I was sitting here, pissed off because I couldn’t find those old Lay’s Singles potato chip commercials. Remember them? I saw them nine years ago, and I posted a blog entry about them, and now the YouTube links for them are dead, once again proving that when I publish a video, I have to actually have the thing in my mac in case the link disappears. That’s what I’m doing now, but after finding super low-res versions of the ads I wanted, I also stumbled upon this…
Clearly, something very dirty is happening there, and I invented my own dialogue for it… Hm. I should use my iMovie to edit it. Yes… it will only intensify the uncomfortable way I feel, but hell, it’s a day of the week. When do I not feel the way I feel about my own sex toy Hopier in my own suitcase as I travel? He packs lightly when I don’t (yes, I know that makes no sense–never mind, I know what I mean).
…And I spotted a box of 20 wooden clothespins. Perfect for a two-foot-tall little guy during laundry day, no? Their true function is that of paper clips. I think I used one once, and added the rest to the pile of Walmart things I never use. That’s not true: I don’t have a pile of Walmart things I never use, and the clothespins are in a wooden box I use to store pens and staples and paper clips. The contents of said box have changed very little in the last twenty years, given that “pens” and “staplers” and “paper” are objects I seldom use nowadays.
That’s not true: I used a pen this morning. I used it to write on a return form enclosed in a box that also contained shoes too uncomfortable to keep. I didn’t staple the box shut, or closed its cardboard flaps shut with mini clothespins. I used mailing tape. I’m not crazy.
That’s not true: I am crazy. I do have a pile of things I never use. It includes VHS tapes, Christmas decorations, fabric notions, a Jar Jar Binks blanket, and other things I will soon “purge”. I can’t be classified as a hoarder yet, but the pile will try to convince you otherwise. And I’m never getting rid of that Jar Jar Binks blanket.
Behold how I shamelessly add this one to my pile of incomplete posts. I’ll try to get back here tomorrow if I have the time. I probably won’t, but I will say that ever since I was a child I’ve experienced great enjoyment from creating little things out of paper. But enough for now. Tomorrow I will expound upon my latest fascination with Mother Mother, and how this video makes me think of little people. Not that I need help with that.
Today, November 5th of 2016, nearly six years after December 10th of 2010, it feels like a thousand years ago in some broken parts of my heart; but the ones that remained untouched still feel the same way about paper cities. If I ever made a giantess video starring myself, I would spend days, months, years (?) constructing a paper city from scratch. When I was a young girl I spent endless hours cutting up pieces of paper, and glueing and scotch-papering them together to form chairs, tables, beds, dressers, furniture for a small man, about two inches in height.
What did I feel while I did that? Funny, the things you remember as an adult. I’ve forgotten so many things, but I’ve never forgotten that feeling. It’s a powerful cocktail of creativity, pheromones, single-mindedness sharpened to a fine point, and joy. Looking back at that time fires up a slight autonomous sensory meridian response. Creating things for a little one, however non existent, definitely hits me right in the Goddess center. I also remember thinking, I wish I had toy people to whom I could give this furniture.
I never found toy people; not yet, anyway. Soon afterwards I threw away all that furniture, as I saw no point in keeping it, if I had no “people” to play with that could use it. I would have to do the same with that fictitious paper city I imagine I’d build for myself, after filming myself walking around gingerly… or maybe destroying it. I have no idea what mood would find me that day. Maybe both. I fancy myself gentle, but in reality I have a temper. Bad, quick one.
I love Mother Mother. I was looking for music years ago, and I thought to search for songs, any songs titled “Wrecking Ball”. This happened long before the crappy 2013 one came out, so I was spared that search result. Instead, I found Mother Mother, and I’ve obsessed over them since then. If only they toured the States, my success would be complete. When O My Heart came out, and with it, the video for “Body of Years”, I was pulled back to that time of fun with paper. The paper city in the video is the sort of city I’d kill trees to build. I don’t get to walk on those trees, or slip between those buildings, or peek into those tiny apartments, and smile at the tiny imaginary people; but that’s fine. I can imagine I do.
And then, if they don’t say hi back, I’d set their city on fire.
http://www.minimiam.com/en/goen.html is a website I found yesterday when I was doing a search for “shrunken men” but in Spanish. Minimiam, as I understand, means “mini yum” (I’m sure the vore folks will love that) (yes, we do), and it’s a duo of food photographers that place miniatures on edibles in such interesting ways that one can’t help but think of a story behind the image. As you can imagine, stories that involve small men are always going to interest me.
The two artists, Pierre Javelle and Akiko Ida, are also married. It crossed my mind for only a second, that though unlikely, it would be fun if these miniatures interacting with food and creating situations that are similar to some of the scenarios I describe to myself, are more than professional tools for the couple. I wondered if they use them for role-playing… probably in the same foolish way some have felt a temporary ray of hope that Pamela Anderson is really into vore. 🙄
Well, you’d think that copying and pasting a few paragraphs would make posting these every Wednesday a bit easier. As it turns out, there’s an insane level of busy that doesn’t permit such simple blogging maneuvers. These two words were provided as part of the game by a giantess community member by the name of IncredibleShrinkinI. Wherever he is, I send him a warm hello, and my thanks!
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The polishing cloth scratched the palm of his hand as he worked, its interwoven threads thick as ropes to him. He stopped long enough to switch hands. His discomfort took a backseat to her needs; she had always made that very clear. He looked up and over his work to watch her apply the finishing touches to her hair and makeup. She was ready.
“Is it done?” she asked without looking at him.
“That’s a good little man,” she said, getting up and walking towards him. He braced himself for what followed, yet still felt his every bone rattle when she set her elbows on her dressing table to give his efforts a closer look. The shock of her descent plucked a steel tooth inside the music box mechanism, as large as a piano key to him. The vibrating note made his ears ring, and he shook his head clear of it.
“It looks great! Thank you, little one,” she said, her breath a wind that played with his hair. He stood up and away from her reaching fingers and she picked up the ring he had been cleaning. His heart felt heavier now that she was leaving.
“Will you be out very late?” he asked, hating the needy tone in his voice. She was walking away, leaving him on top of the dresser, forgotten up there the same way her other possessions were, when she turned her head and answered.
“I don’t know, little one. It’s a blind date, after all. Don’t wait up for me.”
He watched walk away, and when he heard the front door close in her wake, he turned to look at the jewelry in her box, and felt the weight of the world pressing down on his chest. Catching his reflexion on the black polished surface, he thought of options. He could sit next to her makeup and other trinkets all night long, or he could figure out a way to climb down the facade of her vanity.
It was time to leave; time to find a place where he’d be wanted.
Last night I was reading MattyBoy’s latest Math post, in which he used a ladder to illustrate his point. So I’m reading about the ladder and given how my mind lives in the gutter- in fact, sometimes I think the gutter is in my mind, but never mind.
So I’m thinking a ladder is what a shrunken man needs to climb up to those hard-to-reach places that are a woman’s… well, every part of a woman except her toes and heels, because every once in a while she grows so tall even the arch of her foot is a distant domed ceiling. Anyway, I was thinking about that, and then just a few minutes ago I tripped on the Flickr image above.
It’s fun when the universe conspires to divert me. Thank you, universe.
There are other similar images (just a few) in the author‘s photostream, if you wish to take a gander. Here’s another effective use of a ladder I really like.
This is a cute little thing. I saw it and I couldn’t help thinking of a shrunken man running out of excuses on why he can’t possibly do chores around the house. The tiny appliance is several inches in height, so a small man would have to be the size of a tallish doll to get anything done with it.
But under my scrutiny, it wouldn’t matter what size he is: flea or cricket-sized, there’s work to be done. And onto a serious matter, what’s wrong with you people? Why aren’t there more collages of tiny men cleaning giant things, polishing shoes, scrubbing jewelry, that sort of thing?
Saturday afternoon I was poking around at Flickr, looking for backgrounds as I do from time to time, acting as though I don’t have hundreds of unfinished collages to work on before I continue accumulating material, when I found this adorable image.
PetitPlat is the miniature work of Stéphanie Kilgast, tiny foodstuffs, dollhouse accoutrements, jewelry, all representing things in a very small scale, and perfectly adorable. Upon seeing the image I instantly thought of this collage by Gcode, one of the best shrunken-man images in the history of EVER.
If you look at Ms. Kilgast’s gallery you will find photos of little dolls arranged together with the play food in a little kitchen or a tiny table, but I prefer to imagine a shrunken man that sleeps in the nude and wakes up to a delicious morning meal served in a bitty tray and brought to his doll-sized bed by the woman that owns him, keeps him and feeds him.
Motorcycles are in my blood. My father and uncles have owned and loved them, and consequently so do some of my brothers. Women in my family, not so much, unless I count that scooter my cousin rode for a while.
I’d like to think my love for motorcycles is in my blood, but I’ve never owned one, so I’m not sure. I am positive, however, that my dad is surprised he’s alive after all the accidents he had in his youth, back when helmets were for chickens. He stopped rolling under trucks and leaping over cars after he got married and started sprouting, as did my uncles after losing a few body parts. My cousin had a scooter accident as well, but I’m not counting it, since she hardly bled at all, and the scars don’t cover more than 0.1% of her body.
I probably never will own a motorcycle, and if I ever got the money to buy one I’d spend it on guns, but that doesn’t stop me from loving the idea of owning one someday and including them in my collages, so here’s my first motorcycle-related one. There are more in the works, and I repeat, they will be ready about the time we finally elect our first female president. Well, when you elect, since I can’t vote.
As to the inspiration for motorcycle collages… it falls smack between the adventurous and the ridiculous, and as a tall fan of both I felt prompted to write this little scene.
I love having motorcycle races with my Little One. He has his own small one that looks like a toy that runs on batteries, one that couldn’t possibly catch up with the sleek monstrosity I ride, its engine too inadequate for the speeds mine reaches. Yet, invariably, he beats me every time.
How? I never know. All I know is that every weekend we get wake up and get ready for another race. We dress in the meanest fabrics we can possibly find, and wear the cruelest boots imaginable. We forget about the studs, though. He’s the only stud I need, in any case.
We ride to the dirt road where we always compete (you see, my Harley Goliathson is also a heretic dirt bike), and before we take off, we place our bets. If he wins, I have to make him dinner, and if I win, he has to do the same for me. You can imagine that at that size, the idea of cooking a meal for his giantess is terrifying.
Somehow, he never loses. He always takes off at the same time I do, and when I finally reach our dusty goal, he’s always there, pretending he’s napping, he’s been “waiting for me for so long”.
Until I discover he’s been putting Super Special Mega Giant Fuel in his little toy machine. When I find out this treachery, I decide to teach him a little lesson as we prepare to race again, and tie him up on his tiny motorcycle after its tank’s been filled up with toy petrol.