My cat

If you’ve ever been sad, heartbroken because you lost a pet, a part of your family, a part of you, and when you manifested that sadness someone despicable around you said, “It was just an animal,” know that I understand your anger is justified. Such a lack of empathy is unforgivable. This morning I sat up after having slept exactly zero minutes, grabbed my bottle of vodka, and downed four shots in quick succession. When I felt my heartbeat slow down a tad, I grabbed my shovel, my heavy gloves, and my pick, and I dug a deep hole in my yard. Once that was done, I fetched my beautiful, beloved, wonderful cat’s lifeless body, and placed it in that hole, only a few feet away from the grave of the first cat I ever lost.

She was also wonderful, beloved, beautiful, and when I still cried about her loss, someone without a heart told me impatiently that she was “just an animal”. Wrong, fucker. She was a grumpy cat with a funny face that was loyal and bossy, and extremely vocal about it. Her meows were operatic, and she made an art out of catching a bird midleap. She was not “just an animal”. And the cat I buried this morning was not “just an animal” either. She was afraid of everyone but me, her meows were the squeakiest I’d ever heard in my life, and she thought my boy cat was her mom. She liked to eat moths, she gifted me half a bird or half a snake on several occasions (apparently it was clear to her I had no idea how to hunt and she was afraid I’d starve), and she was family.

I’m sad. So sad.


Missing Countries, part 50


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.

“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.

The moon and the 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.

Missing Countries, part 51

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…


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!

For Sale

“littleman3” by Sardax

Alone, you stand

in that glass cage

a price on your head

and on the rest of your body

your gaze lost to the rest of the world

turned inward to some safe place

because outside you’re for sale

clearance-priced flesh

a segregate, a cast-off

unsuccessful, returned for a refund, unwanted

But here I stand

my wallet as open as my heart

I see you standing alone

the last one on display

and you move me

I choose you

above all others

below market price

a store’s trash is a woman’s treasure

I buy what’s already mine

my property

I bought others before

unsuccessful refunded unwanted

but not you

you are perfect

in that glass that makes your walls

I want to give you a different world

my world

I buy you

a shopping bag your womb

to a new world

I’m now your world

your gaze lifts, cast down before

your face, aimed at my height

casting the shadow of a promise

that things will be different now

you are no longer in nesbted [?]

you are no longer for sale

I own you and the threads of that sale

weave your purpose

you’re here for me

you exist for me

every cell of your body belongs to me

fill the corners of your mouth

lips swollen with a smile

they’ll kiss me soon

whether you want to or not

I’m not here to reason your purpose

I’ve given it to you

accept it or fight it

I don’t give a fuck

because now at least

your heart beats in flesh

when it never beat in glass

when you were for sale

* * *

If you’d like to read the original text as written when I was wasted, you may do so here.

Protected: Little Hands

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Stuff that is happening

—I’m writing more. I haven’t waited to publish a book to call myself a writer, and I’m not going to start now. Technically I am a published author, though to reveal the venue and the event would start a joke since it’s such an insignificant footnote of an event, I shouldn’t even count it. Irrelevant. I’m a writer, and I’m doing a better job of getting up every day and writing something every day.

—I’ve slipped back about answering emails. I’m very sorry about that, and I’m doing better as well. Don’t think for an instant that I don’t appreciate your notes, your messages, and your stories. I haven’t forgotten you, I haven’t forgotten them, and I will answer them as soon as I can. Before 2019, I promise.

—I just ate an olive.

—I got one of these in the mail recently:

I ordered it despite mixed reviews about it never arriving from China. Fortunately, in my case it did. I’m very happy with it, and I think it will help my efforts to be able to one day draw my own Size images. I love paying for commissions, but there’s stuff in my mind too depraved to share with anyone and hope to leave their wholesome minds intact. We’re supposed to protect and support our artists, not destroy their psyches until there’s nothing left but a mass of tears and blood.

—Don’t forget this thing. I haven’t. It’s still a thing. It still exists. I’m going to update it this weekend with actual entries. I expect at least a thousand of you continuously write songs about giantesses and tiny men. It’s not just dorky, non-musician me that does it, and my friends Aborigen and others. But what do I know? There are Size people that are musicians, writers with some talent, and simply refuse to compose and write*. Fine, see if I care.

—Someone send me doughnut holes. I’m seriously craving some. And cocoa. Chop-chop.

That’s it for now. I’m off to read, drink, and write. And possibly eat another olive, since they are shaped like doughnut holes anyway.

*You’re on my list.

I should be in bed, asleep…

And I will be, soon, but I thought I’d tell you some things:

 One of my wonderful readers sent me a link to images of “Titania and Bottom”, which you will agree is an absolutely fantastic title for a painting, no matter what its subject is.

“Titania and Bottom” by Henry Fuseli

I’m not going to insult your intelligence by explaining the painting to you. I will state that it would have been a much better work if some of the elements were eliminated, namely everything but Titania and the little guy reaching with his arms in pleading fashion, Thank you, reader. I enjoyed it very much, and one of these days I’ll be philistine enough to edit it to my liking.

 I’m working on my new banner on my own, since I haven’t the faintest clue who to commission for it, and I’m practicing my “art”, so I might as well do it myself. All I’ll say about it is that tentacles are fun to draw, even with a mouse.

 I’ve never gone deeply into the Lewd Side on my blog, and with my public writings. I saved all that for personal use, but now I’m readying some truly dirty posts with shocking portrayals of my likes, accompanied by my writings about them. I’m aware of your delicate nature and utter reluctance to read such filth, and I want nothing more than to protect your mind and heart from such visions. Those posts will be password-protected so that those forgotten souls that want to wallow in the lost crevasses of my mind can read and see the filth as they wish, and you can continue reading my blog and holding onto your sweet blankie that you’ve had all your life. Those perverted ones that want to bear witness to my descent into depravity can email me for the password. I’m not sure how long I’ll protect my posts you with such procedures. Probably until I feel comfortable exposing myself you in such a manner. After all I am opening a large if by no means comprehensive window to me.

 Ginger beer and vodka = yes. Apple cider and vodka = no. Heavens no. No no no.

 Hm. Something else… oh yeah, don’t be an ass. Don’t discuss those movies on Twitter or DA until after I’ve watched them. Thank you. 🙂

Pillows for tinies…

I’m getting ready to start one of my many writing projects, but before I do I wanted to mention this to you….

Most of you own at least one pillow. Pillows are great. I don’t have a pillow fetish, but I’m always on the search for the next great pillow. If I suddenly experienced a great growth spurt, I’d probably attempt to procure a comfortable pillow before I try to find articles of clothing. Believe me, I’m not going to be one of those silly giantesses that use a stupid boulder on which to rest her head.

Likewise, I think of the comfort a shrunken man might require while in my possession. It doesn’t even matter that I might never acquire shrinking powers; I still would like to prepare everything for his arrival. For a long time, I put aside my dream of owning a dollhouse and threw away all the furnishings I had bought for it. I feel that dream slowly returning to me. I begin to see possibilities, and I’ll document them here, on my blog, as they progress. In the meantime, a shrunken man is always going to need a pillow.

But what do you do when you want to feel tiny, and your body refuses to acquiesce? Stupid body. But you are not. You get your size fix however you can engineer it, and unusual pillows are one way you can do that. How about this kind?

Giant-handsI know you are not a baby, but if I felt tiny and wanted gentle hands holding me as I sleep, I’d make myself a pair of giant fabric hands I can stuff with soft material, and strategically place sand weights in them so that some pressure is exerted on my body. Never mind how that would be helpful for those of us with sensory differences; I can imagine that crawling into bed and positioning enormous hands on your body would put you in a certain frame of mind. But what if you don’t want to be held? What if you’d like to be et?

Vore-side-up.jpgThen step right up and onto a couple of fried eggs for a hungry giantess’s breakfast. The white rug and accompanying yolk cushions are so cute, I’d consider them for my living room, even though I don’t like rugs that can stain easily. I have cats, and I’m a clumsy giantess, especially when I’m drunk.

I have no idea how I’d explain such a decor choice to friends and family who would helpfully inform me my house looks like breakfast. I’d act surprised, and say, “Oh, really? Well, I had not noticed!” Then I’d kick my Size books under the rug and hope they don’t notice my shrunken-man pillows. What shrunken-man pillows, you ask?

Male-doll.jpgI like the idea of constructing man-shaped pillows, the same way this woman did. Mine would not be lifesize, of course; mine would be small. I think they would then have to be called “dolls”, but see if I care. If I could have a two-inch long pillow shaped like a little guy, I’d be tickled. Of course, it wouldn’t be very comfortable… but at least if I roll over it, I wouldn’t kill it with my giant form.

Alright. I have some writing to do. Have a nice day, and don’t forget to wash your pillows on a schedule, and dry them well, and protect them with a hypoallergenic cover.