Small Peculiar

So part of the point of this comic, which almost no one reads or knows exists, is that it gives me a chance to express myself in a way that doesn’t have my whole sense of self attached to it, as writing does. So occasionally something makes me laugh and I’ll try to make a comic about it and it will be, when exposed to the air, almost nonsensical. And I think that’s what happened here. I saw that I was in an elevator called “Robert Elevator,” and this song started playing in my head, and I imagined yelling it in all caps—because another part of the point of this comic is that I am endlessly fascinated by the difference between how we comport ourselves on the outside and how we feel on the inside. On the outside I’m standing in an elevator or putting my groceries in a bag or whatever, but on the inside I’m yelling and flailing and telling stupid jokes and laughing at them, and it looks kind of like this, and maybe it just doesn’t translate, as some fonts don’t translate and show up as little squares instead. But here it is, a kind of documentation of something, and that’s what art is, me trying to talk to you, me trying to make you see what I see. This is what I see, I’m afraid.