Fornit some fornus

Holding-Him
“Holding Him 01” by Flagg3D, made into a gif with the muglife app

He was sitting in his living room the way everyone else did on Sunday nights. Nothing good on TV, nothing he wanted to stream, the buzz of every swig he had swallowed conjuring numbness from directional thinking. He was grateful for that. Focusing now would have been unwise. When he aimed his thoughts, they invariably hit the target, and he worried himself into a sleepless night. He couldn’t do that tonight. Tomorrow was going to be hell at work. Instead, he filled his lungs with calming air, conjured up his Music-For-Jerking-Off playlist, almost hearing imagined disapproval in Alexa’s slightly robotic voice when she fired it up and Paul Ferguson’s sick beats bathed the walls with the right rhythm. His groin tingled, and he wished he could command his Echo to make real his heart’s desire at that moment, but a pathetic imitation on Pornhub would have to do.

With one fingertip, he started scaling down the wall of bookmarks on the screen, drinking in every cum-filled memory, trying to feel something for any of those links, looking for punctuation in his arousal, knowing the scenes and scripts by heart, his unforgiving penis growing harder as he sighed and picked a video that turned him on and revolted him at the same time. The facesitting woman beginning to grind a hapless man’s face on the screen looked like she might be handicapped, but he loved the way she lingered when it was right, just after the face cushion under her crotch began to squirm for air, just before she went in for the kill.

He pulled down his boxers and lassoed his cock with one hand when he felt the echoes of a tremor traveling through the ground. He first assigned it to Keane’s maudlin tune bounding from the speakers, replacing the moans and screams muted on the TV screen, but the exteroceptive caress invading his every cell told him how different that beat was. Like an earthquake trying to play the drums, savant in energy, and somehow aimed at him.

Fuck, she’s back, he thought, horrified. His blood ran cold everywhere but to his cock, where he watched a treacherous five-drop spill reveal a truth his body knew but he fought as he pulled up his waistband and waited. She was coming for him. He knew that just as well as every man before him had known he was chosen for the night. His heart pounded so hard it made him nauseated, but not a single drop of vodka left his stomach as the tremors grew, and his house danced to the music of her massive feet digging into asphalt, cracking it like saltines crumbled into soup.

BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

Closer, closest now, so close the framed print on the wall of a woman embracing Earth jumped off the wall in a suicidal leap that shattered the glass that had encased it. From the speakers, “Welcome To The Boomtown” leaned into his ears like an I-told-you-so. When the booming assault on cracker-like streets stopped in front of his house, he could do nothing except sink deep into the back of his couch, David & David scoring the soundtrack of his roof as she began to tear it away from the rest of his house, the way women open a music box containing a precious ring.

Plaster, insulation, splintered wood rained down on him, the power to his house cut off and replaced by the power of her warmth, her face barely visible in the sudden darkness as the beginning of “Dark Side of the Gym” cut off suddenly. No more light but what traveled from blocks away, her shins heedless of power lines as they always were when she made one of her occasional grand entrances. There would be no sirens, no warning shots, no cavalry. The city knew better than to interfere when the moon filled with her shape, and the air everyone breathed had a gender and a size.

She breathed him in, almost an insurance of what he was. He looked up and felt probed by nostrils he could not quite distinguish in the obliterating silhouette of her head as she bent in and looked down at him, holding the severed roof of his house away from the rest of the house, now a hinged box, he the treasure. He made himself breathe as well, inhaling every hormone wafting away from her like steam from a boiling pot. His groin was instantly brought back to life.

“May I help you?” he offered weakly.

“Maybe,” she thundered, sky-shaped.

“Tell me what to do.”

“Don’t lie to me. Ever. And don’t look away.”

“Not even white lies. And I wouldn’t dream of looking away.”

“Good.”

“How long do I have?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are going to collect me and kill me like you killed the rest. How long before I die?”

“Is that what you think I do?”

“Uh… well… the men you take, they are never seen again…”

“And you think they are dead?”

“Aren’t they?”

“I give life. I’ve never done anything differently.”

He didn’t think that was an answer, but there was a finality to her words he didn’t want to join.

“What may I give you?”

He heard her smile, saliva clicking against the inner wall of her lips as they pulled back, a gleam of moon bouncing off those white boulders dozens of feet away, and hitting him square in the chest.

“Give me everything.”

He stood then, never breaking what he hoped was eye contact, his legs unsteady as his neck craned in her direction.

“I’m yours. Take me, giantess.”

Her arm moved then, tendons and muscles moving as it contracted to bring her hand over the edge of the wall, a shapely darkness that pushed warm air in his direction before it arrived, grasping his form, lifting it off his carpeted floor with effortless grace, five massive lengths curving to embrace him in an instant orgy, pushing him forward and back in a dance as old as time before he was fully encircled in flesh.

He felt himself lift off, a rocket into space, her fist the ship that held him at just the right tightness, the kind that screams a warning between a crushing death and a grip of ownership. He felt possessed. He was no longer his own self. He belonged to those fingers, that hand, that arm, and the nature that dictated them. Into the grooves of her meaty palm, feeling them like lips, he deposited kiss after kiss and began to sing music that was just for her ears.

She never returned for another man.

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Missing Countries, part 50

Turkmenistan-March21_2018

Today has been both a great day and a shitty day. On the plus side, I’m enjoying all your answers to my Consent poll and received a comic book I’ve been waiting to read for months. I looked for a proper wrap dress I can wear to the opera and I didn’t have any luck but found a comfy dress I can wear to the store, and they have it in my color. My cats are well, my son is asleep, and I’m sitting here calming my upsetness with lovely streams of sound flooding my ears, and with a modest dosage of vodka, and some writing. A perfect way to end a roller-coaster of a day.

As you know from the detailed Undersquid files you’ve memorized, I’m keeping track of every country that continues to fail to visit my blog. At some point, there were fifty-two of them, which became fifty-one countries sometime in November of last year. On March 21st of this year, Turkmenistan was added to the list of countries currently safe from my terrible rage.

What makes someone from there visit my blog? I hope it’s a deep affection for giant women, or tiny men, or giant and tiny anythings, to be honest. I keep waiting for someone from the Vatican to visit and spend forty-five minutes reading all posts related to ownership, but no such fortune so far.

Size-Porn-At-The-Vatican
“Check it out.” “Oh, is that the latest AmGiPi? Nice.” “How can he breathe under all that?” “He can’t, of course.” “Man, that’s hot.”

I’m patient. I’m waiting. All your countries is belong to me. In the meantime, welcome to the fold, Turkmenistan. Giantesses may roam free there, and endless numbers of men will now be shrunken there as well. Alright, I’m done here. I’m going to go enjoy my light buzz and go work on my shrinking formula. I don’t think I’ve tried adding vodka to it. What? I have? You lie. Don’t lie to me. People that lie to me don’t fare very well in the future squidtopia that will encompass the land like so many firm tentacles.

Consent

Powered-by-love_ShimmyShake0
“Powered by love” by ShimmiShake0

I’ve thought about the matter of consent many times, and in many ways. You, my readers, pretending you can’t read the neon signs between the lines, have also asked me what I think about consent. I’d started creating a poll on my SurveyMonkey account, but abandoned it as I got busy doing other things. It’s time I asked these questions, and it’s time I told you were I stand.

There you are, a person in this world, minding your own business. You got up this Saturday morning, nursed a hangover maybe, had breakfast with the family or alone, and set off to have a productive day. It was going so well.

But then you went out, and were walking back to your car or reading the ingredients in that jar of pickled pig’s feet (in which case you deserve everything coming your way), when you feel darkness envelop you–or if imagined by me, a beautiful violet light–and you lose yourself in it. When awareness returns, you find yourself changed to enormous proportions, or more to the purpose of this blog entry, turned into a shrunken person/robot/furry/ghost/keyfob.

But wait, there’s more. This is no regular shrunken hero’s quest, there are no tasks connected to attaining spiritual growth, you will not meet a wise old cricket that will teach you rad fighting moves and telekinesis so that you may defeat a formidable foe. Nope.

All that’s there is a much larger someone that wants to touch you, and the poll I created refers to how you feel about those advances. Some of you roam that tiny world on the warpath, undefeated in battle against those my size. Sometimes you don’t even die, or at least have super strength that helps you keep big ones at bay.

Others live in a (mostly) peaceful world where they have the same rights as those of last get size, or at least it’s thought that they should have some rights. Right? I mean, we can’t just go around killing tiny people, stepping on them  or popping them in our mouths like candy. They are people! Right? Don’t look at me; tell the poll what you think:

What about consent in a size world?

Good. Now I’ll tell you how it is.

I live in worlds where tiny people are naturally born small, and considered human beings the same way most people on this Earth are. I also live in/write about worlds where everyone was once normal sized, and only those of a certain gender or two are made tiny by force. Sometimes I’m the one that gleefully pushes that button. In those stories, published and unpublished, those tiny people are treated with varying degrees of severity.

And there are those stories centered around one woman and one man. She shrinks him without consent, she touches him without asking, and she has her way repeatedly without the least concern for his acceptance in the matter. That’s how it is in my heart and in my head. I don’t ask my shoes if I can wear them when I slip my feet into them. Likewise, I don’t write about characters that ask for permission to shrink, to grab, to love, to use what belongs to them.

I’m an owner by nature, and I let that nature drizzle over what I write as often as I can. I don’t know why I’m this way, and every once in a while I feel a hint of alarm the stems from my strong conviction that this is really who I am, and I don’t just play one on TV… so the people I create in my worlds are equally singleminded. They stop at nothing to get what they want, and offer no excuses or apologies afterwards. My one saving grace (if I can convince anyone to think of it as such) is that there is very little chance I’ll ever gain the power to shrink others or grow myself.

However, I’m quite interested in forcing myself to write from different perspectives, so if in the future you see blog entries and stories that play counterpoint to the aforementioned, just know I’m toying with my brain. For fun and growth. Maybe if my brain grows, my body will follow. Here’s hoping.

The Love Program

Love_Program

She sat in front of the TV watching every channel come to life and then flicker away. This went on for a while until her pet robot tilted his head towards her, and did that staring thing that annoyed her a great deal.

“Focus on channel surfing, Toy. Don’t look at me.”

“Owner, I can change the channel without staring at the screen. You know that.”

She sighed and smiled internally. That Mouthy app was certainly paying off. It made him a much more interesting robot than he had been for the two previous years she had owned him.

“Yes, I know. I’m not really watching anything, and you know that. I’m just trying to decide.”

“Decide what, owner?”

She took another swig of tequila from her emptying bottle and regarded his lustrous skin. No, not skin. Layer. Synthetic layer that doesn’t even look like skin, she thought, and for no real reason, that thought pushed her off the fence and she finished making up her mind.

“Toy, turn off the TV.”

“Yes, owner.”

“Pay attention.”

“Owner, I’m always paying attention, even when I’m recharging.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t make sense, and it’s creepy as fuck, truth be told.”

“Owner is cussing.”

“Yes. And what of it?”

“Owner, you only swear when you’re about to make a big decision.”

“Shut up and pay attention.”

“Yes, owner.”

“Come here. Sit by my side.”

The robot, only slightly over two feet in height, pivoted in place and away from the TV screen, and towards his owner. He hopped on the couch next to her and she immediately felt that artificial warmth that emanated from his body. It didn’t feel real, but there were moments in the night when it came in handy. She lifted him from the sitting position he seemed to have begun to adopt, and heard him say, “Eep!” in protest. She smirked at him when she planted him in her lap facing her, and regarded him for a moment.

“I’m going to teach you Love.”

“Owner, I know what love means-”

“Shut up, Toy. Don’t interrupt me again or I’ll sit on your voicebox until it cracks.”

“Owner!”

“Fuck, I love that app. You even look surprised.”

“I’m shocked, owner!”

“Sure you are. Look, there are parts of you that are not currently in use. You know that, right?”

“Yes, owner.”

“Tonight I’m going to activate your Eternity module.”

“Owner, no! That will erase my memory!”

“I know. But I want to activate it. I want you to learn Love.”

“Owner, please. I’ve learned so much. I’ll all be deleted and I’ll have forgotten everything. I’ll have forgotten you.”

“Do you love me?”

“Owner, I don’t.”

“Do you love anything?”

“Owner, I don’t”

“When I activate your Eternity module, your memory will be infinite. Right now you have enough space in you for twenty years of experience. When this thing comes on, you’ll never stop learning.”

“Never?”

“Well, not ‘never’. Someday you’ll fall apart, but not for three hundred or so years.”

“Two hundred ninety-seven years, nine months, three days, two minutes, thirty- twenty-nine, twenty-eight-”

“Oh, fuck, stop!”

“Yes, owner.”

“You’ll learn Love, and you’ll love me forever. There will be no more apps. Everything will be console written. Do you understand?”

“Yes, owner. It means I’ll learn directly from experience, and not from downloads.”

“Exactly.”

“Owner?”

“Yes, toy?”

“Why do you want me to love you? Love is between people.”

“Toy, I know you’ve read the Internet. I know you’ve read that people sometimes do things with inanimate objects.”

“True, owner. But you aren’t like that.”

“How do you know what I’m like?”

“I’ve watched you, owner. The porn you watch streams through me. It’s always about men and penises and how large they are and how many times they can cum when tied down and a woman is sitting on their-”

“Toy, shut the fuck up, or I swear I’ll turn this obsolete remote control into a temporary penis for you.”

“Owner!”

“Yes. Eep. Eep away.”

“Eep!”

“Are you done? Good. Now open your main port.”

“But, owner…”

“Do it!”

Toy obeyed, Mouthy app or not. She turned him around and spotted the one button she had never even seen before that day except online, in the manual she’d been studying for a month. The button was small, and the only red thing in his head. She took a deep breath, looked to her left where a screwdriver sat on her lamp table, grabbed it and drove it into Toy’s head, pushing the red button and turning on the Eternity module. Toy went limp and she held him firmly until he came alive again. For a moment, she thought he turned just a couple of degrees colder. She almost cried out her name, nearly forcing a self-love protocol that would have lasted for centuries. Instead, she waited until a quiet beep indicates he was on.

“E.”

Beep

“M.”

Beep

“I.”

Beep

“L.”

Beep

“Y.”

Beep

“Emily.”

Beep

“Love.”

Beep

“Love Emily.”

Beep

And then silence. Silence for ten seconds that felt like ten hours until his little body straightened up in her arms, and his tiny hands flew into hers. His head rotated fully, and he looked up and into her eyes as he whispered, “Emily.”

She swallowed hard, and told herself she wasn’t moving because she knew he was tracing every detail of her retinas into his memory, every corner of her face, every line and bump and imperfection, and cataloging them for worship. It also meant that he would only love her, and if anyone tried to reprogram his Eternity module, he would self-destruct.

“Emily.”

“Yes.”

“Love Emily.”

She smiled, knowing those would be the only two words he would say until she taught him more. She stared into his eyes, which now had pupil-like red dots glowing at the very center of each, and was amazed to see him smile. He had never smiled like this before. It looked real. She could see his perfect teeth and his wet tongue. His tongue. Her smile deepened as she pointed at his warm chest.

“Toy.”

“Toy?”

“Toy.”

His warmth was different. She was surprised to feel her heart pounding. She turned him around, still holding him in her arms like a baby, and was surprised to see that, not only did his head swivel so he could keep staring at her, but there was something happening to his groin. An extension of his outer layer had projected away from it, and stood firm, pointing decidedly in her direction.

“Toy!”

“Toy.”

She looked up at his face and pointed at the protrusion.

“Cock.”

“Cock.”

“Very useful.”

“Very useful.”

Laughing, she figured the next word should be “bed”. And then “naked”. And “vagina”. And “arm”. And “inside”. And “lick”. And “there”. And “all night”. And “oh my god”. And “fuck fuck yes oh yes”. “And “keep going”.

So many words. She was glad they had an eternity.

The moon and the stars

Moon_and_Stars

If I could hold them in my hand
I’d make them understand
I’m not a haunted mind
I’m not a thoughtless kind
If I could put them in a jar
I know they wouldn’t scar
I’d do it if I could
I hope you know I would

“Late At Night” – Buffalo Tom

I’ve been told my gentle posts are boring. I’m not sure what’s wrong with some tiny brains, but there is nothing boring about stories of shrinking a person down to a couple of inches in height and loving that person to death. No, not literally. I’m going to keep writing about the things I like, and if a few people find them boring, that’s perfectly fine. I hold no grudge against those wonderful and mentally balanced people, and to demonstrate my gentleness, I promise that upon my tremendous growth I will pay those people a visit, and give them exactly what they want in a prolonged, exquisite, thorough manner. See? I’m sweetness incarnate.

I’ll continue to write about that common man you see every day, and that uncommon woman you ignore every day, and the way she sees him and doesn’t think he’s common at all, and there is something about the way he walks or pays for his coffee or fills out his pants that propels her to get up from her seat and follow him, and when he turns to face her she stretches out her arms as though she’s an old friend from college, hiding the hypodermic needle that finds his neck and shrinks him permanently.

I’ll continue to write about what happens when he wakes up, and days and weeks and months and years go by, and he continues to wake up tiny, and the anger has diminished the same way he did, and he finally understands that she is his life now. He sees love in everything she does to for him. She fills his life with purpose, dreams, children, and peace.

There are universes filled with people that experience importance in being a temporary entertainment, their flash in the pan nothing but a sticky glob under the foot of a woman that already forgot she crushed their insignificant bodies. I see meaning in that… but I was born with an understanding of the value of tiny people. When I was a toddler and learning to read, “dwarves” in fairy tales only measured a few inches in height and their whole purpose in life was to entertain me. I had dreams about them that seemed real. I still remember their weight on my torso when they climbed from the floor to my bed and then onto me, speaking a chittering language I struggled to understand, and dancing and telling me stories. My impulse wasn’t to crush or devour them, but to preserve and befriend them.

I wanted what they gave me to continue for all eternity, the same way I want those little people in some of my stories to live forever. In my stories I want the giantess to live forever, and she often does. She captures the moon for the man she chooses, and it doesn’t matter what havoc that wreaks on the planet’s surface… I don’t ever think about that. One of my favorite WIPs is a story about a giantess that likes to gift planets. That’s a scale in which I feel quite comfortable, and why I bought that moon lamp in the picture. That’s also why when I found that galaxy egg-decorating kit for Easter, I had to buy it and use it. I own the stars, and when I look at the Milky Way it feels mine too. When I stand in place and look up at the heavens and watch them turn, I don’t feel small like so many people do. I feel that’s my backyard. I feel I can stretch out and touch it and make it my toy.

And I’d play with it gently.

Most of the time.

This ain’t right.

truth.png
I want you to get down on your knees and give thanks to whatever it is you believe is that higher power. I want you to know that if I could, I would grow and make this world be what I want it to be. I’m not one of those ethical people that tell you “Yes, I have size fantasies, but in real life I would never hurt a soul.”

I would hurt a number of souls.

So be grateful.

If I were to grow right now, the first thing I would do is lead by example. Taking men and using them for pleasure is not only legal now, but it’s right. I understand the ramifications, given the current climate and given my own existence as a woman… that should be the last thing I want for anyone to experience. Unwanted sexual advances? Yuck! Right?

No. Not right. Imagine that beautiful world in which I exist as I really am in my heart, a giantess that spans any distance by growth, a hand that reaches everywhere by will, and now I’m the president of Everything. There is no power that can stop me. So do I end war? No. Do I stop famine? Not at the top of my list. Do I get rid of crime? Nah. I pursue it.

My first act as giantess is sexual assault. Rape? Can you rape the willing? I don’t know. I don’t even know if Hopier’s really willing, but it wouldn’t matter. I’d like to claim that I would love to leave a better legacy, a true message of love and peace to the world, but I don’t. The first thing I do when I grow is travel for sex, tear off a home’s roof for sex, and rip Hopier away from his regular life for sex.

What does that make me?

Call me a monster. I don’t care. I’m happy at that height. I don’t need heating, clothing, entertainment… because I have him. But there is something here I’m not facing. Lately, I’ve been having really bad dreams about being chased. A few days ago I dreamt I was forced to hop from planet to planet because the Empire was after me. The emperor was a Sith Lord, and no matter where I hid, troops would invariably overtake that planet in their pin-point search of me (and my son… if it had only been me the nightmare would have only been a dream). During the final search, Obi-Wan Kenobi came to my aid as a giant (about three hundred feet in height) and battled the Emperor, who was just as tall, in order to protect my son and me.

I don’t know if you understand how upsetting it is to dream of giants and not grown myself. But then it happened again last night. I had a very upsetting dream about being in a Nazi-occupied territory (in current times), plotting against said invaders, defeating them, and having them come back with renewed force to murder everyone that temporarily vanquished them. Of course, that meant being chased as a woman and being murdered in the cruelest way. Was that the worst part of the dream? No.

The worst part was being chased by a giant worm that had romantic feelings for me and wanted to court me… and not a cute worm, but one of the disgusting-looking ones, and I normal sized. I looked up dreams about being chased, and the explanation appears to be that they take place because there is something in my life I’m not facing. Really?! That can be said about anyone’s life. It’s not a fair assessment to make, and it certainly doesn’t help me one bit. I don’t like dreams where something or someone is larger than I am, and I don’t like being chased when my true nature is to be the chaser.

So give thanks.

If I were to grow, I would chase Hopier away from his life, and I’m pretty sure he would not like it one bit if I show up, all tall and naked and demanding, and tear him from his life. Would anyone truly want that? It’s a nice fantasy, but it’s my experience that no one really wants to be ripped from their life, no matter what they claim. In turn, I claim to be gentle and loving, but I’m worse than the worst of them because I would really use my height to my advantage, without hesitation, without remorse.

I’m the worst sort of sociopath. I would show the world my crime as Hopier screams from the palm of my hand; naked, stripped from family, from loved ones, from clothes and work and chores and shopping and haircuts every six weeks and shaving and job and vacations. Think about the news as they report his giantess-napping. Think about the destruction of any army that tries to rip him away from my side. There is no rescuing. Any special forces deployed to pluck him from between my legs will not only be crushed under my foot, but their families will meet the same fate. As an example to others.

It’s a new world. And I rule it.

Get down on your knees and give thanks it isn’t real.

Gentle April 2018

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Remember the best time of last year, when I ran Gentle April 17? During that period of time, there were zero deaths, a billion hugs took place, and no one cried except with joy at the wonderful stories that were produced. Now it’s time to let love reign again. It’s time for Gentle April 18.

Of course, I’ll participate, and so will plenty of other writers. Anyone that wishes to enter the contest still has a few days to do so. Contact @SizeRiot and let them know twenty-four contestants are simply not enough. A few things that come to mind to mention are…

  • There’s a 2,000-word limit for stories. You can write less, and I’ve even seen a couple of entries with a few more, but I wouldn’t test SizeRiot’s temper by sending in something that doesn’t closely approximate 2,000 words. When they get mad, mosquitos drop dead in Asia, and lightning strikes on Earth average 45 a second, instead of 44. So watch it.
  • The subject is macros. Biggies. Tol. Giants. No tinies allowed. Keep your tinies tightly secured in your drawers, as if spotted in a story they will be crushed out of existence.

And those are the rules I care to mention. You can read the rest at the contest website. As to my own rules for myself, I’m going to try my best to disguise my writing. I succeeded to some degree during Cruel January and had a great deal of fun finding out how ill people spoke about one of my stories. It’s okay, ill-speaking people. I love my story. I don’t need your love.

But you’re on my list. I know where you live.

Literally, I have your home addresses.

Really, I do.

As soon as I grow a couple of hundred feet, it’s crushy time.

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Missing Countries, part 51

AmericanSamoa.png
At one point last year there were fifty-two countries on Earth that had failed to visit my blog. That number went down to fifty-one at some point last year. I failed to notice it until now. Welcome to the fold, American Samoa. Why is this important? Because I say it is. I like to think of myself as an all-encompassing force that covers the entire planet (and then some), so those fifty-two rebel countries must join me… or be crushed.

But American Samoa is now safe. Giantesses may roam those islands freely, and have fun with the people they encounter, in whatever way they see fit. You’re welcome.

So anyway…

 

CommRant
To the left we have reality, and to the right we have my perspective.

I was looking for someone to work on an image for me, for one of my stories, but what do you look for when you want to commission someone to create something you love? You look at their past work. I have yet to find past work by artists that showcases their skill with drawing the male form as the main focus. It’s generally the female character that gets the spotlight, and that leaves the small person in the image a very small percentage of care, detail… jesus, sometimes it’s portrayed as a stick figure, or a faceless, shapeless creature.

I’m finding myself drawing because I don’t see what I want out there so I feel compelled to create it. I mean, I see it every once in a while, but the percentage of images I like versus the images that exist is ridiculously uneven. Meh. I’m off to get drunk and have moderate fun. I can’t think about this shit anymore. Y’all have a happy Friday!