, for sure, so this "Chapter 1" hits personal, which I think is kinda lovely. (If it works for Better Call Saul, it works for me!)]

###

My Godparents are the kinds of people who take godparenting seriously. Longtime family friends, sure, but those friends who have just been around since way before I was born, so they’re basically family at this point? I would hang out with their kids growing up, everyone still keeps in touch, that kind of stuff.

So, as is their custom in finding out that I’m going on this little adventure to Spain, they rolled out the red carpet. Or, in this case, said that their lake cottage was going to be empty, and maybe I should head up there for a few days to decompress. Which, um, yes, absolutely I will live at your house, and work from my computer,  and drink your alcohol for a week or so!

Cottage is key — this place is barely more than a living space and a pair of bedrooms. Uber-quaint. But it’s comfortable, far from everything, and shucks, it even got WiFi.

And there’s the lake, too. They own the small stretch of the shore that’s mainly unbuildable marshland, except for where the cottage sits. So with a little trek along some steep bluffs and a thick overgrowth of trees on my own private estate for the week, I could doff my finest tweeds and go-a-exploring.

I’m glad I didn’t wear my finest tweeds, because it got muddy. BUT. I did find the sweetest little… pool? Lagoon? Estuary? What would be the technical term for that… a pond connected to a lake... I’ll look that up later. Maybe it was the way the sun was hitting it, smattering through the thick foliage, but the scene reminded me of a little of a Southern Gothic Monet painting, punctuated by patches of yellow- and purple-flowering vines.

Through the brush, the view of the lake was a wide one. Not a lot of boats. And if anyone snuck up on me, I could always scream, “You git’ offa mah laynd!” (I’m from the South, so I can say that.)

I stripped off my track pants and tee shirt. My Godparents had recommended this spot, and they were right, it is private. All the convincing I needed. I hadn’t been in the water in ages, and I’ve just always enjoyed swimming naked. Unclasping the five hooks at my back, I cast the soup bowls into the pile, and kicked my panties onto a twig.

I can suck it up and not be a water wuss, but it was still a little chilly after winter. Braving through a few deepening sloshes, I guessed this little pond to be only about as deep as my mid-thigh. Maybe I would brave a dunk at some point.

But in the meantime, just… meander in the water. Trace my fingertips along the surface. Wet my hands and maybe run a little through my hair. Enjoy the tickling traces as the cool water streams down a chest which has been way too cooped up lately. I literally couldn’t remember the last time I’d been naked outside, but too long. The girls have got to breathe, sometimes.

It’s been almost a year since the last spurt. Usually, it’s like, six or seven months, so maybe this is it? I don’t want to count my chickens. But I’ve been feeling fine, and I haven’t had to worry about scrambling for new clothes lately. I think I can live with this size. “Heather with the Boobs.” Might not be a bad Instagram handle if I get the guys to put the girls out into the world. Wonder if it’s available...

A cool breeze swept in from the lake, pulling my skin tightly. I breathed deep, bending my legs to bring me into the water with a staccato slap as Natalia and Olga made contact. And then, the lovely way boobs feel weightless underwater.

Letters From Heather — A Night at the Theater — 2035

[The original short story, along with the amazing @AldoInHeaven giving me permission to use his Work In Progress to tell it. Personally, I'm adoring just how much Olga seems to be enjoying her time in the limelight. Silly girl.]

###

Ah, the theater. Out front, pomp, and circumstance, and dim lighting, and red velvet seats that seem eerily empty before the audience starts to stream in. Backstage, the usual cast of audacious nerds, strutting back and forth before the curtain rises, getting into character while reciting lines just under their breath. The smell of the cut wood, drying paint, that distant tinge of tang in your nostrils from the wafting particles of dust as they’re incinerated by the bright, bright lights.

Back in another life, I was a theater geek. I acted from time to time, but I don’t pretend to fancy myself particularly good at it. Waaay back, in my teens, I was one of those gawky, goth-y, introverted chicks who was more than content don all black and help out with the gears and cogs that make the show happen: light booth, costuming, props, cooing out carefully choreographed orders from the stage manager’s desk — “Standby light cue 25… Go. Standby fly 14… Go.” It was fun. I was a weird kid, and it made me feel like I was a part of something larger than myself, which I think is a good thing for kids to feel.

So, when I got approached about this show, I was a little intrigued. Brought back some nostalgia.

An original work, set to run for only two weekends. A “think piece,” is I think the phrase that kept popping up. An absurdist drama about a family on the decline. I always enjoy a good read, so asked if a script could be sent: the writer definitely had a thing for Tennessee Williams, but there was no shortage of absurdity to it — that sort of high-octane monologuing and heavy-handed symbolism that can look a little cringy on the page, unless it’s treated with well-balanced care by the cast. But, decent enough.

“So… which part would I be playing, exactly?” I honestly never thought I would be in a play again. It’s not like dancing is in my repertoire (was it ever, though?), and I don’t necessarily “fit” the physical expectations when it comes to portraying Lady MacBeth.

The director was very straight-forward. Solid set, stays the same for the whole show. Centerstage, a large, round dinner table, with a notch taken out for my torso to fit. And, essentially, my breasts would be plopped (my word, not his) on the table for the entirety of the show, dominating the majority of the surface, save some room around the edge for plates, glasses, utensils…

“OK… So I would just kinda be… sitting there the whole time?”

This is part of the reason I have a chuckle when creatives get on a roll. Instead of a simple ‘yes,’ he begins to wax about how my breasts would represent fertility — the basis and origin of the family. The dinner table represents the space around which the family gathers, through good times and bad times, yada-yada.

“We wouldn’t be showing your face,” he made a point of saying. “Nor the rest of your body for that matter. A black scrim mounted to the table, so only your chest would be on display and visible to the audience. And you, yourself, don’t have any lines. So we actually wouldn’t need you until tech week.”

Nat and Olga, taking the limelight again… I had to think about it. Did the whole thing feel a bit too much of... a high-concept circus sideshow? Did I really want to exploit my body like that? Was I even gonna be in this play? Should the program not read “Heather Beck as The Giant Tits on the Table,” or should I save the paginator some confusion and just have it say, “Natalia and Olga as Themselves.” Isn’t that how dogs used to get credited in the opening reel of a ‘90s sitcom?

Then again… what the hell, right? It’s not like I even try to hide them anymore. What’s the difference between my day-to-day, or when I’m at a book signing or some other kind of appearance, and if I’m in a play? It’s not like any audience in their right mind would want to see my acting, so a lack of lines is probably for the best. And if the rest of me wasn’t, covered, what the hell would I do for two-and-a-half hours? Just sit there and stare at the audience like a derp, trying not to look bored? Maybe I could pass the time with a book while the actors do their things. Same as most nights; why not just do it on a stage?

“Oh, and I should mention,” the director continued. “Food is a very important element of this story. I know this might be a somewhat unusual question, but… would you be terribly opposed to the concept of serving dishes resting atop of you. And also, there are some tense moments, so I can’t promise that there’s a zero-chance of being caught in the crossfire of a thrown glassful of wine or a room temperature casserole. And, I hope you wouldn’t be offended by an occasional skin contact. Nothing inappropriate! But there’s just a lot of motion in this play, dishes being picked up, set down...” He chuckled a bit. This was a very egotistical fellow, confident in his ideas, but perfectly pleasant, overall. It seemed that he was experiencing that touch of awkward rambling we all tap into when we say a particularly strange thought out loud for the first time.

“I… drop food on them all the time, anyway,” I said. “It wouldn’t be a terribly unusual occurrence. And… I rest them on tables from time to time. They’re not easy to… wrangle without a little help. So… If peoples’ intentions are good, I really actually don’t mind.”

I could sense the relief over the phone. “So, you’re interested?”

“I think so… besides, where are you going to find another pair of fertility boobs?”

He chuckled. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t be above the idea of using extremely realistic… prosthetics? Which would work, but…”

“Authenticity.”

“And, I wouldn’t want to make it seem like I’m somehow undermining the nature of someone of your…”

“Condition?”

“If that’s the appropriate word?”

I ended up making appearances a little while before tech week. I had a pretty clear schedule, but what else was I gonna do? I was getting, honestly, a little excited about tripping the light fantastic.

Turns out, it was a good move. The cast was having a little trouble figuring out blocking and the like — the first night I arrived, there was the table, with a pair of giant half-football-shaped sections of foam. I had to stifle a laugh — from their perspective, it must have been hard to build a character, only to be blindsided once “The Tit Talent” arrived. But, they were just incredible. It took them a little while to get, well, used to me. But after a few days, we were all just hanging out, exchanging stories, having a couple of drinks on the stage after rehearsals wrapped, before we all went home — me completely naked from the waist up. They see me for hours topless every night, so what the hell do I have to gain by modesty once the clock runs out? Not that theater folk prize modesty that much in the first place, which is what I like about them.

It’s so funny… I just kinda stay in spot, and everyone just gathers around. Why go through the hassle of moving me around before my driver comes? At one point, we all sort of decided that the boobs, while big (duh), didn’t quite have the “mountaining/roundness” effect the director would have preferred. So we put a couple of soft mounds of foam under N&O, just to give them a little oomph. I never thought it would be necessary to make the girls look even bigger, but the crew brought a mirror around so I could have a look. Not bad. They look vivacious, especially with a little makeup on them. Sitting in that nook in the table, too, kinda makes them stick out more — even I’m honestly surprised with how big they look, and they’re freaking attached to me.

Speaking of which… I will say that the makeup artist was a little taken aback — she never skipped applying makeup to a face before. The girls require a fair bit of makeup, it seems, but we hit it off, the four of us, and she would always spend the extra 30 minutes helping me get cleaned up. (Not just from the makeup, but the food — once everyone got on a roll, and realized that I was actually OK with having bottles of wine shoved in my mile of cleavage, or globs of mashed potatoes and gravy flung about, everyone loosened up a little. A glass of iced tea spilled at one point and positively flooded Olga’s nipple… I let out an “EEP!” that definitely broke the fourth wall and killed the dramatic tension. Thank GOD it was just a dress rehearsal. Natalia and Olga, it seems, are beloved cast mates.

I’d better start wrapping up this note. I’m typing it on my phone, and there are only about 20 minutes until the house opens. Night 3 of 7. Seems to be going over well — maybe they’ll ask me to return for a reprisal at some point? I would do this again. It’s been a lot of fun, and definitely a change of climate — God knows how large I’d be by that point.

The stage is set, and the curtain is drawn, and the stage hand is going to be here in a minute to put that little black protector curtain in place. Up to my ribs, to my nose is practically touching. But, they left me a little space on the table, to each side of me, so I can rest my arms, and have a spot for a book and a bottle of water.

There’s this amazing deli we get the food from every night — plates of sandwiches, bowls of salad, casseroles, finger foods — a smorgasbord, laying out before me, precariously balanced, fixed in place, here and there, with some light adhesive on the bottoms if there’s too much of a chance one could topple. It takes everything I have not to nibble from the cornucopia before they put the covering in front of me. But, we all tend to eat our asses off after the curtain call, so I’ll just have to be patient — why let perfectly good food go to waste?

And then, I’ll sit back and let the girls have their time in the limelight, while mommy chills out with a trashy novel on the Kindle. It is a little surreal not being able to see my boobs, or any of the traffic on the stage, for the entire show. It’s an aural experience, punctuated by occasional sensations from some spot in Nat and Olga’s expanse — a spilled cup of warm soup, a plate being lifted and the gentle-but-apparent tack of the adhesive separating from my skin. Makes it hard to keep ever vigilant if something spontaneous happens, since balancing a coffee mug on a huge sack of Jell-O isn’t the most reliable thing in the world. But there’s this one line, in the start of act two, that I always grit my teeth for: “23 years, Margaret! 23 fucking years!” And then, an entire bottle of Champagne gets dumped all over. It’s not the temperature that gets me — it’s those fucking little bubbles, dude. They tickle.

Ah, well. The show must go on.

Letters From Heather — Specialty Dish — 2033

[Ed. Note: Gearing up to do a pretty solid illustrated fiction dump here in the coming days, so in order to fully embrace THAT project, I want to happily put another to bed. Scrolling back on the feed, you'll likely notice that I've done this series, "Letters From Heather," in collaboration with the incredible visual talents of @aldoinheaven (on IG & Twitter). It has been such a fun collaboration! During that process, he was nice enough to share some works in progress with me, and I was loving them. But hey! Life gets in the way sometimes, and Aldo has been ROCKING it — he's a super talented artist, and he's been coming out of the Covid Era swinging, so he's been super busy! And, he was nice enough to let me use some Works In Progress to round out this eccentric tale of Your's Truly In A Parallel Universe. I hope you enjoy.]

###

The onions, caramelized. That’s the important part. A low, slow simmer for like, two hours gets all the sugars out.

Diced tomatoes, ground beef, sliced garlic, a cheesecloth satchel with celery, carrots, and bay leaves. A tiny dash of cinnamon at the end, and a grate of fresh nutmeg. Solid bolognese.

It’s nice getting to cook. Especially when I know someone is coming around. So often, I just live on delivery. I promise myself I’m going to try to get out more, but most nights, I just get lazy, and “to hell with it.” I always have fun when I go out, when someone forces me to pause my reclusion and just come out, already.

I promised myself: I’m not going to let these make me a hermit. Even if they never stop growing. It’s not that I don’t like the attention, sometimes. And getting around is fine, even though I have been told that I’ve got a very distinctive waddle. Sometimes, it just takes a lot of emotional energy to handle the type of attention Natalia and Olga draw. Even more to clarify, “Yes, THAT writer with the massive breasts.” Signing the autographs is kinda fun, though.

Plus, if I hadn’t gone to that dinner, I probably wouldn’t have met you, which would have been a bummer. Because you’re fun so far.

And, you were apparently cool with seeing me all but buck-naked. I appreciate that. [facepalms] To be fair to you, I did tell you to just let yourself in when you got there, and you did say “it could be any time after 6:30,” I just kept having “8:00” on my mind. So I probably would have put on some, you know, pants. Or a top. Or something. But you didn’t ask me to, and I didn’t offer to, so I guess my bad hosting etiquette isn’t such a bad thing.

You startled me when you got there. I was just minding my own business, humming to some music while stirring the sauce. I’ve gotten good at commanding a stove with only one hand. Facing the countertop doesn’t really work anymore since there’s just too much of me in the way. My back hurts enough as-is without having to hunch over a stove for an hour, so I stand sideways to give the ladies their space. And, it leaves one hand free for a wine glass.

You knocked on the doorframe. I must have jerked my neck when I saw you there over my left shoulder. Thanks for cleaning the wine I sloshed on the floor, by the way.

“Trust me.”

"We Are The Same, You And I! We Are Two Odd, Lonely Children, Reaching For Eternity."

— Tom Hanks as Col. Parker in Elvis (2022)

I’m not gonna say that Astrid is ALL my doing… I mean, I’m not gonna take CREDIT for it, or anything…

Even though I’m a damned genius…

🤣🤣🤣 Nah, I’m just being a big schmuchk. Honestly, couldnt be prouder. ☺️

She did ALL the work; it’s not easy to make a name as a Big Boob Lady on Internet who ALSO wants to share her soul a little. It’s a liberating stroll, that: though the path is strewn with landmines. A lot of lovely people, you meet. Also teaches you that, as the oracle once said, “Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.

And then, the people, the majority, in the middle, who go along with the lovelies. I do love you guys.

I remember hitting 100K. (From the old IG that got shot.) I’m not a follower whore, as you know, but it IS just odd… To know that you’re gonna share a part of your life, and that there’s the possibility that a population the size of South Bend, Indiana is gonna read it. It takes… guts.

But this isn’t about me.

I just cracked open her shell a little; she made it happen. And because of a lot of you (or, people just like you), she’s better for it. I just talked to her. She’s as giddy as a schoolgirl. It affirms… something.

In THAT regard! I must admit that I would like my not-inconsiderable ego to speak for a second…:

In short, today, Astrid is this:

And I will gladly consider myself to be…

Rock and Roll, Cihica. 😘

Influence, Courtesy of Russ Meyer

I was on a massive Russ Meyer kick during Covid. B-Movie auteur, the kinda guy who made a film called “Faster, Pussycat, Kill, Kill!” His lifelong buddy was my all-time favorite American writer, Roger Ebert (who just-so-happened to be the screenwriter for “Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.”

I like Russ. I like the idea of Russ. Like all great eroticists, he put his money where his mouth was, and more importantly, wasn’t weird about it. His movies were pure: woman meets man; man wrongs woman; woman EXACTS REVENGE! It’s a pretty progressive formula, if you think about it.

He also enjoyed featuring curvy gals. Throw in a “plot,” and the Pizza Delivery zeitgeist gets turned on its head — now, you’ve got a story.

I’ve long-fancied how a movie poster might look if I were featured in a Meyer film. Hopefully, something like this, courtesy of Twitter’s @hungtomyknees (Uh-huh!). A talented designer (and tagline specialist extraordinaire)! This is the first of a series of late-century callbacks… to a distant age when movies found unique cleverness in circumventing restrictive Hayes Codes, and when particularly savvy filmmakers took their resources to double-resource and holiday in a much-more lax Italy… all under the guise of making a “movie.”

I only put that word in quotes, because here I am, talking about it right now, when loads of other films of the era are scarcely worth remembering. WhO’s LaUgHiNg NoW!

Camp, camp, camp, for the win.

“Doesn’ shee lewk juss lykee Larua Paulmre?”

Maybr. Burt hre bewbrs wre owt for RERVENGRE.

BTW… Future posters will be accompanied by some tawdry-enough plot rundowns, complete with dialogue excerpts, and posted in the Fiction Tier.

And if one of you happens to be Spielberg (or preferably Rob Zombie)… have your people call my people. We’ll do lunch at the Derby. Love ya’ babe. 😘

It's a Fine Life...!

…Carrying the Banner!

I literally just spent about, like, 3 minutes trying to come up with a fun way to introduce the word “banner” into some sort of Dad Pun. The best I could conjure was a reference to 1992’s Newsies. Catchy song, from actually, a perfectly fine little musical. Yeah, that’s Christian Bale, 30 years ago. Weird that he looks exactly like Christian Bale, but… like, a miniature Christian Bale?

Any-old-who. I’ve been doing some sprucing lately. It’s been a gateway. Sprucing to my life, to my personal affairs, all that stuff? Things are just a ruddy mess, and they’re not gonna be clean until you rid the excess, and install the shelving that’ll make things, if not more minimize, at least a bit more well-organized.

This ritual is coinciding with year four of being on Patreon. June of 1947 was the first time I showed my presence on this site. I never knew the old Patreon before the war, with its Strauss music, its glamor and easy charm. Now, the website — it was divided into four zones, you know — each occupied by a power: the American, the British, the Russian and the French. All strangers to the place and none of them could speak the same language. Except a sort of smattering of German. Good fellows on the whole, did their best you know. Oh, I was gonna tell you, wait, I was gonna tell you about Heather Beck, an American. Came all the way here to visit a friend of hers, and…

Shit. I got off course. Damn you, Mr. (different) Green(e)!

See, it’s been a while since All The Things happened, and who the hell knows what year it is, or was, or will be. I guess, what I meant to say before I got on my The Third Man kick there, was that it was 2018. Four years! Seems like an eternity, but yesterday, too, and all that brewing nostalgia.

But where was I, again. Oh, yes, spring cleaning. So, I’m doing some polishing, y’see. That message new Patreons get is a little stale, and doesn’t represent my appreciation the way it used to. Better to bring it up to date, use a voice I’ve learned to love adopting.

Better, too, to take a little more time on self-care. I’m not going to say that not-smiling is an exercise in being morose. But, it’s nice to flex your face muscles from time to time, while still ignoring the forces of the world that subtly inform you that you’d just be prettier if you did so more. I will when I like, thank you much, and I’m sure y’all know that.

And then, the bing-bang-boom — the entranceway to the site, my own personal version of the big arch that awaits at the entrance to DisneyWorld. (Or better, HeatherLand?) I’m referring to, of course, the banner. It’s been sitting there for a looooong time, and I guess very few of you have noticed it. A demure (and awesome) sketch over here; same goes for over there.

But you know what? I figured out that I deserve something better. A little treat! Something that I can share with all of you.

Ended up sparking a collaboration with a pretty talented dude: a fella who goes by the name of @BDzart (on Twitter). A lot of his stuff isn’t necessary SFW ya understand, but his mix of erotic appreciation, combined with an overall sense of chill, resulted in a process that wasn’t just rewarding in the end… but fun while it was going on.

With that, I’m going to walk you through the process. I’ll cease the rambling.

###

So the first step was to get the idea out there! A banner, with a series of images that reflect the daily essence of your dear Heather Beck.

“What do you like to do?”

Ohh… that’s a good question. I boiled it down to… four key things: ukulele; writing; drinking wine; and… oh… it’s like, I didn’t want to pick something cliche like “travel.” Who DOESN’T like traveling? Which, to be fair, I get it — I’m a freaking homebody. But! Something else… What could it be…

“Bras!”

It’s a love/hate relationship. I love my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders. Can’t live without them, to be honest! An hour with them on? Not so great, because underwires are the devil! An hour without them? Not so great, because support is nice, and 20 pounds of boobage isn’t light! But, since they’re a big part of my life? Might as well pay homage!

Bras it was.

The smalltalk was concluded, and the basic instructions were administered. I paid the first half of my deposit, and waited for my phone to ping.

This is the fun part.

BDzart didn’t disappoint. A flexible creative, he sent along a number of sketches for each scenario, plus a bonus panel for my fifth passion, “general stumbling about.” It’ll probably be best to just list each out with my in the moment brain droppings, along with some parentheticals.

1. Wine

I did mention that it would be hysterical if there was some form of spillage in the image — not uncommon for me, whether it comes to the contents of glasses or cups! — so that’s what we went for, overall.

My mind went no No. 1 for a moment, because of the whole-body relaxed-ness of it. But…I’m much more of a slouch forward type of person; if anything, this made me a little too undeservedly ephemeral. Two was closer, but come hither, after that much wine? Almost... but only sometimes...Then, No. 3… Ahh… that’s me. And yes, I do carry around my own bottle. (Keeps it away from thieves.) One note? Make me a little more embarrassed. Because this exact situation has happened before, but just outside of eyeshot (below the horizon, and it’s a LONG time before I notice that I’ve got a half a bottle of cab stained into my shirt. In victory, you deserve wine; in defeat, you need it.

2. The Ukulele

It was between Nos. 1 and 2. But I always went back to 1. The angle worked for me, the wryness of the smile (that I could only HOPE to achieve should I ever be three sheets around a campfire). Get enough hooch in me, and I might be persuaded to Wonderwall the shit out of you. But it wouldn’t be great, and it wouldn’t be un-awkward for all involved.

Plus, I love the way he treated the placement of the uke. I’ve said this before, but bra + ukulele does NOT = being able to play it, unless I crane my arms into some truly prehuman geometries. Another reason I don’t play the ukulele in public — it’s seldom that I’m hanging around other people without Nat and Olga thusly harnessed, so it’s a solo activity. But, who knows — gotta work your way out of your comfort zone, right?

So, No. 1 it is. Just felt it in my bones.

3. Writing

This one was a little more tricky for me. Love it as a do, I could exclude No. 2: I’ve tried, God knows, to use the girls as a desk, but it’s murder on the wrists. 4 is actually pretty accurate! The more unattractive version is that I mush a pillow under my sternum to give a bit more elevation. So if I have Snowpiercer on in front of me, and am just responding to some work emails? Yeah, I do that! The only reason we decided not to go with this one, really, was the angle. Just didn’t work with the rest in the banner. Unification is Glory! So, 1 and 3. It was just 60/40 for No. 1. I loved the expression, middle of the workday, and yeah, accuracy as well — resting the girls on the table/desk is something I just DO (plus, they can be GREAT bagel holders!). It hit close to home in a good way. Plus, I look cute in glasses.

4. Changing Clothes!

This was a TRICKY one! It was truly 50/50 between Nos. 1 and 2. The mirror one? Love it! (The holding-the-shirt one is great, too… But I THINK you guys might be a little happier with seeing the N&O? Still, that IS my expression when I'm like, "Should I... Nah... CAN I wear this?") I think the tipping point — and this was a last minute change — was that the top-down one was just so unique. Plus, BDzart had some plans for clothing scattered on the floor, which is DEFINITELY my style. An uncluttered person I absolutely am NOT. AND! It gets the top-down bosomy-ness that we passed over in the writing section. Gotta at least have ONE pic with top-down bosomy-ness!

5. Random Stuff

Didn’t actually expect this collage. Was just thinking it would be a quartet of images (and such a big Yay for that!). But, the muse influenced, as muses sometimes do, and these came from the aethers. BDzart was fond of No. 4; I was partial to all of them. In the end, I loved the “from behind” view. Why? Not sure. It was unexpected. Demure, but with an erotic tint to it, which I have been really learning to enjoy. No. 2 was my personal favorite overall. But at this point, as was the case, sort of, with all of these, sacrifices had to be made to ensure a sense of cohesion to the whole thing. I’m happy with the decision — I think it works out quite well.

6. THIS ONE.

This was the “rough draft” of the center image, the one that was done first, based on a bunch of reference material I’d sent, and the one that set the “tone” for the rest of them.

You guys know me. I’m not a self-absorbed person (at least, I really hope I’m not. Best of my abilities, and all that). But this one kinda knocked my socks off. It’s one of those “Hoooly shit, that kinda… captures my soul, doesn’t it” kinda things. It just popped up on the screen, and I kinda made a little shriek. The color one is great, too. Love both of them. But this black and white one was just a whole big bag of “Wow, that’s the school teacher I’d love to have, even though she only gives be C-’s.”

Or, so I’ve been told.

###

The selections were made, and the work was completed. The result is the banner you see at the head of this Patreon, and at the top of this post. I couldn’t be happier. I was given full-res versions of each pic, which is great — I think I’ll do myself a favor and write a five-paragraph short story (one of my favorite blitz formats) for each of them. Stay tuned for those.

In the meantime, as for the runners up? Check my Twitter, @thatheatherbeck, where you can see a banner I made all by myself (limited Photoshop skills and all!). The sketch format seemed appropriate there. Fits the “unfinished” “let’s have some fun” vibe. (Fun and Twitter, not two words that usually go together well in the year 2022. But we try.) Here it is, just in case you’re a wise person who never uses that God-forsaken platform.

Phew! The long and short of it? This was fun. I got to work with a fun creative on a project, and the result was born from collaboration, good humor, a few jokes, a bit of getting to know each other, and just… ideas. Cool ideas. The kinds of ideas that come out into the open when two people are talking about making pictures of giant boobies, and nobody present thinks that’s, like, weird, or anything. There’s a reason I enjoy collaborating with eroticisists — these are the folks who get the (for lack of a better word) “kink” out onto the paper. Nothing left to hide, the rest is just a big old bunch of batting thoughts around. And then, sometimes, you end up with results like this. I’m happy: with this 1,600x400 banner, but also, with the fact that such a process still maintains itself as a constant in a world where (at least in my experience) it’s so easy to think that we’ve gone Pure Handmaid.

And then! It makes me happy, too, because I was ABLE to do it. I paid real money, and was happy to do so. (I LOVED supporting independent artists during Covid, because I’ve been there myself and know what it feels like when the work dries up.) The REASON I was able to afford this bit of fun is because you guys are generous. Thank you: this belongs to all of you, too, and I hope this rectangle gives you a bit of fun, giddy joy, the same as it gives me.

And hey, do me a favor. I’d love to know which you would have picked. The deed is done, and I’m pleased. But if you find yourself with a wild hair in yer butt, leave a comment below — chalk it up to market research.

Love y’all. — H