Jul 232008

Carbunkletown. Population 789. Home to Mrs. Catsballs the contortionist, Father Pricklenuts the limp wrist, Frauline Gertude the snowglobe collector, Peter Sniffles the throat slasher.

789 residents: all different colors, some with herpes, some with stinkeye, all incapable of embracing emotion.

But down in the hollows of Carbunkleton, past Herman’s Booze Hut and a few stone throws from Porno Delight, lived a boy named Sigmund, and Sigmund loved music. He loved it more than the other 788 townsfolk, who turned the radio to the local Top 40 station only to block out barking dogs and dumpster-rummaging flaneurs. But they never listened to music to FEEL.

As he tacked up posters of his favorite bands, Sigmund would silently thank them for singing the words that swam in his heart, for screaming the cries that rattled inside his mind. He’d throw on records he found in neighbor’s garbage cans — discarded after they realized they might need to put effort into listening to it, that it wouldn’t go down nice and smooth like a swig of Pepto Bismol — and lay back in his bed, watching the hair on his arms stand up as the singer’s voice pierced through his heart with molted emotion.

Sigmund would excitedly run through the town square when he found a new band that made his heart quake. He’d try to implore the Widow Crotchbiter to listen, he’d tug on Jake the Smut Peddlar’s sleeve, tap Susie Chibbles on the back.

"Please, you have to listen to this band! They’re so good and full of emotion and they’re from Smugglesville and there’s this one song and and–"

"You’re so dumb, Sigmund," they’d laugh.

"Grow up, Sigmund," his co-workers would say.

"But, this record saved my life, seriously!" Sigmund would cry in defense.

"Music is for drowning out crying babies," his boss Patty Rumproast sighed when he asked for a night off to go see the Anal Probes play at a neighboring town. "And sometimes dancing to when you get drunk at weddings. Why would you want to actually FEEL something? That’s so stupid. YOU’RE stupid."

Slowly but surely, Sigmund put up his walls and stopped trying to express himself and stopped trying to share his love of music with his friends. He stayed inside his hut, listening to post-hardcore records with his headphones on, so he wouldn’t receive a citation from the out-pouring of emotion from his windows.

After time, his right eye swelled from the stress of bottling his feelings. Turned out his giant right eye really like synthpop, though.


Original painting on a thick 8×8 wrapped canvas. Sigmund is loaded with texture and would make a great gift for your favorite misunderstood music-lover.


Jul 222008

Urgent. Will die without reading.

  • 09:41 I really hope I don’t die from a stabbing. I keep daydreaming about it though.
  • 09:54 In the car, chooch & I flipped out at the same time over a passing playground; a good indication of my mental age.
  • 20:19 It doesn’t feel like summer to me unless there’s swimming in the afternoon and horror movies at night.

  • 11:50 Today, chooch is really into storing things down my shirt. A bit uncomfortable.
  • 11:53 Eric Nies and his fucking jumprope DVD can go anally probe themselves. My calves have welts from aerobic flaggellation.
  • 11:55 Just bought 2 Lost Boys figurines for myself. I mean, for Chooch. He unforch doesn’t yet understand e-shopping & wants them NOW.
  • 12:07  I don’t approve of any of the ppl looking at the vacant side of my duplex. Time to pull out the Viking metal & Satanist propaganda.
  • 16:41 One of my co-workers is encouraging me to contact Corey Haim so he can see he’s in love w/ me. God I work with a bunch of enablers.
  • 18:02 I asked Henry if he still thought I was pretty. His answer was "when your face is on my penis." Now that’s love.
  • 20:48 Henry won’t get involved in bento box lunches because "those are so gay looking". Yeah but – so is he.
  • 22:10 Kim had me blowing up balloons for some broad’s bday tomorrow, because she knows I blow hard. Now my fingers stink of balloon rubber.

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