There's a sweet, dowdy little waitress that walks around the tables at the cafe and each time she sees me sketching, she stops to check out the daily page I'm working on. Each time she comments on how talented I am in a cloying, sugary manner that just gets my hackles flaring upward in sharp, jagged spikes of disdain.
I know she means well, but lately she's been saying things like "You know (Think of a whiny, Mid-Western voice), you'd do better with your drawings if you put a nice Pilgrim hat on that one. Maybe have them standing by some pumpkins! People love holiday artwork."
It's one of those moments when you wish your eyeballs shot laser beams, or that 14" spikes jutted out each white knuckle and ripped through your enemy's jugular. One swipe, whoooosh!!!
Blood spurt and gore; nothing but ragged carcass and a puddle of viscous fluids.
I wanted to shake her meaty, hunched shoulders and shout out into her shriveled, apple-pie face and scream out "I don't draw Pilgrim hats on anything...no Pilgrim hats whatsoever!!!! No Pilgrim hats and no smiley pumpkins!"
I'm sorry, but I don't do cute. I like squalor and dirty, gritty people with a lot of soul. I like down and outers, riff-raff, and drifters dark and brooding and sinister. I always vote for the underdog. I'll bet the long shot just because I like the longshot.
I hate the average, the sensible, though I'm surrounded by it constantly. Sure and steady really bores me to tears, and perky people make me want to stab my quilled pens neatly and swiftly into their soft, blood-filled orifices. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating.
Cuteness...cuteness, I refuse to acknowledge. Give me ugly and depressing. Tom Waits in a cheap diner surrounded by misfits and miscreants. Give me sob stories told really well by those clinging to their last vestiges of dignity and hope. I like to see the struggle, like to trace the history of the scars.
Cute. Can't do it. Don't even ask. Leave pumpkins and Pilgrim to five year old kids putting their holiday projects on the fridge with magnets. Let them have cute.
I know she means well, but lately she's been saying things like "You know (Think of a whiny, Mid-Western voice), you'd do better with your drawings if you put a nice Pilgrim hat on that one. Maybe have them standing by some pumpkins! People love holiday artwork."
It's one of those moments when you wish your eyeballs shot laser beams, or that 14" spikes jutted out each white knuckle and ripped through your enemy's jugular. One swipe, whoooosh!!!
Blood spurt and gore; nothing but ragged carcass and a puddle of viscous fluids.
I wanted to shake her meaty, hunched shoulders and shout out into her shriveled, apple-pie face and scream out "I don't draw Pilgrim hats on anything...no Pilgrim hats whatsoever!!!! No Pilgrim hats and no smiley pumpkins!"
I'm sorry, but I don't do cute. I like squalor and dirty, gritty people with a lot of soul. I like down and outers, riff-raff, and drifters dark and brooding and sinister. I always vote for the underdog. I'll bet the long shot just because I like the longshot.
I hate the average, the sensible, though I'm surrounded by it constantly. Sure and steady really bores me to tears, and perky people make me want to stab my quilled pens neatly and swiftly into their soft, blood-filled orifices. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating.
Cuteness...cuteness, I refuse to acknowledge. Give me ugly and depressing. Tom Waits in a cheap diner surrounded by misfits and miscreants. Give me sob stories told really well by those clinging to their last vestiges of dignity and hope. I like to see the struggle, like to trace the history of the scars.
Cute. Can't do it. Don't even ask. Leave pumpkins and Pilgrim to five year old kids putting their holiday projects on the fridge with magnets. Let them have cute.
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