Saddles, and such. (Patreon)

It feels good to get back into some consistency with posting again. Let's keep it going, eh?

And I suppose it for a somewhat decent reason that I've been so sparse lately. Frankly? This last year has been an adjustment, my dudes. I recall with some fondness, those halcyon days when the girls clocked in at a measly 8 or 9 pounds each. Oh, the freedom! (Not that I was necessarily going to be running any marathons or anything, but anyways.)

I think it was earlier this year when I found something out -- maybe it's just me (it's not like there are a huge wealth of people I can corroborate with on this, though there are a few of us who keep in touch), but once I hit the point where these girls got to be... say, 14 lbs each? Yeah, for some reason, that seemed to be the straw on the camels back. The extra pound that felt like way more than just one pound. Now that they're each about 16-17 pounds, who'd have ever thought that I would reminisce about the glory days of being just 13 each?

But I'm an adaptable gal. Clothing has taken on a fourth dimension, which is definitely a strain on the mind and the pocketbook. Bras, especially. Since I've been actively growing these last several months (and just as importantly, losing the battle to gravity WAY faster than I had expected), I've been in a holding pattern when it comes to upgrading my support... Something that is especially important now. A paradox exists, you see -- wearing a bra that is the wrong size is only sustainable for so long (my 58J cup on my 40Z body only gets me by for so long). Meanwhile, as much as I've waxed poetic in the past about the joys of going braless, I'm simply afraid that this is something I just can't do anymore, for more than a few minutes of any particular upright activity.

I solidly smush into the countertops when I'm doing kitchen stuff; leaning over too much does take a toll on my upper back, with dishes and the like; wasn't it only a few years ago when I wrote something about how weird it was to climb the stairs, braless, and feel the girls pressing into my thighs? Well, now, they kinda just rest on my thighs while I'm just... standing there.

Adaptation. Comfortable chairs. Lots of Pillows. Making sure I don't skip arm and back day with the weights. And... getting clever.

I have a post I'm working on, for instance. I just took the pics. It's a little surreal, but I've found some clever ways to disguise the girls. To the point where if I, lets say, head to a museum, or a library, or just the Wal-Mart, the casual observer will see nothing but some normal 5-foot-seven chick picking her nose. I used to smush the girls together, and with some strategic layering, pretend to be pregnant. These days, however, unless I want to look like a massively pregnant goat, that ain't gonna fly.

So how do I accomplish such a feat now, you ask? I guess you're gonna have to stay tuned to find out. It's... a hoot(ers).

By the way, I've been in a frame of mind lately where I'm answering a lot of questions posed by lovelies like yourselves. So if there's something that's itching away on you mind (you know, keep it civil and everything, but I don't mind genuine curiosity), drop it in the comments, or DM me, email, etc.

Coming out of my shell, I've realized, is something I've been a little superstitious about. Every time I do, it seems to jinx things, and the girls begin to go nuts. But after a while, you just get tired of living like that. "Clutching our crystals and religiously consulting our horoscopes," as a Sagan would say? Nah. I mustn't be superstitious.

Now, boob-growing curses that you get from insulting a witch, or stepping on a magic bug, or something? That's some ephemera that might carry a bit more truck with me.

Anyway. Enjoy the full-length mugshots!