2011

I had the 2nd steak I grilled the other night.   Wasn't any better than the first.  I know I'm spoiled with the prime steaks I usually get... but they're getting sooooo expensive!   These were just your basic "choice" grade, and not even a good cut at that.

And PTD just dropped another not-so-subtle hint at something coming!

$3.89

I was two years old in the spring of 1980. It was around the time that my vocabulary was forming that I was in the prime of my childhood, basking in the sensations that triggered my different types of synesthesia, something that I had recently discovered a name for while doing online research. Due to one particular sensation that involved my poop, I had begun to refer to it as "gurr."   I invented the word gurr following a certain little experiment I had performed one day after loading my diaper. As I stood in the middle of the living room floor, my eyes widened as my bowels worked involuntarily. Meanwhile, my face was bright red, bearing the classic look that said, "I'm filling my diaper!" The gurr pushed out slowly, without any effort from me—a long, solid, waxy log that emerged in one smooth motion and formed a large ball due to the back pressure created by the diaper itself. I felt every inch: the initial pressure building in my lower abdomen, the gentle stretch as the gurr moved through me, the warm firmness pressing against the diaper’s padding. The log was thick and rounded, waxy on the surface like polished candle wax, warm from the core of my body. As it filled the back of the diaper, the plastic bulged outward, the elastic around my legs stretching slightly to accommodate the weight.   With the slide of my gurr came the sound. It started high in my mind—a clear, bright tenor C4 note that hummed faintly. As the mass continued to emerge, the note glided down smoothly, growing louder gradually as its pitch lowered slowly, perfectly in tune, sliding lower and lower until at last, the entire log settled in the butt of my diaper and the sound reached a steady tenor A3 at 220 Hz. The pitch change felt like the gurr itself was making the sound, the warmth and the sound twining together in perfect harmony.   When I squatted with the load in my diaper—knees bending, bottom lowering—it shifted forward, nestling right against my perineal region. The sound changed again: it slid down one gentle step to a G3 note and transformed into a steady, rolling gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—a low, vibrating sound that hummed exactly where the warmth was focused most intensely. No pulsing, no hurry—just pure, even resonance, vibrating right at the contact point, making every nerve sing with innocent pleasure.   When I stood back up from the squat and the load returned to rest against my buttocks, the sound glided smoothly back up to that tenor A3, and the very second the load began its return to my butt, the continuous "rrrrr" sound ended abruptly. The sound faded in volume and slid back up to its original A3 note as the warmth returned back to my butt.   By the time my vocabulary began to form, I gave my poop its own name. I would say in my small, happy voice, “Gurr.” The word felt right in my definition of the very thing that brought me intense joy and pleasure. It wasn’t a bad word or a secret; it was simply what it was. And whenever I said it, the memory of the warmth, the waxy firmness, the slow squish of sitting on it atop the carpeted stairs, the dry and earthy smell, the synesthetic sounds—the gliding note, the deep gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—would bloom again in my mind, bringing back the butterflies, the tingles, the glowing warmth that made my whole little body feel warm and ticklish all over and made me tremble with delight.   This next memory is one I brought up while talking to my big brother, who I will refer to as Trent, on the phone one day. "Do you remember when you caught me that one night as I was just hanging out on the shelf in that cubby at the foot of the bathtub in that house across from the phone company," I asked him.   "Yeah," he replied. "You were a little monkey, always climbing on things either out of curiosity or because you gurred and you didn’t want your butt changed, ha ha."   For me, this was a night full of fun as I had another memorable experience with gurr. On the night in question, being in late spring, I toddled about the house. Mom, my sister Ingrid, and Trent were too busy watching TV to notice what I was doing. I toddled from the carpeted living room and into the dining room, whose floor was carpeted. Turning to the right, I made my way to the bathroom, which also had a carpeted floor. Passing the sink on the right, I continued deeper into the room, which was divided in half by a set of louvered saloon doors. They were wooden, and I remember the way they felt.   Pushing through the doors, I entered the area where the toilet and bathtub were located. Placing the toilet at my back and the bathtub to my right, I moved across the room to the set of shelves that were built into the wall at the foot of the tub. I wore only my diaper, which crinkled with every movement. My feet were bare and smooth, and I remember how everything I felt was richer. The carpet against my bare soles was soft and somewhat ticklish, and bare wood was cold and slightly rough, depending on the condition of the wood.   Reaching the cubby, I stepped onto the lower shelf and gripped the next above with my little hands. Hoisting myself up, I continued climbing until I reached the second shelf from the top. This shelf was bare, the perfect spot for a toddler boy to hang out. The bathroom light was on, and I liked the view, or at least what I could make out with my left eye from this new level. I have never experienced anything like it, and I thought it was cool. I just stood there, taking in the light and the combined smells of soap, shampoo, and clean towels and washrag's on the shelves below me; and somewhere in that collage of scents was the slight pang of White Cloud bathroom tissue both in shelved packages and on the wall-mounted roll beside the toilet.   Suddenly, that all too familiar feeling, bubbled up inside of me. My scalp tingled and crawled with delight, the telltale sensation before a big gurr slid into my diaper. The euphoria came strong, my belly muscles tightened, and I bent slightly at the waist, forced by the tension in my abdomen. At the same time, a large waxy gurr emerged and filled the back of my diaper. I remember the way the diaper caressed the gurr against me once it had settled. The diaper held it snug against my butt, pulling the load slightly upward. It was a feeling that intensified the butterflies in my belly. Meanwhile, I just stood there, a big smile on my face, not making a single sound, my synesthesia humming continuously in my head with the warmth radiating from the gurr.   Suddenly, I heard footsteps, and I knew exactly whose they were. Only big brother Trent walked like that. “What are you doing up there,” he asked, his voice deepened by puberty.   The last thing I wanted was to be changed. I was so caught up in the feeling. So I backed beneath the top shelf, placed my back against the far wall, and dropped onto my butt with all my weight, the diaper making a telltale squish/crinkle as my butt flopped onto the shelf. The firmness of the load, combined with all my body weight, made a muffled thud against the shell, and I felt my gurr flattened into what can only be described as a puck. The clay-like mass flattened slowly into a pancake and spread to encompass my butt cheeks and perineal area. Sitting there with my mouth open, slumped forward, enjoying every sensation, I trembled as the butterflies danced in my belly.   “You’re gonna fall,” Trent said, and he scooped me into his arms and carried me out of the bathroom, into the dining room, and to the living room, where he placed me on my feet. Apparently, this was a gurr that had no smell or Trent’s nose was clogged because he didn’t seem to notice when he lifted me from the shelf, or perhaps he knew that I enjoyed it.   Trent settled back on the couch, and I toddled into the dining room, all the while enjoying the way the flat gurr shifted from side to side and rubbed my butt as I walked. I could feel its edges, cocooned in the plastic-backed padding, rubbing against each thigh as I stepped on my right leg or my left. The plastic felt warm and smooth against my inner thighs just a couple centimeters perhaps below the point at they joined with my butt and perineum.   Once in the middle of the dining room floor, I dropped to my belly and proceeded to hump. With my fists against the front of my diaper, I moved, enjoying everything. I squeezed my thighs together and spread them apart with each thrust and rebound, enjoying the feel of the diaper as it pressed into their inner surfaces, a feeling that was sort-of ticklish. My gurr slid up and down against my buttocks, thus causing great excitement.   Finally, after a few minutes, I got up and toddled back into the living room and was making my way up the stairs. “The baby gurred,” Sissy said. Perhaps she noticed the way I walked, or perhaps it was the big grin I had on my face.   Hearing her, I picked up the pace, wanting to keep from being caught and the dreaded diaper change, but Mom was quick to grab me. And thus, she laid me in the middle of the floor and changed me. "I wanna yung," I said in my high-pitched two year-old voice.   “Let mommy change you; then you can yung all you want,” mom replied.   Though I really didn’t want to be changed, I let her do it without any fuss. Once the clean diaper was fastened, I rolled onto my belly, thrust my fists between my legs, and yunged. I did this for perhaps a few more minutes though it felt like a long time from my prospective.   A while later, I got up and waddled over to the couch and Trent picked me up and sat me on his lap. “Was you yungin',” he asked with a playful tone in his voice. But I was still coming down from the excitement and recovering from my breathlessness to say a thing. Instead, I leaned back against Trent’s chest and rested my head comfortably as the TV played on. A while later, I was out like a light. 

Discord .....  the name is laughable.  Look up the definition...  Well... maybe that fits since it seems so many only intend to be a troll.      But I despise the here now gone later nature of (anti)social media.  There's little history, there's no structure.   It's all aimed at addicting you but offers NO SUBSTANCE.  (and yet I find myself scrolling and scrolling through the twatter feed far too much)