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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.


Temptation, Frustration

So bad it makes me cry. Wet bus stop; no one’s waiting. My car is cold and dry.

Alright, my car is not warm, and it was washed tonight, and it’s probably dry, so that’s the only thing that’s true about that sentence. That and the frustration. Because it is frustrating to have these fantasies, and know they will never come true. I know it’s hard. What makes it easy to suffer that frustration? For some of you, there’s alcohol. Some of you are lucky enough to bring it to life with your significant others. Others of you don’t care that none of it is real, and never will be, because there’s enough porn out there to keep you satisfied. The rest of you? The rest of us.

The rest of me sometimes wishes I could stop thinking about this stuff. Only sometimes. Maybe twice? No, it’s been more than twice… but the rest of the time I love my mind, and I’m glad I’m this way. Sure, my brain comes with a price, and I pay it every day. Every day I think how wonderful it would be to have the power to shrink, whenever I want. Can you understand the ramifications? I would never have to do yard work again. Weeds? Shrunken to a microscopic level. Unruly tree sprouts I neglect for a whole season and have a chance to grow a bit? Shrunken to a minuscule degree. The same goes for chores. Mold on bread? Boom, shrink ray. Well, now that just sounds lazy.

I would not make my shrinking abilities a crutch I’d use to face difficulties (as in, shrink them so I don’t have to face them); but you have to admit it would save me a lot of time and anguish. Someone talks while I’m at the theater trying to watch a movie? Shrunk for two hours. Someone tailgates me when we’re in a school zone and the speed limit is one yard per lifetime? Shrunk while driving, fucker. Someone drives and texts? Shrunk for a fucking year, asshole. Go endanger no one’s life, while you’re at it.

And of course, I’d shrink that one person I want to keep forever as my tiny man. As to the title of this entry, it stems from the truth of the matter. I’ll never be able to do it. I know, I know. Some of you have dealt with that truth with a fair amount of equanimity. You have your life, your work, your hobbies, someone that loves you and puts up with your shit, your children, your pets, etc. So you read what I type and you say, “C’mon, Undersquid, stop whining about the same thing all the time. You’ll never shrink anyone, you’ll never own anyone.”

I know. But I WANT TO. Frustrating. I get up every day just like you, and I live my life, just like you. I do what needs to be done. I take care of what needs to be taken care of. I pay my bills, I hug my son, I call my mother. But at the end of the daily line I want that tiny man I can grab and bring close to my face as I tell him, “You are the best part of my day. You are the oil in my engine. You are what gets me up in the morning, and brings me to bed every night. You, my sex toy. This is why I shrank you, and this is why you belong to me.”

Frustrating that I can’t do that. If I could, I would, and one of you billions of men in the world would find himself in my fist one day. One of you. I keep saying his opinion wouldn’t matter when the time comes to be shrunken… but it kinda does. Who wants to get up in the morning to have sex, and have this to look forward to?


Not me. Not really. After all the screaming is done, I want a tiny man that doesn’t collapse at the prospect of being what I make of him. I want clay that keeps its shape. I want I want I want. I’m not stupid. I know I’ll never have what I want. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing, I’ll keep having friends, I’ll keep loving my son, I’ll keep getting up in the morning, I’ll keep trying to be a better person, I’ll get my citizenship so I can vote next time and make little difference just like most of us, I’ll get groceries and try to be a good example for my son. I’ll forgive and forget, I’ll love and I’ll hate, I’ll cry and laugh. I’ll live.

But it’s frustrating.



I have looked for you forever

I can prove it

All my baby pictures show me looking down

I was looking for you

I have listened for you every day

Waiting to hear your voice

Rising from the ground, lighter than air

I am standing on the line

Between sanity and a dragnet of thoughts

My mind is on the line

I walk it and leave a trail of crumbs

Shapes of dignity show the way back

Home when I find you

I keep looking when I move

And when I stay it does not stop

Because a part of me believes

The best part of me knows

What the worst part contradicts

You exist and you are mine

I lost you once before I ever was

And I came back just for you

Learned to walk just for you

Listened to stories about you

Called out your true name

And I will find you again

Take you again the way I did

When we were one and never alone

You cannot hide from me

I will walk and look until I see you

Cast a spell of retribution

You will stop running then

And know my hand is coming

To take what belongs to me

I will close my eyes then

And stop looking

And smile and smile and smile

And feel your life pulsing

You mouth pleading

Your voice pretending

You did not know this was going to happen

But it does

Because you are mine

And you know

I have looked for you forever



Clothed in galaxies

It’s past midnight, and I should be asleep; but there’s no way I can close my eyes and have nothing happen, so I’m sitting here having a lunch of ale, ice cream, and aspirin; rewatching a certain episode of a certain TV series about people that no longer have a pulse; forcing myself to write. I really need to start taking better care of myself.

But not tonight. Tonight I’ll forgive myself the terrible meal, forgive myself not going to sleep, forgive my brain on fire, and pretend I had a serving of vegetables by eating two olives. Oh, damn. This ale is incredibly bad. So bad. It smells good, but it tastes like dirty shoes.

The photo you see above is of leggings I bought a couple of weeks ago. I like to wear things—cheap or otherwise—that represent who I am without saying a word about who I am, and my galaxies leggings do that for me. When I feel bad, or downtrodden, or I’ve had a bad day, I break out my giant shoes or my giantess clothes or jewelry, and I might not feel better, but it puts my mind on the right road.

I love my leggings. When I look at them, when I touch them, when I wear them, I think of how tall I am, that I drape myself in constellations… that my little gigantic black dress is made of dark matter… that (somewhere interesting) in the deep space that my leggings encompass, Earth spins, and on it I can see everything and everyone. That I keep it safe or crumble it in my fist like a clump of clay, depending on how delighted or annoyed I become with its occupants.

To some of my readers, such a size is unmanageably large. An ultra giantess can’t possibly interact with a planet so small, and conversing with a single earthling is impossible. Not so. I am Me. I can do that, and much more. I can touch it, hold it, caress it, place it anywhere on me, and flirt with the only one person on it that matters. So what if he appears microscopic when compared to me? That means nothing when my focus is centered like a blinding spotlight on him. Nothing is hidden, nothing is out of reach. My Underverse is perfect.

But reality.


I’m sneezing until I taste blood. I’m unable to sleep though I have not slept in over twenty-four hours. I have stories dancing in my head, some better than others. I have a semi abandoned blog I’m trying to feed by mentally crying out “clear”, and zapping it with a super late lunch of churros (I bought two but can only eat one; I hope it goes straight to my ass), a cherry-limeade Sparkling Ice, and –ironically– something else that I hope will help me sleep.
I’m also watching a favorite zombie DVD, which I love to collect and go to sleep to (any Alien movies and any zombie movies are my going-to-sleep white noise. I’m currently rooting for the living, and at the same time thinking someone should write a zombie love story. A Size Zombie love story. 5,000 words. It’s been done before, and it’s probably been written by someone in the community before, but not that I know of. I might even commission someone to create a Size Zombie image for me. But who’ll be the zombie? The giantess, or the tiny man? Hmm.

I’m also thinking about those two size moments I spotted in a couple of DVDs my son and I watched recently. Part of his instruction since birth has been to learn all I teach him about X-Men, Spider-man, and Batman, among other, less important characters. So we watch all the Marvel and DC comics movies we find… and when I saw those moments, I was transported to my world.

(Oh, don’t waste your ammo! I hate it when they panic and shoot and keep shooting and run out of rounds.)

(Yes, I’m talking about zombie stuff.)

(Zombie ambush! Awesome! But. Seriously? She just dropped her gun.)

Where was I? My world.

In Teen Titans: The Judas Contract, Nightwing gets with Starfire, who is taller than he is. During the entire movie, I kept thinking of all the times during my childhood I had crushes on shorter boys who never liked me back. Ever. I was always “too tall” (and when they said that a marvelous thrill ran up and down my back, and I was never self-conscious about it). My first boyfriend was about my height, and he always complained when I wore high heels. In fact, with one exception, nearly all boys and men I girlfriended said the same thing when I wore high heels, except for my second boyfriend, who was into feet and bums. He never complained about my awesome alpha personality either. My point is, when I was a child I was overly enthusiastic about tiny boys, particularly when I got to stand over them during practice; so I was thrown back into those memories when I watched this movie.

In Justice League Dark, Deadman is given his power by a gigantic god, Rama Kushna. That scene only lasted a couple of seconds, but it was such a turn on. I can see myself as a goddess who is inclined to give different powers to random little men after they die, bringing them back in an elegant, redeeming way that does not render them stinking and unattractive, their more important parts (legs) slowly decaying to the work of maggots and carrion vermin. Once the spirit of a man leaves its body, I’d observe it, study it, and if deemed worthy, I’d call it to me and assign it a gift, and a mission. If you die today, don’t be surprised if you find yourself in my presence…

Oh yeah, another zombie ambush. Watching….)

(This woman can’t fight for shit.)


(Oh, good. She lived.)

…anyway, in my presence, and find yourself gifted with an unexpected power that allows you to serve my will. Don’t worry, it won’t be too hard on you. My will is not that perplexing or complicated. I want to shrink the world, and from among everyone, I will pick the one “lucky” man who is destined to be mine for all eternity. Then with my army of gifted undead, I will eliminate tailgating, platypi, fake marshmallows, reality tv, certain presidents, racism, illiteracy, vegan cheese, famine, and war. In that order.

And also, because. Epigraphs.

I don’t need you, I don’t need you
Besides I barely ever see you anymore
And when I do it feels like you’re only halfway there

Don’t do this, I don’t do this to you
Don’t expect me to enjoy it
‘Cause I really don’t have the courage not to turn the volume up inside my ears

Happy Anniversary, Undersquid!

Today I got this notification on WordPress:NineYears.jpg

Now, you read “today”, and you think I wrote this entry on August 13th, but I didn’t. I wrote it over a month from now, which is the real today, and not the “today” I claim? Is that clear? Oh, it doesn’t matter. What is of great importance is that I’ve been blogging for nine years, minus those four years I didn’t blog. What’s of vital note is that I love to write, even when I’m in the midst of great despair, or massive anger, or mind-obliterating drunkenness. I’ve been writing stories since childhood, and I’ll continue to write size stories for as long as they live in my head, and in my heart.

Some fun-filled blog facts:

  • According to FlagCounter, my blog is nearing a half a million page views. I know other blogs have more impressive numbers in viewer and readership, but I’m writing about shrunken men. I never came into this with the intention of bursting through any glass ceilings. More like… plaster and cement ones. I’m both glad and bewildered anyone out there reads my thoughts and then comes back for more. There are [all the] spaces in my head where I still feel weird, and different.
  • My older blog had stomped its way into the Internet, and it got a steady stream of accidental visitors as well as regular ones. When I deleted it, I lost all that traffic, including the headcount from SiteMeter, which stopped working. All I can say is that after existing for seven months, my current blog has reached close to 18,000 pageviews.
  • I don’t know who my Anniversary visitor was when I hit the nine-year mark, but… I’ll just tell you who’s visiting my blog right now, and reveal what smutty bit they’re looking at. Oh, they didn’t stay. Hi, North Dakota! Whatcha looking at? I see you’ve visited my blog over a thousand times. I’m glad you’re enjoying it.
  • The most popular image at this point is the one below. I’m surprised a web app-produced comic outnumbers my most popular collage, but why should I be? Most of us go to the movies, and I know most of us have movie-theater related fantasies. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know you do. No. Stop lying. You do. Yes, you do.


  • The search engine term that sends me the most visitors is still “undersquid”, and various permutations of the word. There are other search terms I absolutely love, but I think the most disturbing one is…


Alright, that’s all she wrote.

Some dreams and stuff…

What do you do when you’re having a bad day? What do I do? Sometimes I drink if I can, and lately even when I shouldn’t. I’ve decided to stop that, so wish me luck. Just don’t be so optimistic about it. There is one thing that annoys me to no end when I’m feeling down, and that’s unbridled optimism. You know what I mean. Someone sees you’re feeling a bit out of sorts, and they start telling you about all the wonderful things in your life, and how you are so lucky, and don’t you feel your luck, and life is wonderful, and you suck for being sad about what couldn’t possibly amount to anything, when compared to what they‘ve been through.

Please be optimistic at me. See what happens.

Anyway, I’m having a bad day, so instead of drinking or doing things I can’t do, I’ll do what I can, which is… to try and write about something. In this case, that something is dreams and stuff. About a week ago I had a dream that can only be described as… you know when you go to DA to look for fun mouth-play images, and you stumble upon something… not… right. Something that looks like…


…and I understand people are into body inflation, but every time it stumbles into my path, I want to punch a wall. Anyway, in my dream, someone, a friend or a family member, I really can’t remember, all I remember is that it was a woman… she was asking everyone around her to help her, because she knew that at a certain point in the night, a witch was going to show up at her house, and kill her. So I said, sure. Defend the helpless. How I roll. So I was standing in her living room late at night, and at the stroke of midnight a form began to appear near a wall. Dark wisps of smoke whirled together and formed a human shape that looked like the evil witch in “Snow White”, except this witch was “real” and not a cartoon.

She cackled and her nose began to grow longer, Pinocchio style, as it reached for me. Supposedly, as soon as the tip of her nose reached me, I’d drop dead. Is that what happened? Nope. As soon as her nose tip was within my grasp, I opened up my mouth, and began to eat her. Nose first. Of course when she realized what was happening, she began to scream. She screamed until I swallowed her face, and head, and neck, and… well, you get it. I ate the entire witch, and then looked at my stomach. It looked full, but not inflation full.

I don’t really remember the other dream, except to say there was a glass container of shrinking formula in it, but it looked like yellow, lumpy vomit. And Arnold Schwarzenegger was driving me and a few other people (and the container) somewhere, down a dark road, in the middle of a moonlit night. It was creepy, but I was OK, because I can eat witches.

Well, that’s it. I really want a drink right now, but it’s fucking Monday night, asshole. So I’m going to go take a walk and see if I can get into a fight with anyone.  But I can’t do that either, because I’m a mom, and I can’t be in jail. I’ll go see if I can watch a movie where enough people explode, or become zombies, or both. Wish me luck.

Just don’t be… enthusiastic about it. Do this when you wish me well: