It’s time for my Tuesday various and sundry update on what I deem pertinent information. I’m participating in the latest writing contest, hosted by Size Riot, and despite the problematic theme voted into existence by some of you. That topic is Big Couples, giant people with a normal-sized person, or a normal couple with a tiny person. I used to fantasize about the concept a long time ago, but not currently. I’m going to have to pull this story out of my proverbial ass. My mission—and I’ve chosen to accept it—is to write a story that satisfies me in a writerly fashion, steeped in Undersquidness no matter the tale told. I begin to have some pleasant ideas.
I continue to draw every day, and the more I draw, the more I realize how little I know about drawing. I don’t know that I should feel defeated by my floundering efforts, because I don’t. I’m energized by what I stamp into a new image file; I’m enthused by my art materials; I’m eager to continue my efforts and grow as an artist. On that note, I’m participating in Inktober, and I plan to make every single one of my inklings a size one. Watch me fail monumentally in here, or via my Instagram (which I often forget I have)‚ or—more than likely—my Twitter TL. Bring squid-seasoned popcorn.
I’m going to take out the trash now because the garbage truck will drive by in about forty minutes. There is a deep connection between trash and tiny people, so right now I’m thinking about it. I imagine going to my kitchen to gather my latest bag of refuse from the can, and finding a hapless spelunker in it, a little man only two inches in height, a surprise inhabitant within my walls who stayed in my trashcan too long because he knows Tuesday nights I empty my fridge of things that must go, and that’s when he finds leftover Costco chicken salad that is (theoretically) still good. He’s wrapped his arms around a good chunk of greasy, tasty chicken shred when I find him, and when I spot him I don’t shriek or stare in wonder or call my church or 911. I watch, I smile, and I grab, I’m so grabsy. My legal name should be Squid Grabsy Under. My social security number should be IWI-LLS-SHRI nkyou. That didn’t make sense. Moving on.
Back. That was peculiar. My trash bin had been moved from its place near the garage door, all the way to the sidewalk. Who did that? Not me. And it’s usually back in its place when I go back to roll it onto its shaded nook. I think one of my neighbors is doing that. I have nice neighbors. I love this neighborhood. Here I feel safe. Lately, I wonder—when I go out—if someone mad with racism will jump me and tell me to stop speaking Spanish—badly—with my mom, or shoot me because I reach for my cell phone. I was never afraid before, but I never warranted infuriated looks before, from guys with invariably shaved heads and telltale tattoos. I’m not afraid for myself, but for my son. What can I say? Nothing, except love. Love the people around you, even if you don’t like the way they look. They are not the enemy. I’m not the enemy.
Unless I grow, of course. When I grow, 50% of you will fear me to a diaper-filling degree. I can hear you asking… What’s the first thing I’m going to do the moment I grow? The answer is sex. I’m addicted to the dopamine, the serotonin, the norepinephrine released upon thinking about what I’d do upon extreme growth. My Prime Directive is pleasure. No rescue, no social work, no end to famine, not letting you be… just a stroll towards what I want, and a taking of what I want, and a grin aimed at every single cell phone user that will catch my deed on camera. Send in the cavalry then, little ones. Try to rescue that human being you watch become mine, and see what happens. I have a good heart, but try to take what’s mine.
Once I have what’s mine, I’ll move on to the destruction of anything and anyone that displeases me. That will include some of you. If you’re racist, the last thing you’ll see is the soft …. feeling it now… yes, undeservedly soft sole of my foot, yet weighty enough to obliterate your racist ass off this rock’s surface. The same goes for those that are mean to children, to cats, to the handicapped. It will be Squishy Time for those bastards. Then some heads of state will be executed via digestion, emerging a few hours later in a state that will be monumentally displayed as a warning to others. I will then move on to enforce my beliefs upon everyone left. What a wonderful world.
Alright, what else? I’m working on editing my latest Empty-Pile-Of-Clothes story, and I’m finding it extremely difficult to publish it. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever written before, and I feel it’s nothing anyone is going to understand. Writing it made me feel weird and isolated and un-understood. I’m going to publish it soon. Just… don’t read it. Don’t click on the link. Treat it like it’s Happy Fun Ball. I’m telling you in earnest… don’t read it. Hmm. That’s it. I’m off to write. Have a good Wednesday.
P.S. I really want some chocolate and have none in my cupboard. Suckage.