For the record, dust is nature’s way of informing you that you have too much stuff. That entire shelves of things can sit unused and undistrubed for long enough to collect visible layers of atmosphereic particulate is absurd to me. This sense of clutter is only accentuated by the fact that since Alexander learned to walk almost all of my action figures, no matter how much space I erect between them and his estimated reach, live in a perpetual state of having fallen over. In the study there is a cupboard in the corner atop which lies a pile of miscellany, a microcosm of a typical landfill. The basement isn’t much better, slowly becoming overcrowded with garishly dyed lumps of plastic as we desperately filter them down in an attempt to prevent them from consuming the rest of the house. Compact disc cases tumble regularly from the shelf in the living room, whose surface area is too limited to contain them. Even the number of candles on the kitchen table has grown into awkward requirements of surface area.
The most poignant example is that we have a standing freezer in the garage, unplugged for some months now, that is filled with dozens of nylon shopping bags. Not one of these bags made it into my car last night for our shopping trip, during which no more than four have been useful. This multi-layered irony is downright painful to me.
Whut? Oh, yes. The comic. I have the usual excuses, with the addition of slowly being buried alive in literature by the despotic rulers of the academic nation of university. In fact, it is out of sheer negligence to my duty that I write even this. I hope you feel special. In any case, enjoy a few comics about Jett for the next little while, because even if you don’t miss him, we certainly do.
Ja.