the sun's not yellow it is chicken
Thirty degrees in the early evening.
My pens, every single one of them, have quite literally refused to produce any proper lines on paper. Has the ink gone bad? Gabriela tried cleaning a pen just now, but to no avail. I’ve got the inkfinger but not a single decent drawing to show for it. I should be frustrated, damning the muse for letting me down. Instead, I look at this picture and I smile:
You know those people who live in a wonderful fluffy pink universe, typically the size of a peanut? Here’s a prime specimen. World: meet Edna. Note the physiology of the neck which, much like a periscope, allows for brief peeks into the real world.
Where does this character come from? A mere figment of my imagination? A combination of imagination and visual impressions accumulated from past experience? Where’s Freud when you need him? Shall I shut up already?
Update: now available as an eCard!
See, thing is, Butch’s really not an evil person. Sure, he has a particular interest in brain tissue, experimental biology, and unborn foetuses put on formaldehyde — but other than that, he’s a regular Joe. It’s that lense flare coming off of his glass right eye. They used to make fun of it in high school. He used to hate it, but he’s learned to live with it — better yet: use it to his advantage.
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