Confessions of a cartoon concerning his pathetic artist with no life:

You know, since Chris put me on his wall four months ago, to watch his life (or however else you'd define his sick reasoning), I have not seen him bring over one guest or make plans with one friend to go and hang out. Sure he chats with his housemates, and he talks occasionally on the phone. But he seems to have no life really within a thousand mile radius.

So he spends all his time in his room. His publishing headquarters, his office, his studio, his bedroom, his library... it is all within a 8.5'x12'space. Now you might think that since he LIVES in this room, that he might keep it neat. In fact you might think he'd have to, in order to do anything at all. What with a bed and two desks, a filer and bookshelf, what room is left? But he seem to find that extra room and allows clothes, paper, garbage, anything he can find to accumulate there. Like an uncleaned wound left to fester. Fortunately one of the only benefits of living inside the cartoon cell, is the general absence of smell (unless provided by he). I can (fortunately) only imagine what his room smells like.

Sometimes he broods. Complains that the world does not see his vision, cannot understand his genius; that he bleeds his existence onto the page and that nobody cares about anything except for money; that books printed nowadays are desperate for an exciting plots, but not for plots sake, but for money; that web sites are begging for content, but not for content's sake, but for money. And then he publishes books and tries to bleed dry his small reading audience (for money) to support his "sane" notions which only coincidentally go against the ideas of everyone else I the world.

I'm not sure if talking about masturbating, nor the "content" of the material to which he masturbates to is appropriate to this venue... but I think just posing it for thought, in line with all the other information I've already given, allows the reader to imagine fairly accurately both the patheticness and the hypocrisy of this weevil of a man.

He wants to be loved, but who could love this man who does not love the world or himself? He wants to be accepted by groups, but who could allow him to join their group when he condemns all groups on principle of the limits they put on each individuals expression (read: a definite case-study split-personality). And he wants pity from the world and his creations, but who in this world he's created, this expanse of cells, who could feel pity for this man who with a yawn has snuffed out more of our population than tears we'll ever be drawn to shed.

Let's give the boy a loud round of applause and a belly of laughter; and hope for the sake of whom he might meet, that he does not turn over a new leaf and begin going out. He does enough damage at home.

shep main