I'm a Graphic designer, artist and overall creative who doesn't have enough time to get all my ideas out visually. So I'm giving writing a shot. A thousand words is worth a picture, right?
The year was 1999, and three dollars was all it cost to buy a kid a ticket to another world. That ticket came in the form of shiny plastic foil wrapped around 11 pieces of cardboard: a Pokemon Trading Card Game Booster Pack. When my parents handed me that first pack, purchased from the game store in the local mall, I don’t think they knew it was a one way ticket. I never left that world of trading cards again, at least not wholly. I was changed by what I found there. Their old son never came back.
Boss Mom is Watching You
“There’s a difference between washing it and getting it clean.” I nearly broke down in tears the first time I felt myself about to use that phrase on somebody. Though he was an unworthy, irritated roommate who had failed to clean the remnants of his last three meals from the stacks of dirty dishes clogging our too small sink, he did not deserve to have that sentence passed on him. Stifling a laugh, or maybe a scream, I departed his company and locked myself in the bathroom to internalize my learned misery. But even there I found no solace. Streaks swam across the mirror’s fogged surface, and spare bits of chin hair remained floating in puddles of water on the counter, the remainder of another roommate’s haphazard attempt to rinse the countertop after shaving. The deluge had failed to take the hair with it as it splashed back into the sink, and dead human cells and moisture sat together in their shared sense of displacement, unable to be put out of their misery. I silenced their screams with a sweep of my hand, sending them tumbling over the edge and down the drain, to blessed peace. Would this never end? Would my roommates ever stop washing and start cleaning?
"Can you not also build bridges out of stone?"
There is a Monty Python skit where a rabble of pitchfork wielding peasants present a suspected witch to a medieval knight, Sir Bedivere, and ask if they can burn her. As the only man present who “hasn’t got sh*$ all over him,” Bedivere is the defacto village authority, and it falls to him to determine if this unfortunate woman is a witch? With the jostling crowd growing angrier at every passing second, Bedivere delves deep into his stores of medieval logic and pulls out an explanation: witches burn because they are made of wood. So how to prove this woman is made of wood? “Build a bridge out of her!” one man yells. Bedivere wisely considers, but then asks, “but can you not also make bridges out of stone?”