Picture an ocean consisting not of water molecules and whales but instead of promises, every one of them kept, and you will know the imaginary framework with which I every day test my personal moral buoyancy. And, depending on the morbid acuity of your mind’s eye, you will see me in that ocean, not bobbing up and down happily as I would like, but sinking below the surface, given over to the the salty, unkind hands of some trench-adjacent seakingdom.
Mayday Comics has not been updated in a couple of days, despite being a daily comic. For this I have no excuse, and to you, my loyal readers, I can never make appropriate amends. But what I can do is make one more promise, and hope that in keeping it I can create for myself a new ocean – a seachange, if you will – and that we can all of us sail together through this ocean for the remaining eleven months of the Mayday project.
Tomorrow I do not work. Tomorrow I will wake up early, go for a run through gentrified Brooklyn, return home, shower, eat an egg or five, and then sequester myself in a nearby coffeeshop with a pad of inkable paper and some pens and will not emerge until I have generated at least a half dozen strips. I’ll do much the same the next day, minus the running and the showering, because while I am quite a man, I am also a person. A human boy. I am not some sort of superhuman running-and-or-showering every day machine, built by scientists as part of a competition against other scientists, scientists the first team of scientists profoundly dislikes.
I have a heart that beats and calves that ache and sometimes, late at night, they trade attributes, my heart and my calves, and a fun time is had by literally no one. And sometimes these aches and beats govern me in was I am not proud of, ways that keep me from making good on my promises to you. And I apologize.
Expect a new comic strip tomorrow. Expect a new one a day every day after that. Depend on me, and together we will teach the internet how to sing backwards, prompting it to be banned and/or excorcised in parts of Romania.
I love you. I will earn back your trust. I love you.
If you were briggm, this would be the last we’d ever hear from you. I hope you’re not briggm.
Four days, not a “couple”. FOUR DAYS!
I was raised in secret by circus-folk, an upbringing which has affected my romantic arithmetic. Where I come from, four can and often is a couple.
You’re dead to me.
Oh boy, Yancy. Oh boy.
I have so many sketches!