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.
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.
I’m testing a hypothesis. Even if it doesn’t work out, I will have no regrets.
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:
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.
True love knows no bounds, especially when it comes to changing your partner’s personality to meet your needs.
As the Backstreet Boys so aptly pointed out, “If you wanna get it good, girl, get yourself a bad boy.”