=The 2nd American Civil War=

=The Cable Guy=

Okay, so this is pretty weird. I’m in a video store and this guy makes me his slave by forcing an outlet for a coaxial cable into my anus. Really, you can’t make this stuff up! When plugged in, apparently, I’ll be a sort of receiver for all of his x-rated fantasies. Right from the start, I’m somewhat intrigued, yes, even turned on. Maybe I’m receiving a program already and no longer in full control of my faculties. Who can tell? I see myself in a miniskirt and high-heels. I find myself getting turned on when I think about his promise to “complete my installation.” I really can’t help myself.

=merry xxxmas!=

Ho, ho, & more hos!

=sissygirl illustrated #12=

=The Last Phone Call=

I'm on the phone with my mother. Halfway through the conversation I'm horrified to realize that I've run out of things to say. This constitutes a real crisis because by some unwritten rule based on arcane calculations the origin and justification of which she alone knows, my mother has determined that all our phone calls should last at least forty minutes.

Forty minutes is the proper length of a mother-daughter call and outside of natural disasters and sudden health emergencies requiring nothing short of immediate ambulance transport with lights and screaming siren there are to be absolutely no exceptions to this rule.

Whether she's actually looking at the clock while we talk or has some kind of internal timer that tells her when we've hit the quota I don't know, but she has the time down to the second and I don't have the nerve to ask how. There's no way I could pose the question that wouldn't sound alternately suspicious, displeased, accusatory, disappointed, and condemning; in other words, sounding an awful lot like her. But I am curious.

Usually I make it to the end of the allotted time with no more than two or three uncomfortably unscripted moments to suffer through. Tonight, however, we somehow managed to cover all the usual topics in record time. These topics, always following the same order, are: What I've been doing with myself lately. What's new on the job front. What's going on in my social life,, specifically, who am I dating. The answers to these questions, even embellished, hardly require more than two or three hundred carefully chosen words. After that, it's a desperate attempt to perform CPR on a brain-dead conversation about the weather, television, and current affairs, which drives me into even deeper despair as our opinions on all of these topics are invariably diametrically opposed.

Finally, we lob the question "So what's new with you" back and forth at each other with various types of tricky spin until we're too exhausted to continue and we agree to call it a draw until next week.  That's where we are now, except there's twenty minutes left on the clock, not just two or three.

Suddenly I feel like I'm six again, sprawled on my belly across my mother's enormous bed, reading a chapter book. I've come to a strange word, a word all twisted up like a tight black knot.

"Sound it out, honey," my mother suggests. I try and try but just can't get it out; it's at the back of my throat, practically strangling me. "Bring your book up here, sweetheart," she says. "Show me."

My mother is propped up against the pillows where she sleeps alone since Daddy left, except, sometimes, when she lets me join her, wandering lost into her room after a nightmare. Now the bed seems more like a desert, a wasteland of sheets like sand shifting beneath me as I wade and flail hopelessly toward the horizon, like the only survivor of a doomed caravan.

My mother has slipped over the edge of the world; in her place only immense distances on every side. I'm so alone on this great empty bed I want to weep but who would hear me? Then I look down at the forgotten phone in my hand; it might as well be a mirage.

"Oh mother," I cry. "Oh mother."

"Tell me darling," her disembodied voice says calmly, nearly inaudible over the terrible wind that will eventually smooth everything over. "Tell me all about it."

=some medical assistance to help your dreams come true=

=The Little Girl and the Very Deep Hole=

There was once a little girl who dug herself a very very very very very deep hole. No one had ever paid her much attention and she thought that by digging a very very very very very deep hole they would be sure to notice her. Well, at the very least they would notice her hole and shortly after that they were sure to notice her at the bottom of it.




So she took a shovel from her daddy's garage where all the garden tools were kept and she found a place in the yard that wasn't too conspicuous or too inconspicuous and where none of her mother's precious pretty flowers were growing and that wouldn't damage her daddy's all-important lawn and she started digging away. She dug all afternoon and into the night and all through the next morning, too. She kept right on digging for days and days and days. She probably slept at some point; common sense tells us that she must have eaten something; but when she slept or what she ate we can't say. 

Mostly she just dug

       

 and dug

                 and dug 

                                   and dug

and dug.

The question is asked: "Where did she put all the dirt that she dug as she dug? Surely there came a point when she could no longer just throw it out of the hole above her or it wouldn't have been a very deep hole. 

Well, fortunately for her (and us), these aren't the kinds of questions you have to answer in fairytales. Instead, you just dig. You don't worry about where the dug dirt goes.

The sun went up. 

The sun went down.

Stars twinkled above her.

And then they twinkled out.

She dug through her whole childhood. She dug through her teen years. Then she dug through her twenties and thirties. She kept right on digging until she lost track of how long she'd been digging altogether. That's the thing about digging. There is never any end to it. There is never a bottom to a hole. Wherever you stop is the bottom. And where she finally stopped it was pretty far down. When she looked up, she could blot out the whole sun with the tip of her forefinger. 

"This must be deep enough," she thought and waited. 

And waited and waited and waited and waited. She refused to call up from the bottom of her hole because that would defeat the whole purpose. What she wanted was to be found at the bottom of the hole. But no one was finding her.

Then she realized she'd made a very fundamental mistake. She'd brought the shovel with her. There it stood, stuck in the dirt where she left it when she stopped digging, two feet away. How was anyone going to dig her out of the hole if the shovel was down here with her? Even worse, what if someone saw the hole and thought it was just a hole and decided to fill it back in without looking first to see who might be at the bottom of it? Suddenly it occurred to her that what she might have actually dug by accident was her own grave!

Darnit! This hadn't been a very good idea at all, she began to think, with a frown. Somehow she'd gotten her fairytales all bollixed up. What she should have done was build a tower from which she could let her long hair down, not a tunnel underground. A tower gets you noticed by princes. A tunnel gets you cold and damp and crawled on by worms. No, this hadn't been a good idea at all.

Now at this point in a fairytale something unexpected and miraculous happens and everything turns out for the best. But not so much in this fairytale. By now the little girl wasn't little anymore and no longer a girl but a mature woman with long white hair and brittle yellow nails and a cracked voice that could hardly carry halfway up the incredibly deep hole she'd dug for herself even if she had been inclined to call for help at this late date which she wasn't. 

In fact, she'd grown used to the dank and the chill and the worms and the moles and the roots and the tiny dime-sized view of the world above that she could see through the other end of her hole the way you'd look at another planet miles and miles and miles away as if through the eyepiece of a telescope. So she stayed there and no one ever did notice her and eventually that was just fine with her because on the plus side no one ever bothered her either and she came to forget why she ever wanted to be noticed in the first place.

And that is pretty much the happiest way a story like this can ever end.

=merpansi=

=glub glub glub=

=the sissy journal=

Absolutely essential for any sissy is the sissy journal. Part diary, part workbook, part scrapbook, it is where a sissy records all her private thoughts, feelings, desires, goals & sissy activities, both real and imagined. Here, too, a sissy can paste photos cut out from magazines of her favorite fashions & celebrities, make-up tips, hair-styles, girls she'd like to model herself after, cute kittens, horoscopes… and, well, whatever else catches her sissy fancy!  She can collect stickers, draw little pictures, record her secret crushes…there's just no limit to what a sissy can put into her sissy journal. 

Any kind of notebook will do, but the cheapest, most unadorned kind is probably the best, as it will allow you to easily modify it accordingly & it won't intimidate you by its fine quality. (Sissies can often relate best to cheap, flimsy stuff!) Of course, the very first thing a sissy should do is decorate her sissy journal to make it as glaringly sissy as possible! When she carries it around with her it should announce to the world in no uncertain terms that "i am a sissy!" i never go anywhere without my sissy journal & neither should you! You never know when a sissy thought will flutter into your airy head & you don't want a single one to escape on its pink fairy-wings! 

Nowadays, presenting to the world as a woman, i'm not self-conscious at all about carrying my sissy journal everywhere—although it does signal to the world that i'm a somewhat juvenile woman, which is hardly a problem, since that is exactly what i want the world to know. There was a time, before transitioning, though, that my sissy journal did send out a message that left me feeling self-conscious & vulnerable. So i can empathize with your discomfort. But what of it?! One of my greatest discoveries in life is that you're never going to attract the people who will truly appreciate you as a sissy—or as anything else for that matter—unless you send out the vibe that reflects who and what you truly are! If you keep pretending that your'e a man, you're only going to keep attracting people who expect you to be a man. And that's hardly what you want!

Carrying around your pink sissy journal with all its girly stamps & stickers is the perfect way to get that vibe out there. It's practically like wearing one of those old-fashioned sandwich boards wherever you go advertising yourself as a pansy. At home, i like to leave my sissy journal lying about the house just in case Daddy would like to browse through it & read all my secret sissy thoughts. A sissy, as you know, has no right to privacy, especially when it comes to her Daddy (or Mommy, as the case may be.)  As you can see in the above picture, my sissy journal is "secured" with a piece of pink yarn tied in a simple bow that all but invites entry. That pink yarn, btw, is a piece that i previously used to decorate my little limp pee-pee.  Of course, a casual observer would have no way of knowing that, but i do (and now you do)…and Daddy does (as does the occasional inquiring cat who can sniff out the truth)…and that is what matters! The important thing is that you begin to consolidate and intensify your identity as a sissy, primarily to yourself, but also, indirectly, to all the world.

=cool people=

Promote a revolutionary flood and tide in art.
Promote living art, anti-art,
promote NON ART REALITY
to be fully grasped by all peoples,
not only critics, dilettantes
and professionals.  

=eyechart=

=sissygirl illustrated #11=

=cool people=

=cat, dreaming=

on moving day

         showers

  salamanders

    stalagmites

             & coo      

      folded air

           silence              

       the easel 

 unauthorized 

 machine gun

the corner is everywhere                     

           the cat

       the muffin

    the doorbell

          the clue