After a surfeit of punishing insomnia that kept me awake until four in the morning last night, I had the most amazing dream. I sat at my drawing table and suddenly, without effort, I was inking a page of my own comic art, based on a brilliant new idea I’d conceived.
I know at least one or two of you out there have been wondering why I’ve posted so infrequently this year, and why I went completely AWOL from social media. Since the truth is bound to trickle out very soon, I thought I’d break the news here, where it can be shared with the most readers. Guess what friends:
Ladies and gentlemen, pals and haters, I have, as they say, good news and bad news. Truthfully, the bad news is that I’m not certain which is which. I’m very au courant in that regard. As such, I will simply report, and allow you to decide. I won’t waste your time here with nebulous designations like “good” and “bad”. Please, read on.
Want to hear a funny story? It’s true, too. I used to be “pro-choice”, up until not that long ago. I was pretty outspoken about it back in high school. Why do you think that was?
Real quick; the title phrase comes from a Belgian documentary called Empire of Dust. I assume you haven’t seen it, because no matter how fervently I recommend it, and no matter how much I know the person to whom I’m recommending it would appreciate it, literally no one ever watches it.
Remora front dorsal fins have evolved to enable them to adhere by suction to smooth surfaces, and they spend most of their lives clinging to a host animal such as a whale, turtle, shark or ray. It is probably a mutualistic arrangement as the remora can move around on the host, removing ectoparasites and loose flakes of skin, while benefiting from the protection provided by the host and the constant flow of water across its gills. Although it was initially believed that remoras fed off particulate matter from the host’s meals, this has been shown to be false; in reality, their diets are composed primarily of host feces.
Wikipedia, trustworthy only for anything apolitical
The gist of my sentiments here today is this: on the 27th of this month, I will be fifty years old. I don’t understand it any better than you do. I feel no older than 38. I don’t look at my face, hands, or body and see those of a fifty-year-old man. I can walk a mile in ninety-degree weather without issues. I don’t talk about it much because my age is a recurring reminder that my ability to empathize with other humans will only continue to dissipate.
Matty Boy Anderson at a Trump rally in Atlanta, early 2016. “IDIFTL,” said Anderson, who has received over fifty emails a day from Donald Trump since then.
As a professional cartoonist with underground roots for over three decades, Matthew “Matty Boy” Anderson has been struggling to stay afloat in our current timeline. With censorship openly enforced by government and tech companies, multi-millionaire celebrities endorsing fascism towards their detractors, and “Redditors” eager to surrender freedom for unnecessary conveniences, how can any legitimate artist continue to make a living?
You must be logged in to post a comment.