My roommate Lowell found the picture I drew last night. He confronted me with it this morning, right as I was heading out the door to be deloused. He was all, "Dude, let her go. You guys broke up eight years ago. She's probably, like, CEO of a major company now. She doesn't want anything to do with you." And to that, all I could say was, "Doubtful."
It doesn't even matter. Just because a dude smokes a Graffix three-footer full of sticky k.b. and then spends the next three, no, four hours of his life meticulously-crafting a charcoal drawing of his first and only love doesn't mean said dude's still in love. I mean, let's not simply life to the point where we don't even think critically about shit anymore here.
I don't know why I felt compelled to sketch Kiersten last night. I usually just end up sketching F-16s dropping their payload on Libya when I get baked. Something stirred in me, I guess, and I just can't explain it.
Besides, last I heard she works at the Auntie Anne's at Woodfield Mall. That ain't that cool.
