Monks, military dictators, and war wounds.

So here’s a drawing I named “Monk Mike.”


I was thinking about putting something in the bubble about, like, obsessive-compulsive disorder, (Monk! get it?) but it felt played before my fingertips even touched the keyboard. So I kind of hate myself. But here’s Monk Mike. His chin is super-duper fun.


This military dictator has no bestie. A bestie-less universe is not a universe you want to inhabit, friends. You’re better off being in the proletariat.

Speaking of imperfect universes, check out my wounds, yo. I wrecked myself hiking on Saturday. It was muddy, buggy, and rocky. I fell down.


On our way out of the trail, we convinced an older couple to — for the love of God — turn around and go back to civilization. They looked at our sweaty, dirty, tear-streaked faces, and agreed. (Okay, well, not tear-streaked. But seriously. It was the worst hike of all time.)

I thought about illustrating the saga, but I don’t want to spend that much time revisiting it. It’s not my legs that hurt the most — it’s my spirit.

This experiment would probably constitute child abuse.


I wonder if it’s possible to raise a child in such a macabre setting that they become completely fearless. Like, if you watched horror movies all the time and had taxidermy everywhere.

Or maybe — just maybe — you were a medical doctor who described autopsies and/or ER mishaps over the dinner table constantly, like my parents did.

“You can’t gross me out,” I reassure people when they start to talk about their periods, or wounds, or their infants’ defecation. “Seriously.”

I can watch Nip/Tuck like a champ, but horror movies still scare me.

I want a child made of pure steel. A kid that knows their way around the human body and isn’t scared of monsters or ghouls, either. A ferocious warrior-child.

Alas, Child Services would take my progeny away and have them raised like every other wussy kid out there.

So forget it: reproduction is off the table. If I can’t have a badass, I will forgo the process altogether.

Caption This!

After spending hours carefully crafting a “Vampire at the Kentucky Derby” illustration, I realized I had no idea what to write.

So I asked Facebook.

This was the winner:

Sunhats and No Souls by Leah Lucci

And here’s the winner again, in a brighter color palette:


My friend Laura’s husband, David, suggested the theme of fitting in with big sun hats; and Tara wrote “They’re just as dead inside as I am!”

There were suggestions for giving her a sunburn and/or making her lament not wearing a yet bigger hat.  People were fixated on her “ballin’ ass hat.”

A few other good ideas:

  • “Mint julep? I asked for a Bloody Mary.”
  • “Talk about fast food.”
  • “It’s times like this I don’t mind not hanging around with Catherine the Great.”
  • “I married a rich, white vampire and don’t know what to do with my eternity.”

Anyway, that was a fun little exercise. One that exploded my entire Facebook feed for 12 hours.

Maybe I should always crowd-source my thinking. It’s much easier than coming up with original content.