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College or Cribs- Chapter 27
Monday Afternoon: Then and Now.

Monday Afternoon- Last Summer

    Chris sat lazily on the couch that Monday afternoon.  Dad and Roxanne were out with the girls, and he had the house to himself.  He had just been out on a date with Sherry the night before, and had slept in till the crack of noon.  Life was good.

   Then came a knock at the door.  Who could that be?  Chris looked down at himself.  He was still in pajama bottoms and a blue t-shirt.  He wasn’t exactly ready to go out on the town, but he was presentable enough for the UPS guy.

     Chris recognized the small, frail, silhouette of his visitor through the blurred glass doors before he even opened them.  

   “Grandma?”  Chris asked as he opened the door.

   “Chris!”  Grandma Cole smiled genuinely; her mouth shaped dentures a little too small for her mouth and her eyes magnified by thick glasses a little too big for her head.  She stepped in and gave her grandson a hug, burying her head in his chest- he was a good foot and half taller than her.

 “My, you’re looking more like your father every time I see you,” she smiled, pulling back to take her grandson in.  

  “Even the hair?” Chris asked shaking the mop top he was sporting.

  “Especially the hair,” Grandma Cole replied.  “You wouldn’t believe it, Chris, but your father was almost a hippy, he kept his hair so long.”

  “My dad?” Chris found it a little hard to believe.

“Your grandfather almost believed,” Grandma Cole added, “that your father would be the first male doctor with a pony tail.”  

  “No way.”  Chris definitely couldn’t believe that.  Christopher Cole III, M.D. was as clean cut as they came. Army Drill Sergeants had longer hair than Dr. Cole.

“Why’s he keep it so short?”  Chris asked, walking deeper into the house with his grandmother.

“I think it was just a phase,” Grandma Cole answered.  “Young men rebel against their fathers from time to time.”  Dr. Cole as a rebel: That was even more far-fetched than him as a long-haired hippie.

“Well, thanks for coming by, Grandma, but Dad’s not here right now.” Chris told his grandmother,  “Can I take a message?”

“Well I’m not here for your father,” Grandma Cole said.  “I’m here for you.”

“Oh…” was all Chris said.  “Um…well let me get dressed into something more appropriate for visitors or something.”

“Oh nonsense,” Grandma Cole laughed, her silvery curls bouncing as she chuckled.  “There’s no reason for that.  I just came to give a gift.”

“A gift?”  Chris repeated.

“Here,” Grandma Cole reached into her purse and withdrew a check.  “A little summer spending money.”

Chris glanced down politely at the check.  “That’s more than a little spending money, Grandma.”

“Well I’m going to be dead, one day, Chris,” Grandma Cole said plainly but warmly, “but that doesn’t mean I have to wait to give some of it away.”

“But…I…”

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘can’t’ young man, you’re going to break an old woman’s heart.”

Chris shut his mouth.

“Good,” she nodded.

“But…why?”  Chris asked.

“It’s family tradition, of course.” Grandma Cole told Chris.

“When your father was about your age,” Grandma Cole explained, “just getting ready to apply for med-school, your great-grandfather, the first Doctor Cole gave him some money.  Save it.  Spend it.  Throw it in the garbage.  Just use it how you like.”  

“And dad saved it.” Chris concluded.

“Oh goodness no!”  Grandma Cole practically guffawed.  “Your father was never particularly good with money.  He blew it all on a down payment for a fancy new car.  It’s the Cole wives that have historically been the at home accountants and what not.  There was a joke going around at the time that your mother’s degree in accounting made for a marriage of convenience.”

“Oh…”

“But they loved each other,” Grandma Cole patted Chris on the shoulder, sensing she’d spoken ill of the dead.  “The point is though, that your father got a little extra spending money from his grandparents, and now it’s your turn.”

“So this is doctor money,”  Chris said.

“Not at all,” Grandma corrected him.  “You could be a garbage man, and I’d still write you this check.  Your my grandson, and I want to know that you’re being taken care of and enjoying your life.”

“Yeah, but money isn’t everything, Grandma,” Chris told her.

“But it helps,” she smiled.  

“What about Sammy and Bri?”  Chris asked.

“Oh they’ll get their shares when they’re old enough to appreciate it,” Grandma assured him.  “But you’re the eldest, and with that should come some privileges, don’t you think?”

“Well,” Chris chuckled, looking down at the check.  “When you put it that way…”

“So your father never mentioned this little tradition?” Grandma asked.   Chris shook his head.  “That’s your father for you.  So tight lipped.  I swear, on his tombstone it will read ‘Christopher Cole the third: Didn’t Complain.  Didn’t Explain.’ " she started moving back towards the door.  “Well, I’d best be going.”

 “Hey Grandma,” Chris called after her.  “Don’t leave on my account.  Stay awhile.”  

“And do what?”  Grandma asked.

“Well,” Chris thought a minute.  “Tell me more stuff that I don’t know about my dad?”

Grandma Cole smiled.  “I’d like that.”

She stayed for hours and told him stories of a different Christopher Cole, III M.D.  than Chris had ever known or imagined.  In his youth, he didn’t seem to resemble the tight lipped, almost stoic man that Chris’s father was now; and definitely the disgusted, judgmental, and distant man that Chris would encounter nearly a year later.

Monday Afternoon- This Summer.

   Chris sat stewing in his playpen while the rest of the family busied themselves along their daily routines.  Dad watched T.V. while Roxanne cleaned up around the house, and the girls played in the backyard.  He hadn’t seen Sherry since a little after midnight on the cusp of Saturday night and Sunday morning, and while the rest of Sunday and this Monday morning had been right out of his fantasies- breast and bottle feedings, diaper changes, high chairs, and yes, playpens- Chris still couldn’t shake the feeling of unease since that dream he had had in the church nursery.  

   He had even woken up in a dry diaper.  Chris never woke up dry when he was a baby.  How messed up was that?  Most people his age panicked when they woke up with a wet bed, he was reading dread portents from a dry pair of Pampers.   Life, lately, was…complicated to say the least.

   Then came a knock at the door.  Who could that be?  Instinctively, Chris looked down at himself.  He was just lounging around in nothing but a t-shirt that did nothing to cover his diaper.  Roxanne wasn’t planning on taking him out on the town today, hence no cover, but then again, who really cared he was dressed like in this reality?

 Dr. Cole got up from his easy chair and walked towards the door.  Chris heard the door creak open and Dr. Cole’s voice say “Mom?”

   A moment later, Grandma Cole walked into the room, beaming with energy.  “Oh there’s my little man!” cooed walking up to the playpen where Chris sat.  She reached over the absurdly high rails and tousled Chris’s hair.  “He has more hair than you do, Christopher.”  Dr. Cole just snorted something that might have been a laugh and nodded.  

“He might be do for his first haircut soon,” Dr. Cole said.

“Now where are my grand-girls?”  Grandma asked out loud.  

“I’ll go get them,” Doctor Cole said, walking towards the back door.  Grandma, meanwhile continued to coo to Chris and wave to him.  Chris for his part, humored her, fake giggling and waving to the old woman.


“My, you’re looking more like your father every time I see you,” she cooed, sure that he wouldn’t understand what she was saying.  No further information came from her though.  One didn’t tell babies family secrets or speak of times past that they would not understand.

“GRANDMA!” Chris’s sisters shouted in unison as they bum rushed her with hugs.  

“Oh, easy girls!”  Grandma Cole gave that weary wry smile of hers.  “I’m not a young lady anymore.  You could hurt me. Oh but you both are getting so big!”

“So, Mom, what brings you hear,” Dr. Cole asked, looking slightly uneasy.  

“I just thought I’d drop by to give my grandchildren a little gift,” Grandma said matter-of-factly.

“A gift?” Doctor Cole echoed.  Grandma Cole reached into her purse and pulled out two checks.  “Mom, you don’t mean…?”

“I do indeed,” Grandma Cole stated, handing a check to Samantha and another to Brianna.  Both girls looked at their checks, and their jaws dropped.

“Really?”  Samantha gawked.

“It’s not even my birthday,” Bri whispered.  “It feels like it is, but it’s not.”

“Mom…” Dr. Cole said, his voice tinged with objection.  “Don’t you think the girls are a little young?”

“It’s not my fault, you got married and had children so late in life,” Grandma Cole gently rebuked her son.  “I’m going to be dead, one day, Christopher, but that doesn’t mean I have to wait to give some of it away.”

“They’re not even in middle school,” Dr. Cole objected.

“I will be this fall,” Samantha reminded her father.  Her tongue withered in her mouth at her father’s glare.

“It’s my decision of when to give the gift,”  Grandma said, putting his cole.

“I was in college-” Dr. Cole began.  

“Yes, but this way you can be sure that they won’t spend it on a car like you did,” Grandma cut Chris’s dad off. “Anyways, Samantha and Brianna’s hair is just as long as yours was back then.”

“Dad had long hair?”  Sammy looked at her glowering father with child-like wonder.

“You mean he hasn’t told you girls?”  Grandma asked.  Both girls shook their heads.  “Well why don’t we take a ride to the bank together and Grandma can tell you all about your father when he was a little boy.”

Dr. Cole stood there, simmering as his mother took his two sisters away.  So the old man did have weaknesses after all it seemed.  Then it occurred to Chris that he wasn’t going with them.  He was no longer the eldest and any bond that he and his grandmother had had, was now long forgotten.  He was just a baby, now.  The third wheel, not entrusted with family secrets.  He looked over and made eye contact with his father.  Dr. Cole just shook his head and muttered something about his mother before going back to watch the T.V.


December 5th, 1850.  Amherst, Massachusetts

“YOU HAVE HAD YOUR MOON!” the two voices boomed in the young woman’s bedroom. “NOW CHOOSE!”

Emily stood there quivering before the glowing blue quill and the radiating red champagne flute.  

Her life had been split in half the last month.  It was as if she had been dreaming, but instead of waking up, every few days she’d just find herself in a different dream.  In one, she was the finest and most desirable debutant in all of Amherst; every girl’s dream…everything she’d been raised to want to be.

In another dream, she was alone, cut off from the rest of the world.  She wasn’t exactly reviled, but had no real personal connections to speak of.  It was lonely.  It was cold.  Yet it offered a type of freedom of perspective that she would never have found otherwise.  

Emily, the beautiful bookworm, whose situation in another lifetime might resemble a certain Disney Princess before crossing pasts with a Beast-who-would-be-Prince, was at an impasse.  Would she be the socialite or the shut in?  The princess, or the poet?

Elegantly, as she had been trained all her life, she glided across her bedroom towards the champagne flute.  She held it in her hand and turned it over, almost tempting the liquid inside to spill over.  

“YOU’VE CHOSEN!”  The voice from the champagne glass boomed in triumph.  

“Not quite,” she smiled demurely, throwing the champagne glass to the floor, shattering.  “What madness is this?!”  The voice pleaded as she walked over the broken glass to take the quill.

Talking more to herself than to either of the cosmic presences in the room, Emily said “Much madness is divinest sense.”  With that she chose her new life, completely rejecting the one that society had set in place for her.  She would be alone, but she would be alone on her own terms, no one elses.

Emily Dickinson chose the pen.  And though she was a complete societal shut-in most of her adult life, she is considered to be one of the most influential American poets today.

Mature Content


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Memoirs of a Madwoman:  The Secret origin of Madam Spiral

Entry 1

 Innocence:  What we all have at some point in our lives, but inevitably lose during life’s course.  We try to shield it in our children, but we are simply delaying the inevitable.  No matter how we try to shelter it, innocence is eventually lost.  Whether by the cold hand of fate through experience, or the careful manipulations and designs of society through education, all innocence is lost.  

Potential energy cannot be stored indefinitely and must be released; its form changed.  This is true in both physics and psychology.  Potential is finite, measurable, and ultimately used up to accomplish a task.  But unlike in physics, in psychology, something always seems lost in the transition; we are never as good, as complete, we can be.  Personal perfection is always beyond our grasp.  We are always flawed.  

 Somewhere along the line, as our neurons arrange themselves into the infinite latticework of memories, skills, and personality traits, a mistake is made.  And it takes only one mistake, one misstep upon the brain’s tapestry to turn a masterpiece into mediocrity: A frightening experience with a puppy creates a phobia of dogs, or the indelicate announcement of a new sibling creates jealousy, or an unfortunate child is born French.  Then, so much innocence is lost.  Even with therapy or experience- innocence’s gentle poison- the purity is lost.  

The phobic person still knows irrational fear, even if they can control it.  The child may grow to love their sibling, but they began by hating them and may always wonder why they weren’t good enough…why they needed to be replaced by a brother or sister.  The French person will always be French.

Fear, hatred, greed: All of these things tainting the soul leave their stain on the mind, and remedies for these conditions are nothing more than tacky patchworks to cover up the flaws.  Traditional hypnotism is nothing more than a careful ruse upon the mind to convince it to play pretend with itself.  Skinner’s methods have promise with weaving the tapestry of the mind, but nothing with truly correcting it.  
Replacement behaviors?  Ha!  Change one addiction to another, and it’s still an addiction.  Reducing is a panic attack to a nervous twitch is a sloppy stitch job at best.  Sadly, there is no way to simply unweave the tapestry of the mind, to truly undo the work of one’s experience so that new, better experiences may take their place.  

Until now.

My theories on forced neuron atrophy- the process of non-surgically agitating neurons at a cellular level so that they unweave and detach, effectively destroying memory and skills by way of light pulses- have finally gained some attention outside of the “crackpot” community.  

I was earnestly hoping for a prestigious university, but my generous benefactors seem to come from a less reputable portion of society.  I don’t care what the Yakuza want to do with my research. They’re financing it and I’m out of options if I wish to continue.  I’m leaving for America in a few days.  I’d grown bored of and am unwelcome in Munich anyways.  I doubt I’ll be missed.

The only thing I’m taking with me are the clothes on my back, my research papers, and the one piece of my daughter that I have remaining to me; the copies of her infant brain scans.  

My darling little Walda, I wonder where you are.  You were my everything; taken from me by crooked politicians, whispered to from the shadows by jealous rivals.   You were a wonderful baby girl, and the data I got from scanning your brainwaves and mapping out your neural pathways has proven invaluable.  If only I could have kept you, could have raised you, you would have been the perfect control group.  If I knew where you were, I’d break you out of whatever orphanage they hid you in and take you with me.  But that is not a risk I can afford to take right now, regardless.

I go to America to start anew.  And perhaps, if my experiments bear fruit, the whole world may start anew as well.

Dr. Wilma Wendel
Neuro-Physicist; Psychologist


Audio Log 3-4

WILMA:  Testing, testing.  Are vee recording, Mister Hayashi?

HAYASHI:  Hai!  

WILMA:  Excellent!  This is Doctor Vilma Vendel, recording forced neuron atrophy experiment number…number…Mr. Hayashi…?

HAYASHI:  Twenty-nine, Doctor Windel.

WILMA:  Vendel darling, Vendel.  There’s a subtle difference in pronunciation.

HAYASHI:  Twenty-nine, Doctor Wendel.

WILMA:  Experiment number twenty-nine.  Test subject is male, Caucasian, approximately 25 years of age.  Please state your name for posterity, please.


MUFFLED VOICE:   HMMMF!  HMMMF!

WILMA:  Oh yes, how silly of me, he’s gagged.  Stops the screaming for help.  Though I see you’ve gone from rags to ball gags, Mister Hayashi.  Nice touch.

HAYASHI:  Thank you, Doctor Wendel.

WILMA:  Anyvays, let’s just call the test subject “Heinrich.” A good name, I think.  Are you ready Heinrich?

MUFFLED VOICE:  HMMMMMMMMMMMF!

WILMA:  Excellent!  Now, Heinrich, just look at the disk in front of you.  Soon, it vill begin spinning and glowing a pretty pink color and ve’re all going to see vat happens; you most of all.  Don’t blink…oh wait, you can’t, thanks to the pretty hooks in your eyelids.  Are those pink sequins in the hooks, Mr. Hayashi?

HAYASHI:  Hai!

WILMA:  Very stylish, Mister Haishi.

HAYASHI:  Thank you Doctor Wendel.

WILMA:  Vell, no time like the present.  Let’s begin, shall vee?

Muffled VOICE:  HMMMMMMMMF!

WILMA:  Initiating in three…two…one…

BZZZZZZT! BZZZZZZZT!    

WILMA:  Subject appears to be in a catatonic state.  Loss of bladder and bowel control…evident.  Mr. Hayashi, can you please put them in a diaper next time?  

HAYASHI:  Why bother?  We’re done with them after one trial anyways.

WILMA:  Total elapsed time to catatonia…two point one seconds.  Vell, Mr. Hayashi, it seems that vee have at least managed to veaponize light.  Now, if only vee could make the machine more portable.

HAYASHI:  The goal is not to weaponize the machinery, Dr. Wendel.  It is to fully erase and build memories.

WILMA:  Vell, that part ve’ve accomplished at least.  Over a dozen test subjects, all vegetables.  But this isn’t innocence.  It’s just…brain damage.  Vee need more control over the process.  More precision.

HAYASHI: Agreed, Doctor.  Our employers want more than vegetables.

WILMA:  Hmmm…vhat do they vant, Mr. Hayashi, you naughty boy?

HAYASHI:  Ahem.  Protection from prosecution and faster training and recruitment.  At low levels: a man goes on a job, but then doesn’t remember ever doing the job.  At higher levels of application: Take a man, strip his neurons down to nothing and then build him up to peak soldier level.  But you need to refine your process.  Additional test subjects are becoming most difficult to procure.  Many opportunities for attracting unwanted attention, Doctor Wendel.

WILMA:  Yes, Mister Hayashi, vell from everything ve’re finding, the current process is undoing the neurological pathvays that create memory, but they’re so completely undone that there’s no vay to build them back up.  I’m trying to turn back their brain’s clocks to infancy, not pre-birth.  The brain scans on the test subjects are revealing no growth over time regardless of stimuli.  They lack even the tools to build new schema, memories, or skills.  I have the sinking feeling that Heinrich here will be more of the same.

HAYASHI:  Yessssss….about the process.

WILMA:  Hmmm?

HAYASHI:  Why the spinning disk?

WILMA:  The spiral?  Yes, a bit nineteen-fifties, vouldn’t you say?  Still, it’s eye catching and focuses the target’s conscious attention for the programmed light sequences that flash in front of the subject.  Helps to prime and trigger the brain for the electric impulses received through light vaves.  These same light vaves then trigger the brain to begin destroying its own neurological pathways.

HAYASHI:  And the light?

WILMA:  Pink?  Well this particular shade of pink, believe or not, is actually the best frequency available on the visible spectrum for the subliminal sequences to flash and broadcast.  I’ve tried ultraviolet light before, but if the human eye can’t consciously see it, then the human brain can’t unconsciously carry out the delete commands.

HAYASHI:  And the speed at which the spiral…spins?  Does that have any bearing….?

WILMA:  Mr. Hayashi…vat are you doing asking me all of these silly questions, naughty boy?  You’re not trying to coax my secrets out of me so that our employers can replace me, are you?

HAYASHI:  No, Doctor Windell, nev-

WILMA:  Or are you not a naughty boy?  Maybe you’re a naughty girl?  Those sequins on the eye hooks veren’t my idea, after all.  Do you have a more delicate, feminine side, just vaiting to get out?  Perhaps the Doctor needs to give you an exam.

HAYASHI:  Eh….Doctor…this…this…not…it’s not…approp….

(End Recording)

ENTRY 17
  Things are becoming tense at the lab.  The equipment at the lab can only do so much.  But it’s not the equipment’s failings.  It’s mine.  I’ve succeeded in nothing more than light delivered electro impulse brain damage.  Nothing more.  I’m burning the grand tapestry of the mind when I want to unravel it and reweave it.  

   Yet, my metaphor is not a proper one.  I can’t unravel the tapestry of the mind if I don’t know what the picture looks like or is supposed to look like.  I want to start by unraveling someone back to infancy, but it would take too much time to isolate that part of an individual’s brain and map the neural pathways for an accurate stopping and restructuring point.  Your childhood is not my childhood, and thus your neurological connections aren’t my neurological connections.  But no one else seems to be understanding that.  It’s a very delicate process!  It’s not helping that all of my test subjects have been unwilling thus far, either.

The Yakuza, my employers, are pressuring me for results.  I’ve got Hayashi under my thumb, but even his optimistic reports won’t stall them forever.  They want their magic memory machine.  I need to show signs of progress if I wish to keep my research funded.

I just had an idea.  I do already have an infant neural pathway on file.  A true infantile map of the mind.  My daughter, Walda.  Even though the scans and data are well over a decade old, that shouldn’t matter to the computer.  If I input the program sequencer so that neurons atrophy and restructure to mimic hers, it might get me the desired result.  It might almost be like traveling back in time.

My baby girl: Even though you’ve been ripped from me, you may yet make me proud.

Dr. Wilma Wendel,
Possible Scientific Genius.

Audio Log 3-26

WILMA:  Testing, testing.  Are vee recording, Mister Hayashi?

HAYASHI:  Hai!  

WILMA:  Excellent!  This is Doctor Vilma Vendel, recording forced neuron atrophy experiment number…number…Mister Hayashi…?

HAYASHI:  Thirty, Doctor Wendel.  

WILMA: Experiment number thirty.  Test subject is male, Asian, approximately thirty years of age.  To avoid relieving subject of his ball-gag, subject shall be deemed Kim.

SUBJECT:  MMMMFFF!

WILMA:  Oh get over it!  Ahem.  Vee are going to be trying a new sequencing technique recently programmed in, by me, in an attempt to more adequately guide forced neural atrophy.  Mister Hayashi, begin in three…two…one!

BZZZT BZZZZT!

WILMA:  *sigh* Subject seems, vonce again, catatonic.  Loss of control over bladder and bowels is…evident.  Total elapsed time.  Two point-

SUBJECT:  MMMMMFFFF!

HAYASHI:  Did it not work?

WILMA:  I’m not sure. Let’s find out.

SUBJECT: MMMMMFFF!  Mama!  Mamamamama!

WILMA:  Mama?  Me?!  Oh, quite affectionate, aren’t vee now, my little darling?

HAYASHI:  Doctor?

WILMA:  Does baby vant some of Mama’s milk?  

SUBJECT: Mamama blabahgagagaga!

HAYASHI:  Doctor…..

WILMA:  Oh, someone’s hungry!  Yes she is!  Yes she is!

HAYASHI:  Doctor….

WILMA:  Yes, Hayashi, vat is it?

HAYASHI:  How do you know the subject isn’t…faking?

WILMA:  These are the exact babbling patterns for hunger that my daughter used at approximately eight months of age. A mother alvays knows, Hayashi.  Or haven’t you heard?

HAYASHI:  Your…daughter?

WILMA:  Yes.  Circa eight months.  I have my daughter’s nearly every thought mapped out from birth to approximately eighteen months.  And now, the vones from birth to age eight months are part of Kim…I mean Kimmy’s thoughts, it seems.

HAYASHI:  Oh…my….

WILMA:  I think ve’ll call this vone a success, don’t you Mister Hayashi?

HAYASHI:  Yes…yes Doctor.  I think we will.

WILMA:  Oh, and Hayashi?

HAYASHI:  Yes, Doctor?

WILMA:  Be a good girl, run to the nearest drug store and get some diapers, vill you?

HAYASHI:  What…size?

WILMA:  Adult…for now.
(End Recording)

Entry 18

     I have a piece of my daughter back.  “Kimmy” as I have taken to calling my newest successful test subject, is just like Walda back at age 8 months.

   Basic preferences seems to include desires for dolls and things in pink and purple, just as I dressed Walda back when she was mine.  Where once there was a grown man, there is definitely now a baby girl trapped in a grown man’s body.  Still, there are inconsistencies.  She responds to “Kimmy” and not “Walda”, for some reason.  All of her developmental milestones are appropriate for an eight month old female and exactly where Walda was, but she doesn’t show any sign of memory or recognition.  No eyes lighting up at the games I played with Walda, or the songs I sang Walda.  So if this Kimmy is Walda in mind, she is still not MY Walda.

It must be a limitation from the neural restructuring.  Kimmy’s childhood was not Walda’s childhood, and though mental and physical capability can be mimicked, true memory, for the time being at least, seems to be beyond my grasp.

Still, I’d rather have a piece of my daughter back than no daughter at all.  I am a mother again, and blessed am I.  Now for the fun part:  The best part about science is you get to repeat, repeat, repeat to see if it was a fluke.  For the most altruistic and selfish of reasons, I hope it wasn’t.

Wilma Wendel,
Mother Again

Audio Log 6-16


WILMA:  -ster Sato, vat an unexpected surprise!  Isn’t it unexpected, Hayashi?

HAYASHI:  Sadly no, Doctor.

SATO:  We have some…issues… with how you’re conducting your research, Doctor Wendel.

WILMA:  Issues?!  Vat issues?

SATO:  The state of your laboratory, for instance.

WILMA: Vat of it?

SATO:  It looks like a child’s room.  A nursery in fact.

WILMA:  I fail to see your point.

SUBJECTS: *Mixed baby babble.

SATO:  And your subjects, why are they dressed that way?

WILMA:  Vat way?

SATO:  The childish dresses?  The diapers?

WILMA:  They’re not potty trained yet, Mr. Sato, and I von’t have them soiling their pretty clothes.

SATO:  I understand that incontinence is a side effect.  But are the decorations on the diapers necessary?  Standard medical wear would suffice.

WILMA:  I have to look at them too, and diapers and dresses are just so much more…cheery compared to hospital gowns and incontinence briefs.  Besides, my little girls only deserve the best, Mr. Sato.  

SATO:  Two of them are men.

WILMA:  Vere men, Mister Sato.  Now they’re mommy’s precious little girls.  Yes they are!  Yes they are!

SUBJECTS:  *Cheerful baby babble

SATO:  We are paying you to further your research, not so that you may play house, Madam.

WILMA:  Madam?   Hmm…I think I might like that.

SATO:  What was that?

WILMA:  Ahem, I vas saying, Mr. Sato, that my research is progressing.  Little Kimmy here is already valking.  I am so proud of her.

SATO:  Doctor…I’m losing my patience.

WILMA:  You misunderstand, Mr. Sato.  Kimmy had the brain of an 8 month old girl three months ago.  Now she has the brain of an 11 month old girl.  She’s developing normally.  And with my regular brain scans and neural mapping, I’m confident that I can transform anyone into the equivalent of an 11 month old girl.  By the end of the month, a vone year old girl vill be possible.

SATO:  How does this benefit us?

WILMA:  As I foster and raise these subjects up as my own, vith careful neurological mapping, I vill be able to mimic each stage of human neurological development.  And if I make a mistake in raising them, I can just mentally revind them a few months and try again.  And, if you allow me little Hayashi-

SATO:  Little…?

HAYASHI:  Eh….

WILMA:  My pet name, Mr. Sato, please forgive the familiarity.  If you allow me to retain little Hayashi to train my new daughters in martial arts, then I can map these learning processes too, and vithin a generation you’ll have your mass produced killers.

SATO:  We do not wish to wait a generation.  Why not start mapping the brains of our established soldiers?  Hayashi for example.

WILMA:  Oh, there’s only vone little Hayashi, Mr. Sato.  I’d never think of replicating her.

SATO:  …her?

HAYASHI:  Eh….

WILMA:  I’m sorry, my English must be slipping

SATO: Wollen Sie in deutscher Sprache zu sprechen?


WILMA:  That von’t be necessary, Mr. Sato.  My point being, is adult minds are much too complicated to map from scratch.  Impossible, really.  You have to start ven they’re young and there are as few neurological pathvays as possible, and map things out from there.  

SATO:  So you say.


WILMA:  So I do.


SATO: We want our perfect soldiers now, Doctor Wendel.


WILMA:  I’m afraid you’ll have to vait, Mr. Sato.  


SATO:  Hayashi!

HAYASHI:  Hai!

SATO:  Have you observed enough of her processes that you could aid another in recreating what she has done so far?

HAYASHI:  Yes, sir.

SATO:  Good.  Kill her.
  (Long Silence)

SATO:  Hayashi!  Kanojo o koroshimasu!

HAYASHI:  …..No…..

SATO:  What?!

WILMA:  Achtung, Mister Sato!

SATO: Wuh?

BZZZZZT!

SATO: Bababama gagagaga booo!

WILMA:  Look, Hayashi!  I have managed to miniaturize the device.  I’ve veaponized it!  Now, vat shall I call you, little vone?

HAYASHI:  No.

*Gunshot*

WILMA: HAYASHI?!  

Subjects:  *Wailing*

WILMA:  Hayashi, you naughty girl!  You scared the babies!

HAYASHI:  Forgive me, Doctor.  A body is easier to hide, and less damning, than a baby girl.  Please excuse me.  I must go kill his driver.  Better they were never here.

WILMA:  Hayashi?

HAYASHI:  Yes, Doctor?

WILMA:  Vhy?

HAYASHI:  To…protect you.

WILMA:  I know that, you silly little thing.  But vhy protect me?

HAYASHI:  I believe…that you are doing the work of gods.  And I…I just want to…belong to you.

WILMA:  Oh Hayashi, darling!  You already do.  Now, go take care of the driver and clean up this mess.

HAYASHI:  Hai!

WILMA:  And Hayashi?

HAYASHI:  Yes, Doctor?

WILMA:  I already had the perfect little sissy outfit picked out for him.  Ven you get back, you’re going to have to vear it.

HAYASHI: ….Yes, Doctor.

WILMA:  Oh, and Hayashi?

HAYASHI:  Yes, Doctor?

WILMA:  Diaper too.

HAYASHI:  Yes, Doctor.

WILMA:  And Hayashi?

HAYASHI:  Yes, Doctor?

WILMA: It’s Madam, now.

HAYASHI: As you wish, Madam.

(End Recording)

Entry 42


We’ve passed the point of no return, it seems.  The Yakuza have become suspicious of Sato’s disappearance, and my assurances that I haven’t seen him aren’t having the desired effect.  It’s only a matter of time before they come for me in force.  I won’t have the element of surprise on my side, this time.  There is no rational outcome that includes victory.  

Yet, I am not scared.  I am serene.  For the last three months, I have been mother to three darling baby girls, all encased in the bodies of adults.  But they have paid no mind to such paltry things, so I have had no reason to, either.  I have been happier than I have ever been.  I have given them the gift of innocence anew, and they have loved me in return.  

Hayashi’s words to me on the day of the Sato incident, (before I had him diapered, petti coated, and over my knee, begging for more) keep echoing in my mind.  I have been “doing the work of gods” or some other such foolish sentimental nonsense.   Perhaps he is not wrong.  Mother is the name of God in the heart of every child.  I have been God to three these last few weeks.  

I could run, but I dare not abandon my little ones.  Who knows what such abandonment could have on their psyches?  Listen to me, worrying about them as if the Yakuza will allow them to live.  Maternity is making me foolish, I fear.  

I will not run though.  I would rather die for my philosophy and research than prove it worthless through cowardice.  It’s such a shame, really.  I’ll never get to watch them grow up.  First words, first day at Pre-school.  Potty training.

 I’ll admit, I’m a bit hesitant on that mark.  A great many psychologists believe potty training is the first traumatic event that happens to a child.  Perhaps humanity as a whole would be better if they were kept in diapers for a lifetime.  Were I allowed to continue, I could experiment with this.  Worst case scenario, potty training goes horribly, and then I unravel their brains back to simpler times and they can once again relieve themselves in their pants without shame (not that I ever let my little ones wear pants; such a hassle to change).

But none of this will come to pass, will it?  I’ll be surprised if we last the week before the assassins are at our doorsteps.  Not even my preparations will stop them, ultimately.  When the right kind of person wants you dead, you’re dead.  If I’m lucky, perhaps Hayashi will take more than his fair share with him.

I will die content, knowing that I will spend my final days with what is essentially, my infant daughter, in triplicate.  The only regret is I will likely die in front of my daughter, too.

No regrets,
Madam Wilma Wendel
Mother

Audio Recording 6-22

KILLER:  -eally think we wouldn’t find out Doctor Wendel?

WILMA:  Madam.

KILLER:  Whatever, demon bitch.  That was a neat trick with the hypnotic lights outside your door.  Took out six men before we shot them out.

WILMA:  I’m merely flattered you decided to bring more than six men to kill me.  Oh, and those lights veren’t hypnotic, I’ll have you know, darling.

KILLER:  Hmmm?

WILMA:  Not at all.  Hypnosis can be reversed.  My process can’t be.  You’re the proud papa of six baby girls now, age ten months.

KILLER:  You what?!

WILMA:  As long as you’re killing me and taking my research; there are plenty of diapers under the changing table.  You should take them too.  Oh, and the most adorable dresses.  They’ll like them, I svear.

KILLER: Oh, you fucking bitch!

*gun cocks*

WILMA:  Vait!  If you’re going to kill me, grant me vone last request.

KILLER:  Fat chance.

WILMA:  Use my device on me.  Let me be innocent before I die.  

KILLER:  Heh…fine.  Sit down.  

WILMA:  I’m coming, Valda.  I’m coming.  

KILLER:  Not that you’ll know this, but the thing that’s going in your mouth after I flip this switch is my dick.  Then when I’m good and done, you’ll eat a bullet.

WILMA: Fine. I von’t know any better, anyvays. Just…do it.

BZZZZZT!

KILLER:  Hello?  Anybody home?  Helloooooooo?  Oh shit.  She’s not moving.  Bitch fry her brain?

WILMA:  Heh…heh…heh….

KILLER:  Oh, so you’re not a vegetable.  So how old are you baby?

WILMA:  Hehehehe…hahahahahahahaha!

KILLER:  The fuck?  Sit down bitch.

(Gunshots fire multiple times.)

WILMA:  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

(More gunfire)

KILLER:  What’s happening!  Die!  My gun!  A baby bottle?  What the...gabba abba babba boo?!”

HAYASHI:  Madam!  I’m coming!

WILMA:  Little vone?  Vat are you doing?  You’re all bloody, and you’ve ruined your pretty clothes.  You know I abhor violence.  I thought vee had this talk ven you killed Mister Sato and his driver last veek.

HAYASHI:  Madam?  Is that… you?

WILMA:  Who else vould it be, darling?

HAYASHI: And who is…that?

WILMA:  On the floor?  That’s my newest little sissy girl.

HAYASHI:  How did you… dress and diaper her so quickly?

WILMA:  Like this.

HAYASHI:  *Gasps*

WILMA:  Aren’t clean clothes so much nicer than bloody ones?

HAYASHI:  Yes…but….but…*weapons clacking on floor*

WILMA:  Oh, you naughty little girl!  It’s not time to be on your knees right now! And your head is supposed to be up, not down, ven you do that sort of thing, anyvays.

HAYASHI:  Madam Wendel…you’re…you’re a god.

WILMA:  Yes, Hayashi.  I suppose I am.  About that though.  I’ve grown tired of calling you Hayashi.  

HAYASHI:  Yes Madam Wendel.

WILMA:  From now on, you vill be….Asuka.  Yes, I think that fits you much better.

ASUKA:  As you will it, Madam Wendel.

WILMA:  And Asuka?

ASUKA:  Yes, Madam Wendel?

WILMA:  I’ve grown tired of Vendel.  I think Spiral vill do, don’t you?  This all started with a spiral.  Let’s finish it with one, yah?

ASUKA:  Yes, Madam Spiral.  Yes.  

SPIRAL:  Now come, Asuka.  Vee have many minds to revind. A paradise to create.  Much innocence to spread.

ASUKA:  How much, Madam Spiral?

SPIRAL:  Vhy, a whole vorld’s vorth, my naughty little Asuka, a whole vorld’s vorth.

Journal Entry: Final Entry

    I did it.  I stared into the abyss of my own creation, and the abyss blinked.  I have ascended to godhood, though I don’t know how.  Perhaps it’s because I knew my daughter’s neural pathways better than my own; perhaps my brain had some unique formatting that made my machine go beyond its intended purpose, I’m not sure.  But I’m different now.  Better.  Perfect.

  For a brief second, an eternity it felt, I felt my neurons detach themselves in my brain as instructed.  Everything was coming unraveled in an instant.  The machine was set for the very first brain scan I took of my daughter.  I was becoming Walda, my own daughter, circa day one.  And as my mind approached the event horizon, I knew innocence.  I knew nothing and had unlimited potential; the entire universe of possibilities lay before me and yet I was unaware, as if taking in the sensations of the world around me for the first time.

And in that moment, I glimpsed something inside myself.  Whether it was there before, or put inside of me in that split second, I saw through the eye of God.  I saw the world for what it really was, nothing but a vast system of potential energy waiting to be tapped and slowly losing charge, held together by the illusion of inaccessibility.

In my brief moment of unlimited potential brought on by me literally being born again, I saw the truth of everything.  And just like a child who sees the hidden compartment in the hat, I knew where the rabbit was the whole time and could never be fooled again.

I’m a god now, Asuka says.  And she’s right.  I can literally remake the world in mind and body.  I cannot shirk this responsibility.  The world is such a complicated, violent, bloody place.  Asuka has shown me that.  How can I turn my back on the world?

I won’t.  I will make this sacrifice of myself.  I will remake the world and return everyone to innocence.  I will give them their potential back and raise them right.  Mother is the name of God in the hearts of every child.  Then I shall become Mother to the world.

And to Walda, my dear lost daughter who is literally always in my thoughts.  Who every child I re-create is just a pale imitation of the happy baby girl I once had:  I promise I’ll find you someday, no matter what.  It doesn’t matter where they’ve hidden you from me, and what they’ve changed your name to.  It doesn’t matter how old you are and how much of your innocence they have stolen from you.  We will be a family again.  We’ll start over from the beginning, and I’ll raise you as I always intended to.  And you, and the rest of the world will grow up from being the perfect baby girl that I lost.

Everything is finally Spiraling into control,
Madam Spiral
Mother. Goddess
Mother Goddess
Memoirs of a Madwoman
So Pink Diapers has this awesome character she created.

www.deviantart.com/art/MadamSp…

She's a supervillain for Pink's AB/DL superhero comic, Baby Girl.  

An idea popped into my head a day or two ago, and I had to scratch that itch.

So with Pink's permission, I wrote a fanfic origin story for her character.  For the record this is not necessarily canon (unless Pink says it is).
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So true story:  Good things are happening for me and for my AB/DL writing.

Around Christmas I wrote a story called "Time for a Change".  Got the idea from a picture I saw on an ab/dl's  Pinterest file.  Basically it shows an ab/dl girl in a daycare of sorts and she's wetting herself, and looks absolutely mortified.  In the background are three other ab's, none of them look particularly delighted to be there...not horrified...maybe worried...maybe jealous...I don't know, but I don't see any smiles...and they're being watched over by a daycare worker.

Then, the pinterest poster, has the subtitle added underneath "Why are they doing this to us?  We're not babies!"  And then the gears in my head get turning and I am visited by inspiration.

So I write "Time for a Change" where that scene happens, and the point of view, is a fifth, male victim of a nursery that regresses people.  I do a male victim, because I feel I'm better at writing men than women (I've dabbled, but I decided to play to my strengths), and then I work up to that scene and then follow it to it's logical conclusions.

It's not my best story, or my most original story, or my most epic story, but something about writing it just really loosens me up.  Just clears out the cobwebs.  Like I set out to write something, and then BAM!  Done!  Winner!  And it's pretty well received by the people who are typically kind enough to read my work.  Bam!  I still got it!  Yeah!  

Of course, I give credit to the poster who came up with that single line of "Why are they doing this to us?  We're not babies!"  And I give credit to the artist, Rocket Manatee, whose picture kind of got the spark in my head going.

I've known of Rocket Manatee for a while, too.  His stuff has gotten around.  All of his pictures that I see have www.cushypen.com  in one corner or another. 

It's not long before I'm looking at the preview page of Cushypen.com, and kind of sighing to myself.  

 I've known of Cushypen for a while, and I've known of some really talented visual artists who are contributors to the site, Rocket Manatee, Carotte/Padded Room, and Pink Diapers to name only a few, and I'm just wistfully looking at their tour page.

I've never subscribed to them before, but it's not for the reason you might think.  Or if you've read some of my earlier journal entries, you might not be surprised at all.

Sidebar:

I consider myself to be fairly closeted and more than a little paranoid of people finding out about my AB/DL side.  My wife is the only person who could pick me out of a lineup who knows.  So any site involving money transfers sets off alarm bells of unreasonable paranoia.  Yes yes yes, I know every site that is worth a darn makes it a point for discreet billing.  I've nutted up and bought AB diapers a few times and nowhere on the billing statement did "ADULT BABY DIAPER PORNOGRAPHY AND CLOTHING" ever show up. Those next few days waiting for shipping always drive me crazy because I'm afraid the UPS guy will fuck up and deliver it to my suddenly nosy neighbors.

I'm afraid that I'm going to have to get my computer fixed one day.  A buddy of mine is like "Oh I'm a total computer geek, I can clear that up right for you.  If you ever need it fixed, just hand it over to me."  And I'm like, "NOPE," and he's like "Why not?" and I'm like, "You're not finding my porn."  And he's like, "I don't care man, I've seen it all."  And I'm like  "We are not that close, and never will be." and then he gives me a sly look and I have to cut off his proposal of "NO I WILL NOT LOOK AT YOUR PORN SO YOU CAN JUSTIFY LOOKING AT MINE!  YOU'RE MY BRO, BUT THAT IS STUFF WE NEVER NEED TO KNOW ABOUT EACH OTHER!"  Worst part is my buddy is like a professional computer repair guy, so I can't even take it to the store where he works for fear that one of his co workers will tell him over coffee...never mind that I wouldn't even have to mention that I'm close to best friends with this guy. What part of unreasonable paranoia am I not being clear on?!

End Sidebar:

But I'm rambling.  I do that.  Point is, I'm looking at Cushypen, and having a "if only" moment.  If only I was brave enough, etc. etc.  I feel like I've come a long way from the lurker I used to be on DA, Foxtales Times, ARArchive, and Daily Diapers; and I'm lucky to have made some really cool internet friends, but when it comes to putting myself out there I'm a two steps forward and one step back kind of guy.  Heck, I went to my first ever Ageplay convention...where I wore AB clothes and diapers outside of my bedroom for the first time ever because real life was making it seem like a "now or never" type of scenario.  If not, I'd probably never have gone and it'd be a "someday" or a "if only" thing.

I'm looking at the "Download"

So I'm just browsing Cushypen's entry page, and I'm like stressing out waaaay to much on whether or not I even have the nerve to download freebie pictures on the tour page that are a couple of years old. Yes, even downloading stuff...anything that can't be whisked away with a "delete cookies" and "clear history" thing makes me paranois.  What if I forget about a download file and somehow a virus opens that particular folder and I dunno sends it to my work email?  Did I mention that I can be paranoid?  I've only recently started saving my work to word documents instead of typing them up on a note pad and then copy/pasting them to different sites.

So yeah, I'm on full on mental to binge or purge mode, internet style- do I download a bunch of really good diaper art, maybe get inspiration for more ideas, get writing even more?  Or do I click away, clear history, and go back to MAYBE giving the occasional comment on a message board and probably not write anything for another four months or so.

I'm fretting about all of this, unreasonably so, and then I see the link button for "Become an Artist"...I can't draw for beans...and right next to it is "Become a Writer".  And I click on it and it directs me to their application page.  Holy shit, they were taking Applications!

I talk about it with my wife, and I'm getting the same kind of shivers that I was getting when I had that first talk with her of "Do you think I can write an AB story and post it and people will like it?"  Like, I'm just doing the "I think I can I think I can I think I can" just to fill out a damn form, and hit "send".

And so I applied, submitted some of my stories, and they accepted.  And now, I'm a contributor.  Now, I'm fortunate enough to be able to make a little extra money writing my stories on the side, and I've gotten to communicate with some very talented people who I don't know if I would, and my horizons are expanding again, and I'm happier writing than I've been in a long time.

I've already going to collaborate with an amazing artist named Pink Diapers (if you don't know her work...well you should) and help write an AB/DL comic book!  A comic book!  Holy shit a comic book!  I FUCKING LOVE COMICS AND I'M GETTING TO WRITE ONE!  

 How much money will I make?  I don't know, I'm sure it'll vary, but it's more than I've made writing diaper stories before.  

Now how does this effect my DA/etc. stuff where I post my long serialized stories?  That's the best part, in my opinion.

I've kept mentioning a "New Years Resolution" of updating once a month. Well that kind of came about as a result of this Cushypen thing.  They've got deadlines and stuff.  They're a business, and they want to meet their subscriber's expectations.  Makes perfect sense.

 As a contributor, I'm expected to have content for the site at least once a month.  For the last three months, I've been writing stories on a trial basis to show that I've got the chops to meet deadlines.  That's fair.  They don't want me committing to them and then to leave them hanging.  

Well that got me thinking, too, so I've been pushing myself.  If I can write one short story a month, I can do at least one chapter of a story I've already started a month, too.  And I'm going to do my damndest to keep that promise.

So I'm back in the saddle again, and ready write like I've never been ready before.

If anybody wants to support my work, and see some top notch visual diaper art, feel free to subscribe there.  I'm currently on CushyPen, with a story that I think is pretty darn cool.  Also, if you're into babyfur stuff, there's another writer there; nom de plume of Notrix.  Check her stuff out too, you might like it.


If not, that's cool, no hard feelings.  Economy is a bitch and food before fap etc. etc.  I'll still be posting stories on here regularly enough; and there will always be stories that I can't post to Cushy Pen but I need to get out of my system.

I'm just really happy with my life right now, and I wanted to share that happiness with the people who have been kind enough to click that "Watch" button.

 
I cannot write when I am sick,
The words won't come my brain won't tick,
Or tock or think or think things slick,
Instead I just sound like a prick

I'll make excuses, take your pick,
My mind is blurred, it's fogged real thick
I'm much too tired for this shtick
But this urge I cannot lick

I want to write but need a kick
In the pants to make it stick
My words sound dumb, much like a hick
Cure me, save me, do it quick

I'm like that wrestler, Foley (Mick)
Or that singer, Astley (Rick)
I'm beat up, worn down, burnt up the wic
My wife says "Go to bed you dick".

But I've done the arithmetic
If I can't sleep, I'll do this trick
I'll write out many rhymes and flick
My keyboard till something goes "click."

deviantID

Personalias
United States
I've been a closet AB/DL my entire life. My parents and close older family members probably suspect from when I was too young and dumb to know to hide my fascination. Then again, it probably got written off as "a phase", as soon as I got older and started not talking about it.

My friends may suspect, but if they do, they're kind enough not to say anything about it. The weird thing is, I have some friends that are open fetishists of different sorts; mostly furs. So yeah, I'm a bit of a coward. Even my name is a reference to that.

I'm not using anything even close to my real name, and anything with "Diaper" or "Baby" in the name was just too cliche. I'm so much more than just my fetish. We all are.

I'm just so paranoid that I'm going to be branded by it. So do I use a persona and change up my writing style and tone to further disguise myself? Live the internet dream by pretending to be someone much cooler than I am?

Or maybe just a simple Alias? Be myself with the exception of my name?

Persona+Alias= personalias

I'm actually scared some of my friends will find this page, and find enough clues to figure out it's me. I console myself with the question: "What the heck were my friends doing looking at AB/DL stories and pics anyways?"

My wonderful wife is the only person in my life who officially knows my secret. It was she who encouraged me to take some of my ideas, write them down and post them online for others to see.

The thing is...now that it's happening. Now that I'm becoming part of the online community. I can't help but wonder why I didn't join sooner.

Thanks for reading this. It was really cathartic.
So true story:  Good things are happening for me and for my AB/DL writing.

Around Christmas I wrote a story called "Time for a Change".  Got the idea from a picture I saw on an ab/dl's  Pinterest file.  Basically it shows an ab/dl girl in a daycare of sorts and she's wetting herself, and looks absolutely mortified.  In the background are three other ab's, none of them look particularly delighted to be there...not horrified...maybe worried...maybe jealous...I don't know, but I don't see any smiles...and they're being watched over by a daycare worker.

Then, the pinterest poster, has the subtitle added underneath "Why are they doing this to us?  We're not babies!"  And then the gears in my head get turning and I am visited by inspiration.

So I write "Time for a Change" where that scene happens, and the point of view, is a fifth, male victim of a nursery that regresses people.  I do a male victim, because I feel I'm better at writing men than women (I've dabbled, but I decided to play to my strengths), and then I work up to that scene and then follow it to it's logical conclusions.

It's not my best story, or my most original story, or my most epic story, but something about writing it just really loosens me up.  Just clears out the cobwebs.  Like I set out to write something, and then BAM!  Done!  Winner!  And it's pretty well received by the people who are typically kind enough to read my work.  Bam!  I still got it!  Yeah!  

Of course, I give credit to the poster who came up with that single line of "Why are they doing this to us?  We're not babies!"  And I give credit to the artist, Rocket Manatee, whose picture kind of got the spark in my head going.

I've known of Rocket Manatee for a while, too.  His stuff has gotten around.  All of his pictures that I see have www.cushypen.com  in one corner or another. 

It's not long before I'm looking at the preview page of Cushypen.com, and kind of sighing to myself.  

 I've known of Cushypen for a while, and I've known of some really talented visual artists who are contributors to the site, Rocket Manatee, Carotte/Padded Room, and Pink Diapers to name only a few, and I'm just wistfully looking at their tour page.

I've never subscribed to them before, but it's not for the reason you might think.  Or if you've read some of my earlier journal entries, you might not be surprised at all.

Sidebar:

I consider myself to be fairly closeted and more than a little paranoid of people finding out about my AB/DL side.  My wife is the only person who could pick me out of a lineup who knows.  So any site involving money transfers sets off alarm bells of unreasonable paranoia.  Yes yes yes, I know every site that is worth a darn makes it a point for discreet billing.  I've nutted up and bought AB diapers a few times and nowhere on the billing statement did "ADULT BABY DIAPER PORNOGRAPHY AND CLOTHING" ever show up. Those next few days waiting for shipping always drive me crazy because I'm afraid the UPS guy will fuck up and deliver it to my suddenly nosy neighbors.

I'm afraid that I'm going to have to get my computer fixed one day.  A buddy of mine is like "Oh I'm a total computer geek, I can clear that up right for you.  If you ever need it fixed, just hand it over to me."  And I'm like, "NOPE," and he's like "Why not?" and I'm like, "You're not finding my porn."  And he's like, "I don't care man, I've seen it all."  And I'm like  "We are not that close, and never will be." and then he gives me a sly look and I have to cut off his proposal of "NO I WILL NOT LOOK AT YOUR PORN SO YOU CAN JUSTIFY LOOKING AT MINE!  YOU'RE MY BRO, BUT THAT IS STUFF WE NEVER NEED TO KNOW ABOUT EACH OTHER!"  Worst part is my buddy is like a professional computer repair guy, so I can't even take it to the store where he works for fear that one of his co workers will tell him over coffee...never mind that I wouldn't even have to mention that I'm close to best friends with this guy. What part of unreasonable paranoia am I not being clear on?!

End Sidebar:

But I'm rambling.  I do that.  Point is, I'm looking at Cushypen, and having a "if only" moment.  If only I was brave enough, etc. etc.  I feel like I've come a long way from the lurker I used to be on DA, Foxtales Times, ARArchive, and Daily Diapers; and I'm lucky to have made some really cool internet friends, but when it comes to putting myself out there I'm a two steps forward and one step back kind of guy.  Heck, I went to my first ever Ageplay convention...where I wore AB clothes and diapers outside of my bedroom for the first time ever because real life was making it seem like a "now or never" type of scenario.  If not, I'd probably never have gone and it'd be a "someday" or a "if only" thing.

I'm looking at the "Download"

So I'm just browsing Cushypen's entry page, and I'm like stressing out waaaay to much on whether or not I even have the nerve to download freebie pictures on the tour page that are a couple of years old. Yes, even downloading stuff...anything that can't be whisked away with a "delete cookies" and "clear history" thing makes me paranois.  What if I forget about a download file and somehow a virus opens that particular folder and I dunno sends it to my work email?  Did I mention that I can be paranoid?  I've only recently started saving my work to word documents instead of typing them up on a note pad and then copy/pasting them to different sites.

So yeah, I'm on full on mental to binge or purge mode, internet style- do I download a bunch of really good diaper art, maybe get inspiration for more ideas, get writing even more?  Or do I click away, clear history, and go back to MAYBE giving the occasional comment on a message board and probably not write anything for another four months or so.

I'm fretting about all of this, unreasonably so, and then I see the link button for "Become an Artist"...I can't draw for beans...and right next to it is "Become a Writer".  And I click on it and it directs me to their application page.  Holy shit, they were taking Applications!

I talk about it with my wife, and I'm getting the same kind of shivers that I was getting when I had that first talk with her of "Do you think I can write an AB story and post it and people will like it?"  Like, I'm just doing the "I think I can I think I can I think I can" just to fill out a damn form, and hit "send".

And so I applied, submitted some of my stories, and they accepted.  And now, I'm a contributor.  Now, I'm fortunate enough to be able to make a little extra money writing my stories on the side, and I've gotten to communicate with some very talented people who I don't know if I would, and my horizons are expanding again, and I'm happier writing than I've been in a long time.

I've already going to collaborate with an amazing artist named Pink Diapers (if you don't know her work...well you should) and help write an AB/DL comic book!  A comic book!  Holy shit a comic book!  I FUCKING LOVE COMICS AND I'M GETTING TO WRITE ONE!  

 How much money will I make?  I don't know, I'm sure it'll vary, but it's more than I've made writing diaper stories before.  

Now how does this effect my DA/etc. stuff where I post my long serialized stories?  That's the best part, in my opinion.

I've kept mentioning a "New Years Resolution" of updating once a month. Well that kind of came about as a result of this Cushypen thing.  They've got deadlines and stuff.  They're a business, and they want to meet their subscriber's expectations.  Makes perfect sense.

 As a contributor, I'm expected to have content for the site at least once a month.  For the last three months, I've been writing stories on a trial basis to show that I've got the chops to meet deadlines.  That's fair.  They don't want me committing to them and then to leave them hanging.  

Well that got me thinking, too, so I've been pushing myself.  If I can write one short story a month, I can do at least one chapter of a story I've already started a month, too.  And I'm going to do my damndest to keep that promise.

So I'm back in the saddle again, and ready write like I've never been ready before.

If anybody wants to support my work, and see some top notch visual diaper art, feel free to subscribe there.  I'm currently on CushyPen, with a story that I think is pretty darn cool.  Also, if you're into babyfur stuff, there's another writer there; nom de plume of Notrix.  Check her stuff out too, you might like it.


If not, that's cool, no hard feelings.  Economy is a bitch and food before fap etc. etc.  I'll still be posting stories on here regularly enough; and there will always be stories that I can't post to Cushy Pen but I need to get out of my system.

I'm just really happy with my life right now, and I wanted to share that happiness with the people who have been kind enough to click that "Watch" button.

 

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:iconghostnufc:
Ghostnufc Featured By Owner May 5, 2016

Hay Personalias just finished two of your stores Sample Pack & Dante's Infanzia. Sample Pack was amazing, I had expected to find Mrs. Z (from the story: Time for a change) some were in the story especially when you mentioned that the diaper products was called Bay-Bee. I hope you decide to do more stories in this universe, I would love read in one of your stories about a struggling female actress who end up in this crazy humiliating universe.  Maybe her mother could force her to do toddler TV programs & diaper commercials (maybe she could end up the cover girl on packs bay-bee diapers), billboard ads.  Just a thought  


Dante's Infanzia was a little too dark for my taste but still enjoyed it.


Keep up the amazing writing looking forward to the next one ;)

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:icontherealpersonalias:
TheRealPersonalias Featured By Owner May 6, 2016  New Deviant
Thanks Ghostnufc...I'm having some login troubles right now and I can't access my account.  No matter what I type in as the password, it's rejected...and I think I forgot it or something.  :(  Not cool

Yeah, I kind of purposefully made "Bay-Bee" thing a bit of a side plot/universe.  I actually wrote Sample Pack first and decided to work the same diapers back into Time for a Change.

That's not a bad idea, and if I ever get the itch to do another Bay-Bee story, I might take some of that ideas.

Dante's a little too dark for ya?  That's the first I've heard of it.  I'm glad you said you enjoyed it all the same, even if it wasn't your thing.  I wouldn't classify Dante as Erotica proper, as much as a dark fantasy story that had ab/dl elements woven into it.  But that's what I was going for.

Time for a Change and Sample Pack are more in the vein of a good old fashioned diaper transformation story.  (Nothing wrong with that either, I feel.)  Both of them are me kind of aping and doing a poor impression Long_Rifle.  (Because no one does LR like LR)

Thanks for the feed back and for taking the time to read my stuff.  I hope I can get back onto my proper account.

for future reference, how'd you find me? (So I know who to thank and where to post more of my stories in the future)
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:iconghostnufc:
Ghostnufc Featured By Owner May 7, 2016
I found your stories on deviantart.com, Looking forward for the next one :)

 
Thanks for the reply

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:icontherealpersonalias:
TheRealPersonalias Featured By Owner May 2, 2016  New Deviant
SHIT!  I've been locked out of my own account!  The password recovery is not going to my email address, and I can't think of any alts where it might have gone to.

WTF life?!  I was logged in and "always logged in" feature and then out of nowhere I'm booted out and every password I put in is rejected!  
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:iconfaal20:
faal20 Featured By Owner Apr 28, 2016
I appreicate the watch; I do love your stories and I'm honored for the watchback. ^^
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:iconlulshi:
Lulshi Featured By Owner Apr 17, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the watch, though  I doubt you'll find anything interesting from what I write.
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:iconpersonalias:
Personalias Featured By Owner Apr 17, 2016
No need to be so self-deprecating. (Unless you're doing a Rodney Dangerfield bit.)  I'm actually looking through Things Better Left Unnoticed, (finally, I know), and I find myself being drawn in.
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:iconlulshi:
Lulshi Featured By Owner Apr 17, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
It's nice to know someone is, I don't get a lot of feedback on my stories.
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:iconsagittarius09:
Sagittarius09 Featured By Owner Apr 2, 2016
♐️I recently came across your story. Before I read, what kind of mature content does it have? Please be specific
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:iconpersonalias:
Personalias Featured By Owner Apr 2, 2016
Which story are you referring to?

In general, I put the mature content filter on because I have AB/DL content included and not everyone is into that.

My stories tend to include the following elements.


- Adults being treated as infants and toddlers, often against their will.
- Diaper wearing and usage (both wet and messy)
- Diaper changes.
- Dressing, undressing. Nudity.
- Some violence at times (punch, kick, bite, struggling)
- Light sexual humor.  (occassional boner jokes...I think one joke where somebody has a different kind of accident in their pants, if you catch my drift.)
- One of my stories is an AB/DL spin on the Divine comedy concept, so if you're easily offended by quasi religious themes, don't read Dante's Infanzia.


My work tends to skew towards Fantasy Fiction (as in magic) as opposed to Realistic Fiction.  If that's not something you'd want to read about, no hard feelings.  Thanks for the interest.

If any of my readers see this post, maybe they can be so kind as to describe my work in a way that might entice you to click on and read for yourself.
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