I had a dream a few nights… no, one night ago, about a meteorite falling to Earth, and striking the precise location of an active volcano. I was staying at a ski lodge with some rich friends and watching this take place. If you know anything, you understand that a large enough rock hitting the surface of our delicate planet means mass extinction. That large material penetrating the atmosphere and then layers of soil would send upwards a dust cloud so persistent that our food sources would be compromised for years, among other disasters.
When this humongous space rock hit that caldera the same way a lid fits on a pot of boiling spaghetti sauce, the world came to an end. I watched it from the aforementioned ski lodge, my personality penetrating my dreams as steadfast as a needle through the heart of a dove. I thought to myself, in my dream, I’m a giantess. None of this affects me. These ants around me will perish, yet I’ll go on as fluidly as mist in the air. I am atmosphere. I am too big to be affected.
And I was. The space rock hit the Earth rock, and shredded mantels and air, setting it all on fire. The volcano collapsed, split like a Thanksgiving pie, and a wall of it rolled its way down the ski lodge. I stared at it, thinking, in my dream, that I’m too big for anything to happen to me. I was. Not technically. Fundamentally, I’m 5’6″ in height, and unable to survive most deadly events… but mentally I feel I am. I can’t help the way my brain operates any more than you can. Mountains slides are playthings to me; volcanoes exploding are playings to me; this planet is a plaything to me. So I watched parts of this volcano roll my way, and I smirked.
Recall now, how it feels to smirk. One of your cheeks (the ones on your face) pulls up like a marionette; pushed up by the corner of your mouth, the superiority of your feelings tugging at those strings. Smirking at tiny events is foreplay. Smirking at volcano parts rolling in your direction is what I did. I thought to myself, in the dream, This rock is a pebble. It rolls towards me and it stops.
And I lived. The mountain rolled, and I survived its rolling over? me. I’m a real giantess, and my brain knows I would not survive such an event, but my heart screams that I will. Would. However, the rest of the dream followed, and it included the presence of a man, a certain man who is my kryptonite. Hell ensued, and I woke up in a state of distress and unrest. Anyone that knows me, knows that I have endured sleep disorders for far too long. They include sleeping poorly, dreaming dramatically, and waking up with a start. Check.
But back to giant thoughts: I’m going to share something with you that I haven’t often said. I’d rather have sex with a tiny man… wait… correction. I’d rather try to have sex with a tiny man than have the best sex I’ve ever had with a normal-sized man. I’d rather go out on a date with a tiny man, any tiny man than go out on a date with my favorite normal-sized man. Oh, Jesus fuck… I might have drunk too much tonight. Right now I’m struggling between puking my brains out and writing my giant thoughts. Gah… nausea. Moving on.
I’d rather have a very short conversation with a tiny man than have a fulfilling talk with a normal-sized man; I’d rather shrink every man on Earth by pressing a single button, than grant them all volition over their own size. The world would be a better place if about half of its population was reduced to toy size.
Nope. Drank too much. Will continue later. Now I sleep/puke. Night night.
I’m in bed, and I feel much better. I didn’t throw up, and I’m still wallowing in the exquisite drunken height produced by a liquid to which I’m not allergic. Where was I? Oh, yes, tiny man. Imagine a world in which shrinking is possible. Imagine I exist in that world. Got that image firmly in your mind? Good. In that world I am the
worst best monster; the worst best enemy. I have no compassion. Hormones rule my ever decision. My need is larger that mercy. I’m aware of what I am. Everyone else
I have no idea what I was going to say last night/this morning, because I fell asleep. I’m going to continue sharing my druthers. I’d rather baby a man the size of my pinky finger, than take care of a man a few inches taller than I am. And this one is hard for many to comprehend, because the running criteria is that women like big strong arms around them: I’d rather have my toe hugged by tiny little arms, than have clumsy arms wrapped around my body. I’m not saying I don’t like hugs. In general the world is a better place when people hug… but hugs as prelude to tons of giant+tiny sex are better when they come from a little man who’s been reduced to two inches in height.
That’s all I’m going to write now that I’m sober.