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:
I was on Twitter, whining to Aborigen about not having any inspiration to write, when he said, “You want me to give you an idea? I can give you an idea and demand 1,500 by the end of the day, if that would help?” And I said “Alright, I’m game. I’ll write, even if it’s garbage.”
And so a story was born. I want to thank my dear friend Aborigen for nudging me powerfully in this direction, and I want to thank my dear toy Hopier, for being sick with a bad cold at the same time I am, and providing a great deal of inspiration for this short story.
+ + +
“My throat started hurting the moment I had that Twix bar.”
The little man didn’t bother to look up at his owner from his resting position. His eyes barely flickered in acknowledgement. All he muttered was an impolite, “Your voice sounds horrible.”
“There’s no need to be rude, Toy. I’m as sick as you are.”
“I know. I know. But I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Should she start up again? Should she remind him she had only slept two and a half hours? Why bother, she thought. When he gets this way he only listens to what he wants to listen. Ironic that it feels this way right now, when I’ve often thought he’s the only one that can truly hear me. She would have continued along this line of thinking, and it could have turned sourer or sweeter, but she never found out because from the hearth of her breasts came his voice again.
“I’ve had enough soup.”
She turned her head slowly in both directions as her answer, and dipping her fingertip into the still steaming surface of a fragrant bowl of chicken soup cooling on an adjacent end table, she pulled it out and gave it a slight shake until from it clung a single drop of thick broth.
“I’ll tell you when you’ve had enough soup.”
“Owner, do you want me to get diarrhea again? I don’t want any more food!” His voice had turned whiny, and she tried to sigh, but her own sinuses were beginning to clog up again. She needed another dose of medicine. Or she needed to use her little man. That always seemed to clear her head in every way possible; but one look at his crumpled, pathetic little shape filled her with pangs of guilt. To grab his body and place it anywhere on her would be… wonderful. But there was soup on her digit. She brought it to his little mouth, and held it an inch away from his face. He moved it from side to side, imitating her earlier negative emphatically.
“Open your mouth.”
“Open. Your. Mouth. Now.”
“I don’t want to hear it. The doctor ordered five drops of soup for your meals, and you have only swallowed four. Open your mouth or I will make you open it.”
He looked up at her with enough resentment to shock her. What a little shit he can be sometimes, the thought sparked in her mind, and she doused it with regret. But I love him, don’t I. I love him so much. In his usual style, he picked up on her thoughts, and seemed to be taken aback by his temporary, if silent belligerence. To her, it was enough of an apology, especially when followed by his stretching his neck and reaching up with his parted lips, like a baby bird. She barely touched them with the warm drop of soup, which immediately flooded his mouth. He grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Did that hurt to swallow, poor toy?”
“Well, it’s over now. Go to sleep. I’ll eat now.”
“Can’t you put me in the dollhouse?”
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you comfortable in the cradle of my breasts?”
He was thoughtful enough to appear to deliberate before he whimpered quietly, and added, “Owner, your body is very comfortable, but your heartbeat is very loud, and your lungs keep making this annoying raspy noise. I want it to be quiet. And the lamp light is bothering my eyes. How can I sleep while you eat? You make very loud slurping sounds, and I hate that.”
So much for consideration, she thought. She tried to take a deep breath to calm herself, and ended up sending herself into a coughing fit. She had the presence of mind to press her cupped palm between her breasts to catch his little body before her own sent him tumbling down her chest, and possibly her recliner, and on to the floor many dozens of his feet below. At least her seat had been adjusted back, and the incline of her chest had kept him in place.
When she lifted her hand away from her breast, she looked at him, sure he’d tear into her, and go on about her lack of consideration about his infinitesimal size, and so on. Much to her distress, his eyes were closed, and there seemed to be no life in him.
“Toy! Toy, answer me! Are you OK?!”
To her relief he opened his eyes and shook his head a fraction of an inch. She had been about to tell him he’d stay on her for as long as she needed the comfort of his presence, but this was too much. If he wanted to sleep away from her, then he would get his wish. She lowered her fingers on him again, this time with great tenderness, and flicked the recliner’s handle to the up position. Slowly, she got up and waited for her dizzy spell to pass before she walked to her bedroom, and stood over his tiny home within her home.
“My little darling, it’s time for bed.”
She ignored his mumbling “It’s about time,” and bent over to lift the dollhouse roof on its hinge. As she leaned over the small home, she separated her hand from her body, and released him from her chest into it with an imperceptible drop, which he nonetheless protested with an “ouch” that was far too dramatic. She brought her palm down into his bedroom, and parked it over his lovingly handmade bed.
“Roll over, Toy.”
His whiny voice had been turned to eleven when he emitted a high, yet soft cry, “But I want you to tuck me in…”
“Alright,” she said, feeling lightheaded and weak. Pushing the roof over to lean on her bedroom wall, she used her now free hand to pull his coverlet: a five-inch square of fabric that had been cut off a well-worn pair of her panties. She then tilted her palm and watched his body gently roll off it and into his bed. She watched him curl into a fetal position, dragging his tiny pillow under his even smaller head. Once he stopped moving, she draped his body with the blanket, and smiled.
Dropping carefully to her knees, she placed her head sideways on the top edge of his bedroom wall, returned her hand to his body, and began to caress it very softly with the slightest touch of her fingertips. Her heart filled with gratitude that his body didn’t feel like the tiniest furnace anymore. The custom made thermometer she had ordered after she shrank him worked perfectly, and the last time she had taken his temperature by placing it between his tiny butt cheeks, it had given a much lower reading.
Catching a sigh in her chest lest she start coughing again, she convoluted her breathing by deciding to sing him a lullaby. Her voice did not sound its usual sweet when she let it out.
“You are my toy
When you break and feel no joy
I will take care of you
You’re in my heart
We will never be apart
I am in charge of you
“Owner, stop! I’m trying to sleep!”
His voice, though small, startled her musical reverie so suddenly, she jerked her body next to the dollhouse, and bumped it.
“Stop shaking my house too! I’m so sick! Why are you so mean to me right now!?”
She felt despair enter her heart. All she wanted was to show him she cared.
“Toy, I love you, and I wanted to sing you a soothing song-“
“Owner, you sound like Foghorn Leghorn is gargling acid. Just let me sleep!”
“Alright, I’ll leave you alone,” she said, not being able to help herself from heaping a dollop of anger into her words. She brought the roof down, and not as gently as she could have, and straightened herself off the floor. A dizzy spell overcame her again, and she aimed her body away from the home that contained her favorite possession. Her anger dissolved, she turned and faced her bedroom. It was a disaster.
Walking slowly, she started picking up her strewn dirty clothes, though not many of them.
I’m glad I don’t have to pick up after you, she thought. No damp towels, no streaky underwear, no stinky socks, she added, throwing a couple of pairs of panties in the laundry basket. No sticky keyboard, no wiped browser history, no secret password on your phone… She began to smile. She eyed the small vial that contained his medicine, liquid she fed him every twelve hours from a needle dropper in near invisible measures, and she felt her head swim again. In tending to her tiny man’s needs, she had forgotten to take her own medicine. She finished piling laundry in the basket, and left it to be done later. It was time to rest. She went to the bathroom and pushed a time-released pill from its foil packet. After she swallowed it with a couple of swigs from a bottle of her favorite sparkling water, she decided to go to bed as well.
But not before she tended to some of her own needs.
In bed, she picked up her phone, and flipped through her collection of homemade videos. There was a fifteen-minute long one that would suit her just fine. Soon, the slight whimpers and manly screams that could be overheard from the speaker began to deliver their own medicine.
I don’t know how it is for you, but in my case, I have my fantasies, and I have my real life. When I’m out in the world, there are things and people that tickle my giant spot, so my fantasies and real life are forever laced together like a successful Ripley clone. My alien queen always roars in the background. The following are a few wall-crumbling sounds of my soul.
In the South America of the 50s and 60s, interior walls were often painted a frightening Cambridge blue that chased me into a dream a couple of weeks ago. I was arranging my dinner plate and cutlery next to other settings at a very large rectangular table, long enough for about fifty people judging by the number of plates and glasses and napkins, when I looked around and wondered where the rest of the party goers were. I was alone in the blue-walled room when I caught the sound of wild cheering coming from outside. I rushed out the front door, and down the few front steps to the cobblestone street that shouted “South America!” as loudly as the colonial-style, three-story building from which I had just emerged. The street was not designed for vehicular transit, but human. It was night, but it wasn’t dark, and it felt like 9 o’clock, because that’s the time I remember people would leave their homes after dinner, and fill coffee houses and pubs to hang out for a while, or promenade along a palisade that always smells of salt and rotting fish. But those are memories, and not my dream.
In my dream I looked across the narrow street, and realized that the sounds of conversation and cheering were coming from the roof of the house on the opposite side of the street. When I looked up I saw a group of party guests cheering and holding sparklers. They all looked in one direction beyond the house I had just exited. I knew I could not look over it, so I decided to grow. And grow I did. I lifted off the ground and expanded in heigh very quickly, and soon was able to see over houses and roofs. In the distance sat a huge stadium filled with the unmistakable sound of thousands of people cheering at the same time, punctuated by louder screams when something interesting happened on the green. I was about fifty feet tall now, and listening to all those little people was the best part of the dream. I only stood there, but just standing there when being that tall and feeling… something for that crowd of tiny people I could have reached within seconds was… nice.
The tiny guy
He wasn’t really tiny, but he surely acted tiny in my head. The taco place wasn’t crowded as I sat there, watching people, when I saw them arrive. A young couple stood waiting in line to place their orders, and as they waited, I watched. I immediately noticed the way he looked at her. His eyes had nothing but pure love in them. I don’t see that often, so I might have stared. When she talked, when she stood there quietly, when she did nothing at all, he watched her as though she was oxygen, the sun, and life, all combined. He watched for the entire time as they waited, and I realized the way she saw him did not contain the same fervor. The way she looked at him was exactly the same way we look at a possession we enjoy. It’s a look I reserve for a loaf of freshly baked bread, or a pair of shoes I adore, or a book I enjoy. It’s a true feeling, but I can do without those things.
As they moved to the front of the line, he advanced tethered to her by an invisible thread, and once there, she proceeded to place their order without consulting him, or giving him a single look. I think that got to me the most, because… what possessor of a tiny guy would do any differently? Would you, as the shrinker, look into your pocket and ask that little guy what he wants for dinner? You know he’s not going to make wise choices, so you do it for him. If he happens to ask for something sensible, you choose to listen or ignore; but you know what’s best. As the shrunken person, you have a voice, of course. A voice that remains unheard if you ask her to get you a thimblefull of tequila when you know very well that you’ve had your alcohol allotment for the week. Foolish tiny.
And then I noticed the way he looked at everyone else around him. It was either contempt, or boredom. That’s when I smiled to myself and started to imagine what their intimate moments are like. How she shrinks him when they’re at home, alone. How he follows her everywhere, always looking at her (or her feet, because looking up all day long gives him such a crick in the neck) with that same expression of love; how he silently submits to her every important decision; how he glues himself to her when she finally lifts him off the floor, and places him on whatever part of her is a favorite that moment. So, nothing to see there, except for what my brain interprets as a Size moment.
The niece and the daughter
These last two involve minors, so I thought about not including them… but I’m not going to be overly descriptive or inappropriate. All that needs to be said is that I was at the store getting groceries, and a storm of a girl (the niece, from what I overheard) walks by pushing a buggy and issuing orders to both children and grownups with her. I instantly thought, giantess in the making. I know her being a bossy child doesn’t instantly mean she’ll grow up to think about being hundreds of feet tall. It only means I like to imagine she will, because of the utter authority in her voice.
She was instructing everyone what to gather for purchase, and how to pick the proper items, what to look for, and in the meantime, she also managed to tell the adults exactly where to stand. She wasn’t barking words, but the conviction that she would be obeyed was as palpable as the cereal her little siblings were commanded to fetch. I was impressed, and secretly wished I’d run a Hogwarts type of giantess school. I would have sent her an owl right away. Or a teleporting mouse. Whatever familiar I decide to use in that universe.
I saw the daughter from a distance last night as I got out of my car at a grocery store’s parking lot. This particular place is a two-story building, and the store is on the second floor. She climbed the stairs to get to it, and when she got to the upper landing she looked down and exclaimed to her little sister and father, “I wish I was this tall!” She said it about three times, all the while fearlessly looking down at thirty or so feet of distance to the ground. I wanted to hug her and welcome her into the giantess world. She looked to be about eight years old, but I don’t care. She’s getting a teleporting mouse tonight, and if her parents don’t matriculate her immediately in giantess school…
Well, this is a shocker, and frankly, it annoys me. I visited my FlagCounter page to check out which places I’m missing from the map, and as you can see, there are many that have yet to produce blog visitors. I’m tempted to visit some of these countries only to log on from an Internet cafe, and visit my blog. That will not be an option in some of these places, but I have a hard time believing there are no giantess or shrunken-man fans in Sierra Leone. And I know the Pope has to be curious. ¿No es verdad, sumo pontífice? ¿Acaso no es cierto que a usted le apetecen las imágenes de mujeres gigantes? Y estoy más que segura que algunos de sus cardenales sueñan con hombrecitos pequeños. No me queda la menor duda.
DPKR is not a mystery, of course. I can only imagine what life might have been for me, had I been born there. I’d be limited to my thoughts, which, given my nature, might have been impossible to squelch with venomous ideology. Just look at what I had to hear everyday when growing up, and I still emerged from that quagmire of confounding religiosity and misogyny, more or less intact. More less than more, if I’m to be completely honest. I still have to battle flashbacks, and the constant hailstorm of familial opinions.
But The Gambia, or Timor-Leste, which sound more like places in Middle-earth than names of countries? I don’t believe for a second there aren’t any of my people there. So, since I’m very busy right not (not blogging, of course – that’s a complete waste of time), I’m going to have to ask you to drop everything you are doing, go visit one or more of these countries, and pop by my blog from there, so I can add one or more of these flags to my counter. There’s a good reader.
Anyone that truly knows me, knows I don’t like half measures. Call it what you want to call it: a size fetish, a fantasy, a gift; it doesn’t matter. It courses through me the same way my blood does. Every day I feel it in the way I see things, and perceive people. It permeates my real life, and my real life permeates what I imagine that relationship with my tiny man is.
What does that mean? That little man in my fantasies. I own him. He is mine. He belongs to me. That normal-sized man in real life. I own him. He is mine. He belongs to me. Since, for the most part, I’ve kept this part of me a secret, I’ve yet to purchase a tag such as the one pictured above. I almost did, once. I put it in my shopping cart, but never completed the purchase. In the future, that man that belongs to me wears a tag that declares him to be mine. He doesn’t have to, to be mine; but eventually he is gifted one, and he always wears it. This is an arbitrary rule. I simply want him to. If he refuses to do so, or can’t, for any reason, then he doesn’t belong to me.
I adore the idea of those words clinging to his neck, a label that places our names in one space. His name doesn’t have to be the name on his birth certificate. It can be the name I’ve given him (well, his most special name, because I call him various ones depending on what’s happening at the time), and the one I use most frequently. I also want him to feel it hanging from him, I want him to look at it from time to time, and catch a glimpse of himself in the metal reflection. He’ll feel owned then. He’ll feel me in everything he does that I command him to do that day. He’ll sense my gaze on him where he goes, like warm rays of sunshine on him. And when he comes back home and tells me he did as he was ordered to do, he will be rewarded with a jingle of that chain and tag hanging from his neck, and with everything that happens next.
What about when someone, a friend or a member of his family, spots that chain? What if they catch a glimpse of the tag, and want to look at it more closely? The idea of his having to think quickly about what to do, or how to explain, makes my jaw hurt with the smile it produces. My chest is pounding at the thought too. It doesn’t matter what he says, or that he even explains anything. The fact that I put him in that position means a lot to me. It signals a connection in space and time stronger than any ID chip (though that’s an idea), or GPS locator. And I love feeling connected to my little man.
In the meantime, in my fantasies I imagine a tiny man that wears his tag proudly wherever he goes. I’ve no idea where I found one that small, and engraved, no less! But he wears it, and sometimes it’s the only thing he wears. Every once in a while it gets lost on me, but that’s perfectly alright. He can spend all day looking for it; I’m not going anywhere until he finds and places it around his delicate little neck again. It’s the same way when that man is normal sized, and I’m the giantess. All I have to do then is visit a gift or jewelry shop, and lift that roof. When the shop owner is done wetting his pants, he’ll ask me what I need, and I’ll inform him that I require him to produce a tag for my beloved, who will then wear it from that moment on.
I hereby declare that the above is true. Or will be, one day. But even if never, it’s still true.
Here’s the original post. Or was, before I received an email about it being flagged for removal. I thought the title would give me that kind of trouble, but that’s how I saw it in my head. I rarely do this Craigslist thing with an idea in mind before I ever get to the website, and pick a location. It’s a… jumping into the bubbling stream of consciousness where I live when I’m in that world of tiny men and the women that shrink and love them.
When I was a little girl, I used to make clothes for my barbies. I also had a Ken, but didn’t find it that interesting to make clothes for him. I think it had to do with the very deep disappointment I felt when I received it for Christmas one morning, and the first thing I did was close my bedroom door, lock it, and rip off its pants. When I saw it, or rather the lack of it, I made this face:
From then on, my dolls only had one-night stands with my Luke Skywalker (I asked for a Darth Vader to pair up with my Leia – but my dad said it was “evil”… I had no idea back then what he was talking about. I just liked the idea of Leia doing the nasty with more metal than a man). Anyway, so I go to Craigslist, and I sit here for a few seconds, and I choose the location, and see it happening in my head. A woman that knows a little guy, sees him often, and his appearance is quite lackluster. She doesn’t care. She only wants to lure him into her lair- home, so she can manhandle him into a bath, and then cover him.
…by bad dreams. I’m not sure what it means that not only I slept very little, but when I managed to drift away, I had these bizarre, unsettling dreams.
I went to a party where I saw all my old childhood friends, now fully grown. One of them, one of my closest friends in the world, took me aside, brought me to her bedroom, and started berating me about having abandoned them all. She removed a large piece of luggage from her closet, and started removing dirty clothes and old blankets, claiming it was all I’d left behind. Then she pulled me closer, started whispering in my ear frantic words I don’t remember, and finally handed me a screwdriver with the head removed, and in its place a very sharp but rusty tip of a knife had been secured in place. My close friend had gifted me a shiv. What the hell. I stared at it for what must have been ten dream minutes, wondering why she thought I’d need a shiv. I woke up with a start from that one.
The worst one. It won’t sound like it, but it felt like it, which is what counts. I had just gotten home, and had parked the car on the street where I live. I got out, and though it was the middle of the day and it was as unsinister as it could possible get, I suddenly hear voices screaming, and telling me to run. I looked around, and about a half a block away, a little girl stood in the middle of the street. She started running towards me. I thought, in my dream, this is a little girl. An adorable little girl, smiling and running toward me as though she wants to give me a hug. And she was. She was around four years old, with soft brown curly hair framing her cute grinning face, and as she got closer and closer with her arms stretched in my direction, I began to feel the worst terror I’ve felt in a dream, in many years. I bolted from where I stood, and no matter how fast I ran, she gained on me, still laughing. As she reached to grab me, I woke up with a half-formed silent scream.
I don’t usually (or ever, actually) bother with dream analysis, especially when I know there are no answers in those dreams, only the continuation of questions that visit my mind every day, that get answered by two views in my head at the same time. I thought I’d share them here because I don’t ever have dreams where I fear something much smaller than I am. It’s only happened once before. This unsettling feeling would probably not exist if I’d not slept in harmful, short fits. Or if I had a dream shiv.
The mall. I like to go there and just walk, when it’s too cold, or too dark outside. I reserve walking at Walmart for special dates. So, last night I was walking out of JCPenney when I spot this hot little number coming out of the bathroom. I’m a leg woman, and his jeans were tight enough to allow a clear assessment of the shape of his legs. Fantastic. I glanced, and as soon as our paths crossed, I waited a second, and returned my eyes to him. To what I was sure would be a glorious view of his buttocks. Much to my surprise, he had turned back at the same moment, and we both ended up looking at each other.
Being as shy as I am, I snapped my head back into position, and blushed furiously as I walked on. I’d been caught looking. I had many things to do last night before I returned home, but when I did, and finally had time to sit down here, I looked at my desktop. I had abandoned a passel of images and files on my desktop, all shrinking-and-giantess related. Then I remember a friend had come by to use my Mac. My friend sat here for a long time while I was very busy somewhere else. A long time. I didn’t even think about it, any of it, until last night. Have I been caught… giantessing? Now I sit here again, all files hidden now as they typically are, just in case… but my heart is pounding, and I keep looking at my analytics, seeing if anyone from my town… seeing if there’s an unordinary amount of visitors from here.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Strangely, all I feel is my heart pounding. I’m not really in a panic, or entertaining any ideas of “hiding the evidence”. If I’m out, I’m out. But I don’t want to be out. I’d thought I’d share that with you, being in the thick of my day as I am, I’ll forget about this at times… but I like company in my misery. deep breathing Over and out… for now. I’ll keep you posted as to horrified stares, or spontaneous vomiting as I enter rooms, or any such new, abnormal happenings.
A couple of nights ago I went to the mall, and nothing extraordinary happened. Nothing, except my noticing a man that was sitting alone, and staring at the screen on his phone while he clicked away. He paid attention to nothing around him. Dozens of people moving in a pulsing flow, an incessant river of flesh, and his mind was on nothing but that little screen. I slowed down my steps. I moved slowly behind him. I could’t see much of his face, but I could see his shapely legs, the strong cut of his jaw, and the shape of his head, gently haloed by very short, red hair. Now, I have a tumultuous relationship with redheads: I either love them to death, or want them dead. There’s no placid middle ground. I can’t help it. It happens. It’s color chemistry. Anyway, this man’s hair was a good red, a wanted red.
I slowly moved in a half circle around his back, and stared at his vulnerable neck. A perfect place for a needle carrying a potent shrinking potion. The beating in my chest quickened, and I swallowed hard as I forced my feet to keep moving. I could have done it. No one would have known. No one. He’d be here now, mine. I wouldn’t be typing all this. I would be too busy quieting his screams with my lips. Now, it comes to this: am I crazy? Absolutely. Not. I saw a hot guy, and he entered my fantasies. I can’t help my thoughts anymore than I can help loving / hating redheads. I might have shifted my thoughts into the thick realm of reality by circling him with my eyes, the way a lioness stares at her future lunch; but I kept going.
Last night I went to Family Video, and my guy was there. I know I said my crush on him was over, but he shaved that horrid beard, and it’s back on, baby! He wasn’t wearing plaid, but that green shirt looked perfect on him. I stared. I stared too long. I stayed there too long, looking at no videos in particular, because I was too busy circling him. After I left the store, I had to wait for my pizza to be ready at the place next door… so I sat in my car, and I stared at him. He might have felt my eyes shrink a spot on his neck, because he kept turning his head, and looking at my car. It’s my belief he could not see me, it was dark, and the windows are tinted… but he finally looked uncomfortable, and disappeared from my sight. I regret making him uncomfortable (if I did at all, this could all easily be only in my mind), but at the same time, I don’t. I was only waiting for my pizza, and staring at the only person worth a profound look. Wanting to shrink the only person I wanted to shrink at that moment. If he knew himself wanted so, I hope he’d be flattered. I don’t plan on ever finding out, but it curls up the corners of my mouth to think of him alone, small, defenseless, and in my power.
Tonight I saw quite a few people, and I wasn’t alone, so I was distracted. I still made some time to look around me, and find a perfect candidate for shrinking and kidnapping. I spotted a few good ones. The best one was the distracted one, the one who invariably glues his eyes to a shiny screen. This addiction people have, this constant craving to be connected to an electronic device, this obsession I don’t share is the perfect setup for imagining my desires coming to fruition. And one day… one day. Keep looking at your screens, little ones. Keep playing those games, checking your social media, instagramming what you had for lunch. Do it for me, because one day I’ll stand behind you, and you’ll feel the whisper of the thinnest, coldest steel enter your neck, and then you’ll know nothing but me.
A long time ago, in a giant city far, far away from most of us, because apparently there are only three gentle-giantess fans in my entire state! What the hell! Why?! Oh, I’m so ALONE! No, I’m not. I’m never alone when I’m with all of you. But back to my blog entry. I love going to concerts, especially by myself. I’m a loner. It’s how I’ve always rolled, and how I’ll always be. That creates some upset around me, as I’m constantly asked what I’m thinking, and asked to say “something”. I’m not a monkey for anyone’s amusement!! Dammit! OK, OK, OK. Calming down. These have been both stressful and calm days. I’m trying to focus on the latter, and succeeding when I sit down to write.
As I was saying before I fake-freaked out, I love going to concerts. I arrive in one piece, and usually leave without my voice, but always happy for days. Music is one of my drugs, together with books. I don’t smoke, or do drugs, and I stopped drinking nearly a year ago, so I do all my snorting and injecting through my ear canals. One of the more memorable highs was Marilyn Manson’s. I was a fan for a long time (still am), and happily plopped the money for that ticket months in advance. The day of the concert I couldn’t eat or speak, dressed myself in black, and made myself up as gothy as I could. It wasn’t much, but sufficient to earn me an are-you-suicidal pamphlet from the christians milling around the entrance.
Seriously, zealots: I’m the mom of a son I adore. A life-loving woman that spends a great deal of time running a porn tape in the back of her mind, where she’s having sexy fun with a shrunken man. Just because I rock out to MM doesn’t mean I’m about to slash my wrists. What I did instead was sing at the top of my lungs, as I knew all the lyrics by heart. I didn’t sing them. I screamed them. A different kind of fun took place when Brian Warner disappeared behind the stage as it was brought to semi-darkness. Seconds later, a bright light was shone from behind the tall screen, and his silhouette appeared in between, and it was gigantic. He was walking on stilts, and wearing the accompanying signature skirt. Naturally, I thought of myself as a giantess on stage, singing my heart out for adoring fans. I never know what’s going to set me off, but it’s usually everything.
Years passed, and inevitably, shit hit my fan. It was bad. I didn’t want to get up in the morning anymore. I didn’t write. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to do anything. I was fading, and quickly. The turning point was made of many, and one of them was my decision to start going to concerts again. It was Black Friday last year, and I got an email from Ticketmaster, and it read that I could get a ticket for this particular group for only $20.00. I said to myself, what the hell, I’ll probably be dead by then anyway. So I bought it for $20.00, and it was the best worst money I’ve ever spent. Best, because that morning I changed my mind and decided to skip the concert. I ignored myself completely. I got ready five minutes before it was time to leave, and got to the venue with enough energy to walk to my seat. Worst, because my seat was as far away from the stage as one could get. I sat in that last row, and let it all seep into me. I cried as one of the opening acts performed a song that was a favorite of a friend’s; one I lost to suicide. I laughed because I remembered a promise I had made to myself many years ago: that of seeing them live at least once.
As I sat there screaming and shouting and laughing a little, and enjoying my perspective of the group’s newfound micro size, and singing lyrics I also knew the way I know my own face, I decided maybe life wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe I could stick it out a little bit longer. Things are much better now. Much, much better. I’m grateful for that. Now, any idjit can tell who these guys are; but whoever guesses it first gets to be instantly shrunk and live out the rest of his days with the giantess of his choice. That’s the truth. I’m not lying when I tell you that’s what’s going to happen to one lucky winner. Have at it!