Often Imitated, Never Duplicated? (Patreon)

Disclaimer: The screenshot of the Instagram account above is NOT of me. I'll explain below, but just wanted to get that out there for those of you who (understandably) might just breeze through and think that I started a backup account, or something. Again, @selinaydinbas is NOT affiliated with Heather Beck Enterprises LLC, nor is it is affiliated with any of my affiliates or subsidiaries (always wanted to say that). 

So, it's recently come to my attention that I have somehow achieved a level of Instagram stardom that has earned me a quirky, gaudy little merit badge: people, it seems (well, only one that I know of so far) have started using my pictures for ripoff Instagram accounts. I'm not sure what the technical name is for these accounts... Impersonators seems most appropriate? Imposters? Though I'm sure the more savvy among you will have a more relevant colloquialism.

In other words, asshole's stealing my shit and is pretending to be me.

Overall, it does piss me off. The reason I post all this stuff in the first place is because it's personal, and means something to me. And to have someone just swoop in, steal my shit, and screw with my identity in this way is just a shitty form of trolling. And hell, I kind of have a brand going, as odd as that is, so it's a little jacked that some douchebag is sharking my shit. That accounts for about 85% of it.

The other 15%, to tell the truth, finds me a little flattered. It's an odd sort of feeling. Like having someone quote you on something profound you said once, even though you never said it. Or something.

I'm keeping that 15% close to my chest, so to speak, as a sort-of pick-me-up. Sure, I've reported the guy to Instagram. And sure, whenever one of my followers has been kind enough to give me a heads up (you know who you are, and thanks again), I generally encourage them to hit the report button as well, if it's not too great of an inconvenience. 

But that's about all I can do. I'm not going to be losing any sleep over fruitlessly trying to figure out Instagram's algorithm, let alone their rhymes or reasons. And there's no guarantee that it just won't happen again with someone else. Because God knows, it's happened before.

See, it's a little funny, but us "uniquely figured" femme-fatales of Instagram actually keep in touch with each other sometimes. Alas, it's not the hyper-exclusive, picture-trading romp-and-stomp that I'm sure a-many of you gents out there are hoping it might be. It's more of a support group where we talk shop, trade hints, exchange anecdotes, and dwell in some light gossip about the absurdity that I'm sure so many of you have noticed is quite rampant on the ol' IG. 

Only, ya' know. The majority of us do have breasts (and asses, they can come too) that society would deem as being pretty fucking enormous. And almost all of them, once they've hit a certain level on the charts, have had their identities appropriated by impersonating copycats. From what I've heard, over and over again... it just comes with the territory. Wahp-Wahp.

But! It's been an unexpected nicety, this type of kindred interaction. For so long, I felt that my "condition" isolated me in so many ways — much more so because this all happened to me in my 30s. I won't name names, because I haven't gotten permission, but if you follow me, I'm sure you follow a great many of these gals as well. In all their cases, they were the ones who exploded during puberty, during which they experienced their fair share of the world viewing them a little differently as their bodies changed to extreme proportions. It was hard enough for me, at that age, going through the normal changes. I can certainly empathize how tricky it was for them, being the girl who grew DDD cups during summer break, or had the hormonal powers-that-be shift their burgeoning femininity to their hips and butts and thighs. 

These women, for the most part, learned as they went. Some built up walls to protect themselves from society's prying eyes. Some built up intricate defense mechanisms like a sense of humor or self depreciation. Some grew chips on their shoulders and a keen skill to shoot down most potential suitors before they ever got their foot in the door (ever wonder why girls with huge boobs can be royal bitches sometimes? That's your answer.)

To these women, I'm a newcomer. They're curious, as most people are. I have my standard spiel — hormonal craziness; yeah, they just kind of grew for a few years there; oh, thanks, but no need to say sorry about the miscarriage; hell yeah, it's been an adjustment — which usually, quickly gives way to being allowed in the club. Most fantastically endowed women "get it" off the bat, so after apologizing for their barrage of curiosity, they let me ask a few questions. Conversations get going, and we stay in touch in an informal, personal way. 

Which is why this "Selin Aydinbas" person pisses me off the most. This kind of impersonation detracts from that. Dumbs it down. Reduces it to big tits for the sake of big tits. And yes — I know my breasts are fucking massive. And while I'm gradually getting better and better at being comfortable sharing them with all of you, and while I know that they turn you on (I'm actually really cool with that, it's kind of a rush, which is a fun effect I've been exploring, but more on that later — remind me), I have a feeling that the reason so many of you stick with me, through dry spells and monologues that have very little to do with big 'ol titties, is because I'm... me. For better or for worse. Whoever "Selin" is, they're stealing a little bit of that, which is kinda' messed up. I'm not sure why they're doing it. I'm not sure what they're getting out of it aside from a kinky thrill. But I'm sure there are parts of yourselves that you'd feel pretty peeved over if somebody took credit for it. 

A few things have happened in December that have been a little goofy, and have knocked me off my game. This is just one of them. Others have to do with a few particularly unfriendly, negative folks who seemed to rain down all at once, all over my parade. Plus, the normal bustle of this complicated love-hate time of the year, and the barrage of family drama that comes with it. Most of it has been lovely enough. But part of building up my own "thick skin," as a lot of the aforementioned women have done is to learn how to roll with those punches, and to continue, in 2019, the quest to really become comfortable with the new me.

I have been struggling to come up with a Resolution for the new year, but honestly, I don't think that the "thick skin" one is something I really need to force. You don't notice change on the day-to-day, but in hindsight, it's remarkable how far I've come during 2018: Last time the calendar changed over, I didn't know any of you; starting an Instagram was something that would have terrified me; if you would have told me that, one year later, I would be putting up revealing pictures of my body on the internet and that I would actually enjoy it, I would have called you a fucking looney-toon. But here we are. Baby steps and great leaps. 

It's been a great year so far, everybody. I look forward to sharing 2019 with you as well, and can't wait to see what it has in store. Because who the fuck knows? But I do like where it's headed.

Auld Lang Syne, 

H

P.S. Do check out this cornball's Instagram account if you'd like. "Selin" is apparently Turkish/French (my ancestry is kinda Euro-mutt, so that makes sense) and has a silly knack with straight forward captions.